Clay says nothing.
I say, “Right? Total kismet. Firefighter saves artist, artist saves firefighter from eternal bachelorhood, everybody wins.”
Right on cue, Mrs. Pruitt leans in, eyes bright. “We voted.”
Clay’s brows pull together. “On what.”
“Couple of the Year.”
My mouth drops. “Wejustgot engaged, Pruitt.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Copper Mountain doesn’t need time, honey. We need content. Also? Your story made three grand in donations last night alone. People love a love story.” Her eyes go sharp.
I blink. “Sorry—what?”
She gestures to the little stage near the front. “We’re doing the raffle in fifteen. You two’ll come up for the ‘Most Inspiring Holiday Couple’ shot. And we’re gonna need a kiss.”
I cough. “Awhat?”
“A kiss,” she repeats cheerfully like we’re talking about sugar cookies. “Just a little one. For the town Facebook page.”
Oh.
Oh, no.
I glance at Clay.
Clay’s jaw is stone.
“We’re not—” he starts, but I cut in fast, fingers squeezing his arm.
“They’re watching,” I whisper. “We said we’d sell it.”
His eyes cut to me. Dark. Warning. “This wasn’t part of the deal, firecracker.”
“Neither was me losing my studio and then finding out the insurance investigator is a nosy troll who reads the Gazette.”
His gaze holds mine for three…four…five seconds.
Then he mutters a filthy curse I feel in my toes.
“Fine,” he grates. “But we do it my way.”
I swallow. My way probably means closed mouth, firm, professional. Something we can both walk away from.
I can handle?—
“Don’t look so pleased,” he says, catching the look on my face. “I’m not doing it because I want to.”
“Why, then?”
“Because you asked.”
…Okay.
Why doesthatfeel like more?
He says it and I want to kiss him in front of everyonenow.
