“Oh no. Oh—no, no, no,” I whisper, scrambling up onto the float to steady it.
The platform shifts under my feet. Another gust slams into the float. The gingerbread firefighter lurches. I grab the wooden support beam and throw my weight against it, my boots skidding on the painted plywood.
“Don’t you move,” I hiss.
The wind laughs. The float tilts harder. I wobble, fingers slipping. The world tilts with me. My heart lurches into my throat as my foot catches on a coil of lights and I pitch forward, arms flailing—then suddenly I’m not falling.
A strong arm slams around my waist. A hand clutches the back of my coat. My body is yanked backward into a wall of heat and muscle.
Ash.
His chest hits my back, solid as a brick furnace. His arm locks around me like a steel band, hauling me against him.
For a split second, I’m weightless. For a split second, I’m airborne. Then he catches me fully, grounding me, pulling me tight—too tight—like he’s scared of something.
“Jesus Christ, Sparky,” he growls into my ear, breath hot against my cheek, “are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
I’m shaking, from fear, from adrenaline. Fromhim.
“Ash,” I whisper, breathless.
He doesn’t let go. His hand is splayed across my stomach, fingers gripping the fabric of my jacket like he’s physically preventing me from disappearing.
“Why,” he says, every word thick, rough, vibrating through his chest, “are you on a goddamn float in this wind?”
“I—I was fixing the decorations?—”
“You were about to go flying into the next county.”
My mouth opens, then closes again. He finally exhales, the sound sharp and uneven, like he’s been holding his breath for twenty minutes.
He turns me around so I’m facing him, hands still on my hips, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the hem of my coat. His eyes are storm-dark, jaw tight, the tendons in his neck flexing.
“You good?” he asks.
The concern is real. So is the anger. So is the heat. All of it aimed directly at me.
I nod, but it’s weak. My voice barely makes it out. “I—yeah. I’m okay. Thanks to you.”
His fingers flex at my waist. It’s a small movement. Tiny. But it ignites something low in my stomach.
“Sparky,” he mutters, eyes flicking down to my lips. “You’ve gotta stop making me chase after you like this.”
“I wasn’t— I didn’t mean?—”
“Doesn’t matter.” His voice drops another octave. “You scare the hell out of me.”
And I should say something normal. Rational. Appropriate.
But all I can hear is the rasp in his voice.
All I can feel is the heat of his hands.
All I can think about is the way he’s looking at me, like I’m the fire. Not the float. Not the hazard. Me.
My breathing stutters. “I didn’t know it was that windy.”
“It’s always that windy.” His thumb strokes a slow arc at my hip. The touch is barely there, but enough to unravel me. “And you climbed up anyway.”
