“I work through them.”
“That’s sad.”
I bristle. “It’s efficient.”
She steps into my space, hands on her hips. “Holidays add sparkle, Boone. Even when life’s a mess.”
“Says the woman who bleeds glitter.”
She grins. “Guilty.”
Her smile dims just a fraction. “I used to love them more. Before my mom died.”
I stay quiet.
“When it’s just me now,” she continues, “I make her sausage lasagna. Big ridiculous Italian feast. Like she’s still there.”
My chest tightens.
“I was going to make it tonight actually,” she says casually. “If you want to stay…”
I should say no.
I don’t.
“Yeah,” I say. “I want to stay.”
Her answering smile knocks the breath out of me.
Cooking with Ember is chaos with a heartbeat.
She cranks music. Dances between the stove and the counter. Smears sauce on her cheek and forgets about it. I brown sausage while she stirs, our elbows bumping, hips brushing like accidents that happen too often to be chance.
“You’re crowding me,” she says, laughing.
“You’re flailing.”
“It’s called enthusiasm.”
“It’s called a safety hazard.”
She flicks sauce at me.
I catch her wrist mid-throw. The moment freezes. Her eyes go wide. My thumb presses into the soft inside of her wrist.
We don’t breathe.
“Firefly,” I murmur. “Behave.”
She swallows. “Make me.”
I release her slowly. The charge lingers like ozone.
Dinner is loud and warm and stupidly good. We eat too much. Argue about whether garlic bread counts as its own food group. Clean up together, shoulders touching, hands brushing, neither of us stepping back.
Afterward, I gesture toward the back of the studio. “You mentioned a tour.”
Her eyes light up. “Yeah. Come on.”
