Page 14 of Bonfire with Beckett
I swallow hard. “I guess we wait.”
She turns toward me on the bench seat, eyes bright. “Or we could do something to pass the time.”
I arch a brow. “Like what? Play cards?”
“Nope.” She tucks one leg under her, facing me fully. “A game. Twenty questions.”
I groan. “I’m better at cards than talking games.”
“Too bad.” Her grin widens. “You get three vetoes. That’s it. Everything else you have to answer.”
The challenge in her voice hooks me. “Fine. But you go first.”
She juts out her bottom lip and taps her chin. “Okay. What’s your favorite season?”
“Fall. Obviously.”
“Oh really?” She tilts her head. “You could have fooled me.”
“Just because I said no to the bonfire at first doesn’t mean I hate fall.”
“But it doesn’t mean you love it.”
“I do love. I love… the air.”
“The air?”
I nod, my heart beat thundering under her intense stare. “It’s cool, sharp. Alive.” I shrug. “What’s yours?”
“Fall.” Her lips curve up. “Because I love that my parents met and fell in love at the bonfire. And every year, they’d tell me the story all over again.”
“Sounds like it was your very own fairytale.”
“Only better because it was a true story.” She gives a soft, sad laugh. “What’s the scariest thing you’ve ever done?”
I hesitate. Images flash through my head. Jumping out of planes into burning forests. Landing hard in smoke and chaos. Going into war zones created by man and nature.
But that’s not the answer I give.
“Coming home,” I say at last. “I didn’t know what I’d be without the job. Without the uniform.”
“You still have your badge.” Her smile softens. “And look at you now. Saving towns from rogue bonfires.”
I roll my eyes, but the warmth in my chest stays.
We trade more questions—Favorite color. Hers is teal, mine’s forest green.
Best meal: her mom’s pot roast, my grandma’s ham and beans.
First crush: she blushes, I smirk.
Each answer pulls us closer, until we’re leaning in without realizing it, our knees brushing, her hand resting on the seat between us.
Then she asks, “What do you notice first about a woman?”
The question hangs in the dim cab, heavy, daring. I could lie. I don’t.
“Her mouth,” I rasp. My eyes drop to hers. “The way she uses it. Smiles. Laughs. Says my name.”
