Page 32 of Embers in Autumn
“You look good,” he said simply. “Happy.”
“This latte helps,” I said, trying for nonchalant and missing by a mile.
“I knew it,” he said. “Cinnamon solves everything.”
He glanced toward the children’s section where a mother and toddler were investigating a board book with flaps. He looked back to me and lowered his voice. “How is your day otherwise?”
“Good busy,” I said. “Books flying off shelves, no floods, no roof leaks. Five people asked for recommendations and only one whispered the request.”
“What did the whisperer want?”
“Something that would make her forget she owned a phone,” I said. “I sent her home with a trilogy and strict instructions not to sleep.”
He grinned. “Cruel.”
“Effective,” I said.
Mike drifted away again in search of a sports biography.Carol examined a new poetry collection with an expression that suggested it had disappointed her in the second line. The mother at the back laughed softly as her toddler discovered a flap that hid a cat. The whole shop loosened into a bright tangle of small pleasures.
Dean tapped the counter once with a knuckle.
He reached for the cup lid and pressed it more firmly into place for me, a small unnecessary gesture that made something inside me unfurl. His fingers brushed mine, light as breath. The contact raced up my arm and set up camp somewhere below my collarbone.
“I should get him back to the station,” Dean said, tilting his head toward Mike, who was now reading a chapter aloud in a terrible accent to no one at all. “We have drills.”
“Try not to cause more chaos,” I said.
“I make no guarantees,” he said, and then he hesitated, eyes dipping to my mouth for a fraction of a second before he pulled them back to my eyes. “Text me if you need anything. I can swing by after lunch.”
“I will be fine,” I said. “Go teach the town about not lighting tea lights under curtains.”
He laughed. “Do not joke. Someone did that once.”
“I believe you,” I said.
He pushed off the counter. Mike reappeared to pay, made two terrible puns about offsides that even he did not seem proud of, and then clapped Dean on the shoulder.
As they turned to go, Carol adjusted her pearls and spoke in the same tone one might use to discuss weather. “Young man, if you insist on doing dramatic readings, I recommend you start with chapter twelve. Much more… vigorous.”
Dean stopped in his tracks. His ears actually turned red. Mike made the sign of the cross and muttered something about being scarred for life. I pressed my knuckles to my mouth so Iwouldn’t laugh loud enough to scare the customers.
Dean cleared his throat, voice rough. “Yes, ma’am.”
Carol collected her bag of books with elegant precision, then looked at me with a sweet smile. “Amber, do you have anything with firemen for next time? Strictly for research, of course.”
I nearly dropped my latte. Dean groaned. Mike doubled over, wheezing.
Carol, utterly unbothered, swept toward the door like she hadn’t just set the entire shop on fire without striking a single match.
The bell chimed as the door opened. Dean paused with his hand on the frame, looked back at me, and let the smile that was just for me reach his eyes. Then he was gone, boots thudding down the steps, jacket catching the sun.
I stood there holding my latte and watched the light sway across the floor where he had stood. For a whole minute I did not move. The shop hummed on, and my heart hummed with it, slowly returning to its usual rhythm. A mother coaxed her toddler into putting down a pop-up book, the poetry browser hummed under her breath, the college couple whispered over paperbacks. But my pulse was still running fast, echoing with Carol’s parting words.
Do you have anything with firemen?
Of course she had meant it as a joke, but once the shop quieted again, the thought rooted itself in the back of my mind. I found myself wandering toward the romance section, scanning spines with a half-smile I couldn’t quite stop. Sure enough, tucked between a paramedic love story and a small-town baker series, there it was: a firefighter romance. The cover was tamer than what Carol would have gone for—shirtless hero, yes, but there was something more about the way the heroine clung to him, something that whispered devotion instead of just desire.
I pulled it from the shelf, hesitated, then slipped it onto thecounter like I was trying to get away with something.
