“Where are you going?” he asks.
“To put out a worse fire,” I mutter, and head for the door.
Because I know exactly how this happened.
She did it.
The barefoot chaos goblin with paint on her arms and tears in her eyes who tried to run into a fully involved structure.
Ember Quinn.
Pretty name. Stupid choices.
I climb into the truck and gun it for my rental cabin. I pull up in front of the cabin five minutes later and kill the engine. It’s late afternoon, snowmelt dripping off the eaves, sun low and gold. There’s a blanket tacked up as a curtain and a potted plant already on the porch. Less than 24 hours and she’s nesting.
Of course.
I stomp up the steps and knock once.
No answer.
I hear music, though. Some indie-folk-hippie shit with wind chimes and a banjo.
I knock again, harder. “Ember.”
Footsteps.
The door cracks.
Brown eyes, wide. Messy bun. She’s in leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that saysKiln Itacross the chest in glitter. There’s a smudge of clay on her jaw.
And she smiles.
Then she sees my face.
“Oh,” she says, smile fading. “You look…fun.”
“Cute,” I say flatly. “We need to talk.”
She opens the door wider and waves me in like this is normal. The place smells like coffee, vanilla, and something floral. Her duffel lies open on the couch, shoes everywhere, sketchbooks stacked on the coffee table like survivors.
“Sorry it’s a mess,” she says, kicking a paintbrush under the couch. “It’s been a day.”
“It’s about to get worse,” I tell her.
She turns, hands on hips. “Did the studio spontaneously un-burn itself?”
I level her a look. “Why is the Copper Mountain Gazette calling me your fiancé?”
Her mouth opens.
Closes.
She winces.
“Okay,” she says slowly, walking backward like she can make space with charm. “So, funny story.”
“It’s not funny.”
