Page 67 of Fire and Icing

“Yeah. Has anyone ever called you Ember?”

“Syd calls me Em on a rare occasion. Not Ember. I don’t think anyone’s used that before.”

“So that’s one option.”

“Got anything else?” she asks. Her eyes drift out across the horizon.

“Last one. Goldie.”

“Goldie? You do know I have red hair, right?”

“Of course I know you have red hair.”

As if that hair doesn’t invade my thoughts when I’m sitting around the station, or when I’m pulling up to the bakery for our donut order, and more times than I’d like to admit when I’m alone in my basement apartment.

“So how do you see Goldie as a fit for me?” Emberleigh asks. “Didn’t you want to say Rusty, Copper, Red, Ginger … something more fitting to my hair color?”

“Those are so expected.”

“True.”

“Do you like any of them?” I ask.

“Not really.”

“That’s what I thought. So, Goldie is awesome because you are going home with the gold from this contest.”

She laughs lightly. “Winning isn't in the bag. The other contestants are fierce competitors and they’ll all be bringing their A-game.”

“You’ve got this,” I assure her. And then a nickname slips out seemingly from nowhere, “Blaze.”

“Blaze?”

“It fits. You’re a bit fiery at times.” I rush to add, “In a good way. You’ve got spunk, an indomitable spirit. And we met in a fire. It’s a nod to your beauty. It fits you. Fits us.”

“Us,” she echoes, barely glancing at me.

“We’re a couple … for now.”

“Yes. For now.”

“So, Blaze?”

“It’s better than Muffins.”

“Beg to differ.” I smile over at her.

“I don’t hate it.” She smiles back at me.

Honestly, her nickname should be Trouble because I’m in big trouble. I don’t know how she did it, but she’s got me hooked on those smiles of hers. I want to bring one hundred to her face every day. And I want them all to myself.

An hour after we left Waterford, we pull onto the long driveway of the estate that will be our home for a week. At the far end, the colonial-style mansion rises behind a circular drive, surrounded by immaculate landscaping. A stone fountain bubbles at the center of the driveway and a trio of valet attendants in black vests are greeting guests and taking their luggage.

Emberleigh drops her feet off the dash and sits upright. She visibly girds herself like a warrior preparing for battle. I search for words to assure her, but a valet is at her door before I have a chance to say anything.

“Welcome to The Briarwood Estate at Cumberland, ma’am.”

I hop out of my truck before the other valet has a chance to open my door.

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