“Lucy, you can’t?—”
“It’s Miss Snow.”
I stare at her. “You’re kidding.”
She lifts her chin. “We should keep this professional.”
My jaw ticks. “Fine. Miss Snow.”
Her eyes spark like a challenge.
“Wonderful,” she says, beaming. “Now. About the tree?—”
“Too many lights overload the wiring,” I tell the room. “Last year we barely avoided a short.”
“That was because someone plugged in a space heater,” she says. “Not because of my lights.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s a hazard.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “You know what else is a hazard, Lieutenant Calder?”
“Enlighten me.”
“That attitude.”
A few volunteers laugh aloud.
I lean back, crossing my arms again. “Glad to know we’re blaming the firefighter instead of the faulty wiring.”
“We’re blaming the grumpy firefighter,” she corrects, “who won’t allow even the tiniest bit of Christmas magic.”
My teeth clench. “Magic doesn’t keep people safe.”
“No,” she agrees, stepping closer to the front of the room—and closer to me. “But it does make people happy.”
Her eyes meet mine. Something kicks in my chest.
“And I’m not going to apologize for wanting that,” she finishes softly.
I look away before I do something stupid. Like stare at her mouth. Or say something I’ll regret later.
“Let’s move on,” I mutter.
Lucy brightens like she just won a small battle. She probably did.
“Great,” she says. “The charity gala.”
Of course. The one event I always try to avoid.
She clicks to another page.
“We’ll need more volunteers for decor this year. And yes, before Ash says it—everything will be fire resistant.”
The crowd laughs again. I just… watch her.
The way her hair falls over her shoulder, catching the light. The way she gestures with her hands while she talks. The way her voice lifts when she gets excited, softening when she mentions kids, warming when she talks about community.
And for the first time since she opened her mouth, I realize:
