Featuring a zoomed-in, very unflattering, very close shot of me putting my flannel on Ember last night.
I stare.
Then I swear.
Loud.
From the office, Chief calls, “Everything all right, Walker?”
“Peachy,” I grind out.
The guys crowd around, laughing, whistling. Gabe reads over my shoulder.
“Oooh, they called you stoic.” He grins. “And ‘enigmatic.’ And ‘heartbroken hero who found love again.’”
I scroll.
There’s a quote from Ember.
My jaw locks.
He didn’t just save me from the fire,she said with that obnoxious smile.He stayed. He made sure I wasn’t alone. That’s the kind of man you marry.
I close my eyes.
God, firecracker.
You really didn’t have to gothathard.
“Walker,” Chief calls again, sharper. “My office. Now.”
Perfect.
By the time I get off the call with the insurance investigator—who, surprise,alsoheard the rumor and thinks it’s “so sweet”—I’m strung tight. The station’s quieting for the night. The guys are heading out. I only had to endure a few jibes from Chief.
I tell myself I’m heading home.
I do not, under any circumstances, tell myself I’m going to see her.
But the second I get in my truck, my hands turn the wheel toward that crappy little rental she’s in at the bottom of the mountain.
The porch light’s on.
Her old Subaru is out front, the one she swears will survive the apocalypse.
I kill the engine.
I sit.
I look at the mug in the cup holder. I’d brought it. Don’t know why. Maybe to prove something. Maybe to tell her to stop giving me things.
I grab it and get out.
fresh snow crunches under my boots. The air is cold enough to bite. Her porch smells like cinnamon and wet clay.
I knock.
“Door’s open!” she calls, voice muffled.
