I can’t help smiling as I gear up. She’s handling the civilians better than some of my crew. I catch her eye, giving her a quick nod before heading in.
The fire is straightforward—contained to the kitchen, though the smoke damage will be extensive. An hour later, the crew is wrapping up, and I find myself drawn back to where Ember’s still coordinating the bystanders.
“So,” I say, approaching her, knowing I smell like the smoke from the kitchen fire, “this isn’t the evening I had planned.”
“Are you kidding?” She gestures around us. “Fire, drama, heroic rescues—of marinara sauce, no less. Best first date ever.”
I laugh, running a hand through my hair. Most women would have called an Uber by now. “Most people would’ve called it a night by now.”
“Well, I’m not most people.” She steps closer, straightening my collar that is bent under my fire jacket. The simple gesture feels intimate. “And our food is surely cold by now, so glad we ordered dessert first—so... coffee?”
“At midnight?”
“Unless you’re worried about staying up past your bedtime, Captain?”
The way she says ‘Captain’ sends heat through me that has nothing to do with the recent fire. I catch her hand where it’s still playing with my collar. “There’s a 24-hour diner around the corner. Best pie in three towns.”
“More dessert? You know how to treat a girl. Let’s go.”
We end up sharing apple pie and stories until well past midnight. I tell her about growing up in the shadow of my grandpa, father, and uncle, all firefighters, about making captain younger than any of them. She talks about her event planning business in Atlanta, but I notice how she skirts specific details, her smile dimming when she mentions her former partner and some legal battles as she separates from the business. I don’t likethis guy, with what little she says. Ember is in Peachwood Grove partly for escape and to help Nic with a few events, including our fire station fundraiser for the community. At least she’ll be around for the next two weeks.
“You know,” I say, watching her arrange crumbs into intricate patterns, “most people don’t coordinate crowd control at fire scenes quite so naturally.”
“Most people don’t rock turnout gear quite like you do.” She deflects with humor, but then adds more seriously, “I enjoy organizing chaos. Making beautiful things out of messy situations for others. It’s my thing?—.”
“I’ve noticed.” Without thinking, I reach across the table to brush some soot from her cheek. “Ember Harper, I like your thing.”
She grins, a light pink flushing her cheeks. “Same, Ryan McCallister.”
The moment hangs between us, charged with possibility, and then it’s gone and we are back in my Mustang. I should be exhausted after a twelve-hour shift and an emergency call, but I feel more awake with Ember than ever.
I’m driving her back to The Azalea Inn and debating how this evening will end because I dread it. The soft glow of the dashboard lights illuminates her profile, and I catch myself stealing glances at her between watching the road.
Her hand runs along the dashboard, and something in my chest tightens. “Tell me about this car,” she says softly.
My jaw clenches. I don’t talk about this—about Dad, about the dark months after. But with Ember, the words come easier.
“Restored it with my Uncle Jimmy. After Dad died.” I loosen my grip on the steering wheel. “Every Sunday for three years. He said if I needed to hit something, I could hit a wrench against an engine block. If I needed to talk, he’d be there.”
“Ryan.” Her voice is gentle. “That’s beautiful.”
When I pull up to the bed-and-breakfast, warm porch lights cast a gentle golden hue over its white columns. I put my car in park and turn toward Ember. My heart pounds a steady rhythm against my ribs as I take in her features, memorizing every detail of this moment.
“Thank you for tonight. I enjoyed getting to learn more about you despite the emergency interruption.”
“I loved tonight. It was great even with the emergency interruption. I mean, isn’t it our thing now?” Ember smiles, and it reaches her eyes.
I can’t help but chuckle because, yes, it’s quite possiblyourthing.
The laughter between us fades into a comfortable silence, and I lean in, the space in the car growing smaller, her hazel eyes holding mine. My hand moves to her cheek, her skin soft under my fingertips. The scent of her floral perfume mingles with the faint smoke clinging to my shirt, an oddly perfect blend.
“Ember,” I whisper, my voice husky to my own ears.
She doesn’t pull away, instead, her eyes flutter shut, and I take the invitation. Our lips meet in a kiss that’s both a question and an answer, that quickly ignites into something more urgent, more demanding. Her fingers thread through my hair, pulling me closer as if she can’t get enough, and I’m all too happy to oblige.
The world outside the Mustang fades away, leaving only the sound of our breathing. It’s a kiss that leaves us both panting. I’m reluctant to break a connection that feels this electric, this charged with promise.
When we part, her eyes are glazed with a mix of surprise and desire, mirroring my own. I brush a stray hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear.
