Page 6 of Bonfire with Beckett
“I’m not funny. I’m a buzzkill with rules.”
Her laugh tilts her head back. I want to put my hand there. I don’t.
“And one more thing,” I add. “I’m involved in every step from now on.”
“Every step?”
“Every one. You don’t file a permit or schedule a vendor without me.”
“That’s very… controlling.”
“It’s very alive-at-the-end. If we do this right, your mom’s night won’t end with sirens.”
She inhales, closes her eyes, and when she opens them, it feels like the two of us are the only people in this hall.
“Okay,” she says. “Deal.”
I offer my hand. Hers is warm, small, strong. A current zips up my arm, settles under my ribs. She feels it too—I see it in the hitch of her breath.
“Tomorrow morning,” I say gruffly. “Nine a.m. My office. We start.”
“Nine a.m.” She nods. “I’ll be there.”
THREE
WILLA
The last person I expect to see on my dad’s front porch at a quarter till nine is the fire marshal.
Yet there Beckett stands. Filling up the doorframe like he owns it.
Dark jeans, navy T-shirt that probably wasn’t painted on but looks like it could have been, beard trimmed just enough to count as tidy. And in his big, scarred hands? Two steaming to-go cups and a white box from the local cafe that smells like heaven.
“Morning,” he says, his deep voice sending a ripple of anticipation through me.
I blink at him. “Um. Hi?”
He holds up the offerings. “Coffee. And… I think these are called pumpkin cream cheese muffins?”
I narrow my eyes. “You think?”
He shrugs. “The lady at the counter said you buy one every Tuesday when you’re not too busy pretending you’ve sworn off carbs.”
Heat flashes across my face. “You asked about me?”
“Had to make sure I knew who I was working with,” he says, completely unbothered. “You’ve got training today. We don’t run drills on an empty stomach.”
My pulse does an awkward little jump. The muffins smell exactly right. And the coffee cup in his left hand has the sticker I always order—hazelnut latte, extra sweet foam.
He didn’t just ask around. He asked the right person.
I cross my arms, partly to cover the fact that I want to grab both items and run. “So this is your version of an olive branch?”
“Think of it as a fire extinguisher.” His mouth twitches. “Portable, effective, designed to keep tempers from flaring.”
That almost earns a smile out of me. Almost. I reach for the bag and cup. Our fingers brush, warm against warm, and I wish I could blame the little spark that shoots through me on static from my sweater.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
