Page 22 of Embers in Autumn
I bit my lip, hard enough to sting, as the weight of that line settled deep. My hands trembled slightly as I typed.
Amber:And what exactly do you want right now?
Seconds stretched. Then the buzz again.
Dean:A slice of cherry pie. And maybe to see you while I eat it.
The room tilted. My heart was pounding against my ribs so hard I thought it might bruise.
Amber:Lana’s with you, isn’t she?
Dean:Not tonight. She’s staying with my sister. Sleepoverwith her cousins.
The meaning behind it sent heat coursing through me. My lip was caught so tight between my teeth it almost hurt. I stared at the words, my pulse hammering, my skin prickling with the awareness of what I was about to do.
My thumbs moved before I could second-guess.
Amber: Well. I made the pie. If you want to bring the ice cream… about an hour.
The message whooshed out. My stomach dropped.
“Oh my God,” I whispered into the empty kitchen. “Did I just invite him over?”
I stared at the phone like it might laugh at me. My heart raced, my palms damp. There was no taking it back. And somewhere deep down, past the panic, something dangerous and sweet stirred, daring me to hope.
CHAPTER 7
Dean
I’d been lying on the couch, stretched out with my eyes half-closed, enjoying the rare quiet after three days of storms. I was almost asleep when my phone buzzed on the coffee table and I nearly ignored it.
I sat up so fast the cushion shifted under me. Her message glowed on the screen, simple, almost casual. After a few text back and foreword she sent me one that made me hold my breath.
Well. I made the pie. If you want to bring the ice cream… about an hour.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath.
Was she serious?Did she really want me to come over, or was this one of those flirty texts people sent without thinking? But she’d given me a time. An hour. That wasn’t small talk. That was an invitation.
And my brain couldn’t let it go.
If I went, what kind of ice cream should I even bring? Vanilla was the obvious choice—classic, perfect with cherry pie. But what if she hated vanilla? Chocolate. Everybody loved chocolate. That was safe too. Unless she was allergic to dairy. Or vegan. My stomach tightened. What if she was vegan?
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, running a hand over my face. It was easier dragging a hose into a burning house than figuring this out.
I shot off the couch and headed straight for the shower. Itwas quick, barely more than a rinse, but enough to shake the nerves buzzing in my veins. Fresh jeans, a clean shirt. I pulled on my boots and caught my reflection in the mirror by the door. Stubble lined my jaw, rough and uneven. Maybe I should’ve shaved. But with all the calls we’d run this week, I hadn’t had the time. Too late now.
By the time I slid behind the wheel of my truck, my pulse was hammering. The wipers kept time against the windshield as I drove through the drizzle, heading straight for the grocery store.
Inside, I grabbed a cart and made for the freezer aisle. Vanilla was the first to land in the basket. Safe. Chocolate followed right after. Safe again. I slowed at the vegan section, scanning almond milk and oat-based cartons, imagining the look on her face if she opened the door and found me holding one.
Then I remembered her at the café, hands curled around a pumpkin spice latte. No way she was vegan. I put the carton back and grabbed salted caramel instead. Insurance.
On the way to the checkout, the wine aisle pulled at me. My steps slowed. Would it be weird? Too much? Ice cream was part of the deal. But wine… wine said something else. Thoughtful. Intentional. I scanned the bottles and picked up a red that seemed safe. Not the cheapest, not the most expensive. Just solid.
Balancing the bag against my hip as I walked back to the truck, I shook my head. “Damn it,” I muttered. “Much easier to fight fires.”
Because this—choosing ice cream, worrying about whether to shave, second-guessing a bottle of wine—felt more dangerous than anything I’d done in years.
