Because under all that repression, there’s a man who shrugs off his flannel in the cold without being asked.
A man who will stand in front of a whole town for me.
A man who looks at me like maybe—just maybe—I’m the first good, bright, messy thing to walk into his orderly, ash-covered life.
And that?
That’s a fire I don’t mind walking into.
Chapter Four
Clay
I’m halfway through inventorying hose nozzles when the bay door rolls up and trouble walks in wearing paint-splattered jeans.
Ember Quinn doesn’t just enter a room—she pours into it. Warm. Loud. Bright. Like someone left the kiln on too long and it condensed into a woman with wild hair and a mouth I keep telling myself I’m not going to taste.
She shouldn’t be here.
Sheishere.
And she’s holding something cradled in both hands like it’s a newborn.
Great.
“Hey, fiancé,” she calls, all sunshine and sin. “Got a delivery for the hero who’s very bad at pretending he doesn’t like me.”
I don’t look up right away, mostly because the guys are in the lounge, and if they hear that sentence I’m never hearing the end of it. I set the nozzle down, wipe grease off my palms, and finally lift my head.
She’s already watching me. Always is.
“You can’t just walk in the bay,” I tell her, voice flat. “It’s not a bakery.”
“Hi, Clay,” she sing-songs, ignoring every boundary ever established. “Love of my very public life.”
“Ember.”
She grins wider. “God, I love when you say my name like it’s a fire you have to control.”
“Because it is.”
“Aw.”
She crosses the concrete toward me. Her boots squeak. Her dark waves are in some messy knot that is definitely going to fall apart later. She smells like clay and oranges and female trouble.
“What is that,” I ask, nodding at the thing she’s carrying.
“A bribe.”
“Not taking bribes.”
“A gift.”
“Don’t need gifts.”
“Too bad.”
She stops right in front of me—too close—and lifts it.
