Page 3 of Bonfire with Beckett
Relief swells through me—until a chair scrapes against the floor.
A tall man rises from the back row. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. A beard that makes him look more mountain than man. Heat prickles along my skin, like the temperature in the room jumped ten degrees. His presence alone hushes the crowd, commanding silence without a word.
And when he finally speaks… Oh. My. Stars.
“I’ve got a few more questions.” His voice is deep. Firm. Unshakable. A low rumble that seems to vibrate through my ribcage.
My pulse quickens. Not only from nerves. Something about him snags my attention, sharp and inconvenient, like a spark catching dry tinder.
He nods toward me. “Where do you plan to hold this bonfire?”
“The lake,” I answer, forcing my chin high when my insides feel like jelly.
His eyes narrow, dark and assessing. The kind of look that strips away pretense and makes me want to fidget under his gaze. “How do you plan to contain it?”
I falter. “With, um… barriers. Volunteers. Buckets of water?—”
“And are you aware we’re in the middle of one of the driest falls this county has seen in years? That we’re under a red flag warning this very weekend?”
Red flag? The words thud in my chest. I blink, trying not to squirm. “I… don’t know what that means.”
He nods once, decisive. Like a judge delivering a verdict. “Then I’m afraid I won’t be able to sign off on this.”
My heart plunges. The same man who just made every nerve ending in my body sit up and take notice has turned into a brick wall in my path.
“Seriously” My voice cracks sharper than I intend. “What gives you the right?”
He meets my gaze head-on, expression carved from stone, and holds up a badge.
“I’m the fire marshal.”
TWO
BECKETT
Town meetings are the same kind of torture they’ve always been. Too many folding chairs. Too much small talk. Not nearly enough reasons for me to be here.
It’s a shame they’re not violating any fire codes. At least then I could shut this thing down.
My brother, Hank, bumps my shoulder as we angle toward two empty seats near the back. “This place is a time capsule. I almost expect the gym teacher to tell me to drop and given him twenty.”
“That’s because it is. People here don’t like change.” I drop into a chair. “I bet they had a grant to replace these bleachers, but somebody’s granny chained herself to them.”
“Hell, I’d chain myself to ’em. These squeaky floors are the soundtrack of my childhood.” He plops down. “Are you going to the festival kickoff Saturday?”
“Unfortunately.”
“I’ll be over at the hayrides. We could use another pair of hands—or someone to keep the kids from petting the tractor.”
“I’ll be making sure the carnival doesn’t wire a popcorn machine to a lamp cord again. I don’t have time to play.”
Hank snorts. “You said that last year, then I found you handing out stickers to kids like it was Halloween.”
“Fire safety stickers.”
“Yeah.”
“Stickers are education,” I deadpan. “Education is safety.”
