Page 4 of Bonfire with Beckett
He smirks. “Most people relax by, I don’t know, hanging out at a bar. Going on a date. Talking to humans about something other than fire.”
“I talk to you.”
“Barely.” He leans back, nodding toward the stage. “The mayor is on the move. Ah—and there she is.”
I glance up, expecting some committee head with a binder of complaints about trash cans. Instead, a woman I don’t recognize walks toward the podium—and every hair on my arms stands on end.
Curvy.
That’s my first unhelpful thought. Not just curvy—soft in all the places a man shouldn’t think about during a town meeting. Hair pulled back clean but still unruly, like it would escape the minute she laughed.
And her eyes… They’re bright and full of life. That’s to say nothing about her mouth. It’s full and plump. Lips like that could tempt a saint to sin.
She touches the podium like she’s grounding herself and smiles. The whole gym leans in.
“Who’s that?” I mutter.
Hank’s grin goes sharp. “Why? Interested?”
“Shut up.”
“That’s Willa. She was a few years behind us in school.”
Willa. The name’s familiar, but the face isn’t. It’s h to believe I’d forget a face like hers. I try to follow her words, but it’s astruggle. My eyes keep focusing on her lips instead of the words coming out of them.
I wonder if they’d feel as soft as they look. I wonder what they’d taste like.
Hank nudges me again.
I scowl and rub my ribs. “What?”
“Oh nothing.” He snorts. “I figured the fire marshal might have something to say about a bonfire in the woods.”
My spine stiffens.
A bonfire.
In this drought? With winds that seem to blow through every night?
Just add a spark, and you have yourself the start of a wildfire.
Applause rises. Hank leans close. “You look like you just remembered you left the stove on.”
“It’s not a stove.” I push myself to my feet. “It’s a fucking recipe for disaster.”
He tips his head. “You could wait till after to ruin her day.”
I give him a look. He sighs. “Fine. Do your job. Be the badge.”
I’d love to be anything else. Never more than when her face crumples after I say the words that shut her down. With my advice, the mayor begrudgingly declares that what I say goes.
The festival’s bonfire will remain snuffed out another year.
The mayor bangs the gavel, mumbling about committee review. Willa steps offstage on shaky legs and disappears toward the side door.
“I’m going to talk to her,” I tell Hank.
“Start with ‘I’m not Satan,’” he suggests.
