Station: I get razzed. Gazette: front-page bullshit. Bonfire: small town spectacle.
And standing in the middle of it—barefoot, wild-haired, smelling like clay and smoke—will be the woman who roped me into pretending I’m hers.
The problem is, every time I look at her?
Pretending feels less like a lie.
And more like a test I’m about to fail.
Chapter Three
Ember
By noon the next day, I can’t buy coffee without someone congratulating me on my “hero fiancé.”
I push open the bell-clanging door at Sugar & Sage, still wearing Clay’s navy jacket that I found in his rental. The warm air smells like cinnamon and butter and triumph.
“Ember!” Tessa sings from behind the counter, purple hair piled high, apron dusted in powdered sugar. “Our very own phoenix bride.”
“Oh God.” I drag a hand over my face. “Please tell me you’re not calling me that.”
“Too late.” She jerks her chin toward the chalkboard menu.
I look.
And choke.
Fire & Frosting
Vanilla maple cake • Hot honey caramel core • Cinnamon buttercream
Inspired by Copper Mountain’s hottest couple
My mouth falls open. “You baked us?”
“We baked yourlove,” she corrects, waggling her eyebrows. “Well, technically we baked your firefighter. You’re the frosting.”
“Obviously,” I mutter, dropping my tote on the counter. “He’s all fire and I’m all sugar.”
She leans in. “So…is it true?”
“What part?”
“That he carried you out and whispered ‘you’re safe now, honey’ in your hair.”
I blink. “No?”
“That he shielded you with his body and said ‘I’ve got you, baby’ like a romance hero.”
I stare. “Definitely no.”
“That you two were secretly seeing each other and the fire was the catalyst for you to finally tell the town.”
I groan. “Why would anyone think that?”
“Because you cried into his jacket for three full minutes on Main and he let you,” she says. “Clay Walker doesn’t let anyone within ten emotional feet. You cracked him, babe.”
I brace my elbows on the counter. “He confiscated me.”
