We don’t move. We don’t touch. But the air between us shifts — warm, heavy, humming with something that feels dangerously close to surrender.
Finally, he clears his throat, dragging a hand through his hair like he needs the distraction. “We should get moving. Parade committee’s expecting us at nine.”
“Right.”
“We’ll take my truck.”
“Of course.”
“And Lucy?”
“Yeah?”
His eyes lock onto mine with quiet, devastating intensity.
“Don’t second-guess your yes.”
I nod. Unable to speak. Unable to do anything except stand there and let the words melt down into the places I’ve been afraid to feel for a long time. He turns toward the garage, grabbing his jacket, and I follow him, pulse pounding, breath unsteady.
The storm outside is over.
The storm in here is just beginning.
Chapter Seventeen
Ash
The firehouse is loud by nine a.m.
Not alarm-loud. Not chaos-loud. Just the usual morning noise — boots thudding across concrete, mugs clinking against metal counters, someone blasting Christmas music too early for sane people.
I should be annoyed. Normally I would be. But all I can think about is Lucy Snow.
Lucy with the soft morning voice and the too-honest eyes. Lucy with the blush she tries to hide and never succeeds. Lucy who stayed last night. Who said yes before I even finished asking. Lucy who’s somehow threading herself into every place inside my chest I thought I’d sealed shut.
I’m leaning over the workbench, tightening a bolt on the parade float’s metal framework, pretending like the entire world isn’t vibrating under my skin.
And then she walks in.
The door swings open with a gust of cold air and she steps inside — cheeks pink from the wind, hair tucked under a knittedhat, scarf wrapped around her neck, mittens tucked into her coat pockets. She looks like winter personified, except softer, sweeter, more dangerous to me than any storm.
Every head in the bay turns.
Lucy Snow walks into a room like the sun drops through the roof and everyone feels it. My wrench slips in my hand.
Her eyes scan the room until she finds me, and the smile that hits her face is small but real. Not the polite version she gives strangers. Not the professional version she gives library patrons. The version she gives me.
It hits me exactly where I don’t need to be hit.
Holly sees her before anyone else reacts.
My niece is perched at the table with colored markers and a mug of hot cocoa, swinging her legs wildly. She bolts up the second she spots Lucy like she’s just seen Santa himself.
“MISS LUCY!”
Lucy barely gets a chance to greet her before Holly launches into her arms. Lucy laughs, soft and warm, lifting her and spinning once, her mittens still dangling from her sleeve like a kid herself.
My chest tightens. And then it happens.
