Page 6 of One Night Flame

I sighed and reached for the muffin box. “What kind are these again?”

“Hope-flavored,” she said with a grin.

She waited until I’d taken a bite—blueberry, and infuriatingly perfect—before she went in for the kill.

“So. I’m taking you out Saturday night.”

I blinked. “What?”

She sipped her coffee like she hadn’t just lobbed a grenade across the table. “Nothing crazy. Just a little fun. Something that doesn’t involve washable markers or laminated name tags.”

“Grandma…”

“No arguments. You’ll have a good time.”

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Then I guess it’s lucky I’ve been threatening to take you shopping.”

I shook my head, more amused than annoyed. “This is a setup.”

“Of course it is,” she said, unbothered. “A setup for joy, for sparkle, for the faint reminder that you are, in fact, a woman with legs.”

I huffed out a laugh, muffin still in hand. “Do I have to wear heels?”

“Only if they help you remember you’ve still got it.”

I should have fought harder. I knew that. But the truth was, I was too tired to argue. Too tired to explain that it wasn’t about the clothes or the shoes or even the makeup. It was about the part of me that had gone quiet. The part that used to light upwhen someone looked at me a certain way. The part that still missed being seen.

Not as a teacher. Not as a mom.

As me.

I looked at her, that damn twinkle in her eye already saying she knew she’d won.

“I’ll think about it.”

She smiled sweetly and pulled out her phone again, casually typing something while I turned to rinse my coffee mug.

I didn’t think much of it. Probably her book club or some group chat I didn’t want to be in.

But she was humming.

And when Grandma hummed like that, it usually meant I was in trouble.

THREE

CORD

From the wings, I had a clear view of the chaos: rows of folding chairs packed elbow-to-elbow, all facing the stage like it was the damn Grammys. Women of every age laughed, gossiped, and waved numbered paddles like they were about to bet on thoroughbreds. A few already had drinks—sparkling cider in plastic flutes. No alcohol license this year, which meant the flirting would be loud, but the bidding might stay tame.

Still, the energy was pure sugar rush.

I tugged once at the collar of my dress blues, rolled my shoulders, and took a breath. Showtime.

I stepped onto the stage to a wall of cheers.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said into the mic, smiling like I meant it, “welcome to Huckleberry Creek’s Annual Firefighter Bachelor Auction!”

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