Page 11 of July's Bad Boy: Blaze

"He's been reliable so far," I say, aiming for neutrality and probably missing by a mile.

"Well, he is a handsome devil," Emerson says with a surprising twinkle.

I escape to the back room before anyone can notice the heat creeping up my neck. It’ll be two more hours before I meet Blaze for deliveries. Not that I'm counting.

When I step out back of the Merc at nine sharp, I half-expect an empty parking lot. Instead, Blaze is leaning against the wall, no hint of his usual smirk. He's wearing a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that suggest he's been doing more than signing autographs in Nashville.

Why does he look like he actually gives a damn?

"Morning," he says, pushing off the wall. "Got the list?"

I hand him the clipboard, our fingers brushing for a microsecond. "Seven stops today. Mrs. Finch is first. She needs her insulin kept cold."

He nods, all business. "I checked the cooler. We've got enough ice packs."

"Great." I unlock the truck, surprised by his preparedness. "Let's load up."

We work in silence, loading boxes of supplies. It's almost unnerving how efficiently we move together, anticipating each other's movements like we've been doing this for years instead of days.

As I close the truck's back doors, Blaze clears his throat. "Your engine was making a clicking sound yesterday. Mind if I take a look after we finish the deliveries?"

"That would be... helpful," I manage. "Thanks."

He nods, and I'm struck by the absence of the sarcastic comeback I was braced for.

"There's coffee in the thermos," I say, gesturing to the front seat. It's not much, but it's the first intentionally nice thing I've offered him.

His smile is small but genuine. "You're a lifesaver, Grace Hartville."

"It's Hartman," I correct automatically.

"I know." He climbs into the passenger seat. "Just checking if you're paying attention."

There's the Blaze I know. Strangely, I'm almost relieved.

The town hall is packed for the meeting. Every folding chair is filled, and there are people standing along the walls and spilling out into the hallway. The mood is tense. We’re five days into this crisis, with supplies dwindling and no clear timeline for the road clearing.

I stand at the front, trying to project confidence I don't entirely feel. "Thanks for coming, everyone. I know we're all concerned about how long this situation might last."

"My kids are down to their last box of cereal," calls out a single mom with three boys under ten. "And my boss in Whitefish is losing his patience. If I lose my job--"

"The Merc's almost out of diapers," adds someone else.

"And my meds," anothr pipes up.

The anxious voices multiply until Sheriff Lawson whistles sharply through his fingers.

"Folks, please," Mayor Orville says. "I understand. We've been coordinating with emergency services. They're working on the road, but it could be another week, maybe longer."

The room erupts again, and I wait for it to quiet down.

"Listen, we can't sit around waiting for the road to clear. We've got gardens. We've got pantries. We trade, we share." I look around the room. "I'm proposing a community exchange. If you have extra vegetables, canned goods, bring them in. If you need something, take it. No money changes hands."

Skeptical murmurs ripple through the crowd.

Frank, who hasn't met an idea he didn't hate, stands up. "That's just glorified begging. My family's been self-sufficient for generations."

"It's not begging to help your neighbors, Frank," I counter.

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