Nervous.
Over a man I’m not actually marrying.
Perfect.
The town circle is strung with orange lights and pumpkin lanterns. Kids run with sparklers. Someone set up a chili table. The fire crew is stacking wood for the bonfire like it’s controlled chaos. I spot Clay immediately.
He’s in dark jeans and a flannel, beanie pulled low, jaw shadowed, that walk that says ex-military, current hero, professional brooder.
He sees me.
His eyes flick down over me—jacket still on, hands in pockets, cheeks pink from the cold—and his jaw does that barely there clench.
He walks over.
Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t smile.
Just moves like a storm.
“Firecracker,” he says.
“Fireman,” I chirp. “Look at us, doing small-town events, being wholesome.”
“We’re being watched,” he mutters, jerking his chin.
I glance around.
Half the town is looking at us. Phones out. Eyes bright. This is their Superbowl.
I grin up at him. “You want to give them a show?”
“No,” he says flatly. “I want to get through one night without you setting something on fire.”
“It wasonestudio.”
“Ember.”
“Okay,” I whisper, stepping closer, because if we’re gonna lie, we’re gonna be legendary. “Then hold my hand.”
His eyes flare.
Then, without a word, he laces his fingers through mine.
His hand is huge, callused, warm even in the freezing air. Everything in me…settles. Which is weird. I am not a settler. I am a chaos dragon.
But it feels…good.
A shutter clicks.
I groan. “They’re taking pictures.”
“They were always going to,” he says. “Might as well look convincing.”
“You look annoyed.”
“Iamannoyed.”
“You look hot.”
