“And after the fire?” Wilton asks, pen poised. “Where have you been staying?”
“My rental here,” I say. “Two blocks down.”
“With Mr. Walker?” He asks it blankly, like it’s another box to check. My skin heat-spikes anyway.
Clay doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m the owner of this cabin but we’re not living together.We’re going day to day,” he says. “Studio loss knocked a lot loose.”
We’re not lying. Not exactly.
“And your… engagement?” Wilton tries to keep it neutral and fails; curiosity leaks like a draft.
“New,” I say. I feel Clay’s hand press once—an anchor—then resume its lazy, lethal circles. “Unexpected. But the good things usually are.”
Something flickers in Clay’s face—gone before I can read it. Wilton just nods and writesNEWlike it’s a diagnosis.
He stands after an hour and a half of questions and photographs of nothing. He glances around my little table like it might confess. “All right,” he says. “We’ll be in touch. It’s a substantial claim, Ms. Quinn. I’m sure you understand our diligence.”
“I do.” I fold my hands so he won’t see that they’re trembling. “Thank you for coming.”
He leaves with polite speed, rolling his case down the walk like he’s escaping a crime scene he didn’t commit. When the door shuts, I stay still and listen to the house breathe through the vents Clay coaxed back to life, the kettle clicking as it cools, my pulse a drum line under my skin.
His hand is still there. Warm. Steady. Mine.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“No,” I say. “Yes.” I turn to him. He’s close—close enough that I can see the flecks in his eyes that aren’t brown at all. “Both.”
He doesn’t move his hand. He ups the pressure a fraction, thumb finding that same slow circle. “He did his job.”
“So did you.” I swallow. “And me.”
“Yeah.” His gaze drops to my mouth and back like it can help itself. “You did.”
We’re not touching anywhere else. We don’t have to. Everything between us is leaning.
“You’re getting good at this,” I say. My voice goes breathy and I hate that I can’t pull it back.
His mouth tilts. “At paperwork?”
“At…all of it.” I press my palm to his chest like I can steady the words before they spill. His heartbeat kicks under my hand, big and brutal. “Good at wanting me.”
Air goes tight. Then tighter.
He steps back—not far, just enough to cut the electricity before it arcs. His jaw locks. “That’s not pretending,” he says, and his voice is low, gravel dragged over a warning.
The room in me that’s been empty for days goes incandescent. My mouth opens. Something bold and stupid and absolutely us rushes my tongue.
“Then stop running from it,” I whisper.
He flinches like I touched a bruise. The briefest flicker. Then he shutters it. “Don’t push, Ember.”
“Or what.”
“Or I stop being polite about the lines.”
He means well. He’s protecting me. He’s protecting him. I know all his reasons. I want none of them.
“Polite is boring,” I murmur.
