I arch an eyebrow, taking my finger back from his teeth. “Is that so, caveman?”
“Damn right. Now, it’s time we get down to business–how about we hit the courthouse tomorrow morning, Mrs. Walker?”
A laugh escapes me. “You’re eager to lock me down, huh?”
“I’m not a man that likes to wait once I decide what I want. Get used to it, wife.”
I laugh again. “I like the sound of that, fireman.”
“Good–I like calling you that. You’re mine now and I’m going to spend every day reminding you of it.”
“Perfect, sexy and bossy.”
“Damn right, baby.”
Epilogue
Clay-two months later
The kiln ticks softly in the corner, still cooling. The scent of wet clay and lemon oil lingers in the air—Ember’s scent. Sunlight bleeds in through the wide windows, spilling golden light across the half-finished mugs lining the shelves and the tiny handprints pressed into a drying slab on the table from this morning’s fire safety workshop.
Our place. Our chaos. Our home away from home.
Ember & Clay Studiois carved into the wood sign swinging outside, painted with a brushstroke flame. She opened her new studio next to the firehouse—a compromise. She gets her studio and I use the spare room in back to teach the kiddos fire safety. And I get to keep an eye on her.
I wipe the sweat off my brow, toss the last of the kid-sized helmets into a basket, and glance at the clock. Almost closing time.
She’s late. Again.
“Firecracker,” I mutter under my breath, already smirking.
The front door bursts open, the bell above it jingling like a wind chime in a storm. She blows in like she owns the place—which she does—and carries the damn weather with her. Cheeksflushed, curls a mess, laughing at something on her phone as she kicks the door shut behind her with one booted foot.
“Sorry, I got stuck at the co-op,” she says breathlessly, dumping her purse on the counter. “Darla caught me and gave me a twenty-minute monologue about her cat’s health issues. And then somehow I got roped into hosting a mug-painting night for the ladies’ knitting circle.”
I cross my arms. “Is that before or after the bake sale, Firecracker?”
“Laugh it up, Fireman. These town ladies are cutthroat. They nearly shanked each other over the last slice of blackberry pie.”
I step around the counter, slide a hand around her waist. “You smell like cinnamon and chaos.”
She grins, curling her fingers in my shirt. “You love it.”
“Unfortunately.”
Her gaze softens as she leans in. “You look tired. Long day?”
“Kids nearly lit the fake firetruck on fire. You’d think letting ‘em play with a fog machine and fire hats would be low risk. It wasn’t.”
“Sounds like a raging success.” She pecks my cheek, then notices the small dish I’d placed on the table behind me. “What’s this?”
She moves toward it before I can answer. A ceramic dish, hand-thrown, glazed in a deep amber with the shape of a flame molded at the center.
She lifts it with careful hands, eyes wide. “Did you make this?”
I nod once.
She turns it over, reading the gold lettering inscribed on the bottom. “‘To my fireproof heart.’”
