Page 2 of One Night Flame

The truth? There wasn’t much. At least, not anything I wanted to unpack before breakfast.

Before I could deflect with another one-liner, Chief Holloway’s voice cut through the room. “Cord, you’re MC again this year.”

I turned to see him leaning in the doorway, cradling his coffee like a man who knew exactly how to cause problems and live to enjoy them.

A chorus of groans erupted immediately.

“Of course he is,” Meatball said. “Town’s been asking for a re-run since last year.”

Twitch bounced on the balls of his feet. “We’ll need a spotlight. And glitter.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t act like you don’t already own some.”

Moose snorted into his coffee.

“Can we request costumes this year?” Meatball asked. “I vote for the leopard-print boxers. You know, full-circle callback.”

“That was one time,” I said flatly, knowing I was never living that down.

“It was glorious,” Twitch said.

Chief took a sip of his coffee, clearly enjoying himself. “Auction’s this Saturday. Mandatory unless you’re dead or on shift. And even then, I’d expect you to show up.”

I offered a dramatic sigh. “Guess I better start working on my walkout song.”

“‘I’m Too Sexy,’” Peach said instantly.

“Obviously,” Meatball added.

Twitch mimed a slow turn in his seat. “With glitter. And a wind machine. Maybe backup dancers.”

Donkey didn’t look up from the waffle iron. “Just make sure someone bids this time. Can’t have you standing up there like a clearance rack prom king.”

“Are you forgetting what I went for last year? I’m not worried.” In all the years we’d done this fundraiser, I’d never once been left hanging. I leaned on the counter. “It’s for a good cause. I smile, I wave, somebody writes a check. Everybody wins.”

Moose spoke around a mouthful of waffle. “Except whoever gets stuck with you. Town’s got short memories.”

“They’ll remember fast enough. Especially if you do that smirk thing.” Meatball mimed something that was probably supposed to be Blue Steel from that Ben Stiller movie where he played a model.

“Yeah.” Twitch’s eyes went wide. “Bet you end up with someone aggressive this year. Like Margaret Simmons from the planning commission.”

“Or Mrs. Whitaker again,” Donkey muttered. “She’s still gotthat inflatable hot tub.”

I laughed, because what else could I do? “Whoever it is, let’s just hope they don’t expect me to install ceiling fans shirtless.”

“Hope it’s not a single mom with a gluten-free kid and a Pinterest board for their mutual future,” Peach added, deadpan. “We all know how allergic Hollywood is to long-term planning.”

That got a bigger laugh than it probably should’ve. Meatball snorted. Twitch nearly fell off his chair.

I laughed, too. Light, automatic. Then I said it. Just loud enough to register, quiet enough that nobody had to stop and look at it too closely. “I don’t do single moms.”

That earned a few lifted eyebrows, but nothing more. We all had our lines. Mine just happened to be this one.

“Too many moving parts,” I added, trying to keep the edges soft. “Too easy to screw it up.”

Twitch was already bouncing back into a monologue about firehouse superstition and whether glitter was a Class C hazard.

But Chief… Chief didn’t move on with the rest of them. He just watched me over the rim of his mug like he’d heard something I hadn’t meant to say out loud.

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