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Worse, she imagined him stopping the snowmobile in the middle of the woods, turning around, and dragging her into his lap. Those big, gloved hands shoving her leggings down just enough, taking her while the engine idled beneath them and snow fell silently around them.

She could practically hear the low growl in his voice: This what you’ve been thinking about? Riding me instead of my snowmobile?

Emily squeezed her eyes shut and tried to banish the image. Her thighs clenched involuntarily around his hips.

Cole glanced back at her for half a second, his words rough over the engine. “You good back there?”

The low timbre of his voice made her throb.

“Fine,” she snapped, far too sharply.

She felt him chuckle more than she heard it—a deep rumble she felt through his back. That only made the fantasy worse. Now she was picturing him in full gear, suspenders on, taking her against the side of the fire engine back at the station. Or better—in the captain’s seat of the truck, her straddling him while he still wore most of his uniform.

She was officially losing her mind.

When the snowmobile finally slowed to a stop in front of Mrs. C.’s house, she practically launched herself off the back, legs shaky, trying to put distance between herself and the source of her current torment.

Cole gave her an odd side look, but blissfully kept his mouth shut.

The residential district on the other side of the lake was quieter than Oak Way. Quieter and colder, if that was possible. Without the shelter of the shopfronts, the wind came straight off the frozen lake and cut through every layer Emily was wearing.

The streets were mostly empty. A few neighbors had attempted their driveways, shoveled paths that ended abruptly where they’d simply given up, retreated back inside to tackle the rest at another time. Emily didn’t blame them. You had to be part penguin to find any of it enjoyable.

Mrs. C.’s house was located at the end of the street, tucked behind a low stone wall and a garden that was buried under two feet of snow but absolutely beautiful in the spring. The front porch had been partially cleared, enough for a narrow path to the door, with an evergreen wreath surrounding the knocker.

She answered on the second knock, already dressed in a cable-knit vest embroidered with tiny cardinals perched on holly branches, a pair of reading glasses pushed up on her head. Behind her, Emily could see dozens of books. They were on shelves, on tables, stacked beside chairs, propped open on the kitchen counter. The woman had been a librarian for forty years and it showed in every corner.

A needlepoint stocking hung from the mantel with MRS. C. stitched across the top in red, flanked by two ceramic cardinals and a row of Christmas cards displayed along a ribbon. The whole house smelled like pine needles and Earl Grey and old paper, which was, Emily suspected, exactly how Mrs. C. wanted it to smell year-round.

“Emily Whitaker. And Cole Alders.” Mrs. C. didn’t look the least bit surprised. “Come in. I just put the kettle on.”

She was lucky that her home had power. The rest of the block wasn’t so lucky.

“Thank you, Mrs. C.,” Emily said. “We brought you a care package.”

“I heard about those online. Soup, bread, and those chocolate things Cassidy makes. Very kind.” She took the basket and set it on the counter beside a stack of Agatha Christies. “I was planning to sign up for a shift or two at the bakery, but my car battery won’t turn over. This freeze has killed it dead.”

“I can take a look,” Cole said immediately.

Of course he can.

“It’s in the garage,” Mrs. C. said, already pointing. “The door sticks. You’ll need to give it a good pull.”

Cole nodded and was moving before Emily could say a word, heading through the kitchen toward the garage with complete confidence that Emily could only wish she possessed when it came to auto repair.

She wanted to be annoyed. She really did. But helping their neighbors was the whole point of today, and she couldn’t exactly complain about Cole doing the thing they were supposed to be doing just because he was annoyingly good at it.

She just wished that she could’ve offered to fix it too.

The garage door opened and closed. Emily heard Cole doing something mechanical on the other side of it.

“I should warn you,” Mrs. C. said, leading Emily to the kitchen table, “that when Dorothy Evert hears there’s a firefighter making house calls, you’re going to get a call from her too.”

“Does she need help?”

“She needs nothing. Last winter she called 911 because she’d burned two pieces of toast.” Mrs. C. sat down. “Two full trucks arrived. Two. For toast.”

Emily bit her lip. “Was there an actual fire?”