“Maybe.” His grin slides to one side. “Got a cabin on the back of my property you can stay at. Been fixin’ it up and meanin’ to rent it–it’s yours for as long as you need.”
Heat skitters up my throat that has nothing to do with the fire.
I yank his jacket tighter and glare at the smoldering building. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I worked so hard.”
“I know.”
“My kiln was brand new.”
“I know.”
“It was named Gertrude,” I blurt, and then I laugh because that sounds so stupid out loud.
He huffs. “You named your kiln.”
“Yeah, and she was reliable, okay? No attitude. Unlike—” I flick my gaze to him. “—present company.”
That almost-smile returns. “You named a kiln and you’re callingmedramatic?”
“I am not dramatic.”
“You ran into a burning building.”
I point at his chest. “You carried me out over your shoulder.”
“That’s my job. Savin’ damsels in distress. You’re welcome.”
I open my mouth to argue again but get interrupted by a firefighter jogging over. “Clay—power’s cut, origin looks like that back wall behind the wheel. We’ll need the report tonight.”
My knight in ash and soot nods, all business again. “Good.”
The guy flicks a glance at me, confusion on his face. “She okay?”
My fireman–Clay–doesn’t even look at me when he answers. “She’s fine.”
“I am not fine,” I mutter.
He ignores me.
The other firefighter heads back. Clay finally turns to me again.
“Need EMS to check you?” he asks.
“No, Dad.”
“How’s your hand?”
I blink. “What?”
He grabs my wrist. My breath catches.
When did I scrape it?
There’s a thin red line over the heel of my palm, already blooming to a sting. He studies it like it personally offended him, then lifts his gaze.
