Page 47 of Embers in Autumn
I raised one brow pointedly.
His gaze flicked from the bag to the countertop, then back to me. His eyes narrowed, then widened in sudden realization. A flicker of memory passed between us—skin against skin, whispered filth, the creak of the wood—and his ears went pink. Without a word, he scooped the bag back up and held it sheepishly at his side.
I nearly laughed, biting my lip hard to keep it in as I turned back to the mystery man. Eventually, he picked one of the titles with a gruff “I suppose this’ll do,” and left me with the distinct impression I’d failed a test I never signed up for.
Once the shop was quiet again, I turned to Dean, who was smirking at me now. “You didn’t think,” I teased, “about where you were setting that bag down?”
He leaned against the counter, lowering his voice. “I thought about it plenty. Just forgot for a second that this particular piece of furniture has… history now.”
Heat flushed my cheeks, but I couldn’t stop my grin.
We settled at the small table by the window, the bag between us. He pulled out two croissants, golden and flaky, then produced a cinnamon bun wrapped in wax paper. “Got this too. Thought you might like to share.”
We split it between us, the sugar and spice lingering on our fingers. Finally, finally, I had my coffee with him, the warmth seeping through me in a way that wasn’t just from the mug.
Between bites, I asked, “So, do you know what you’re dressing up as for Halloween?”
Dean shook his head. “No idea. I’m working the night before, so if I don’t get much sleep I’ll just smear some green paint on and go as Frankenstein.”
“Frankenstein’smonster,” I corrected automatically.
“What?”
“Frankenstein was the doctor. The creature doesn’t actually have a name.”
Dean stared at me for a second, then leaned in and kissed me right across the table, cinnamon-sugar sweet. “I love how smart you are, book girl.”
When Dean finally stood to leave, the drizzle had thinned to mist, sunlight breaking shyly through the gray. He kissed me once more at the counter, quick but lingering enough to keep my cheeks warm long after the bell above the door chimed his exit. Alone again in the shop, coffee still sweet on my tongue and the scent of cinnamon in the air, I pressed my fingers to my lips and let myself smile, a secret one meant only for me—the kind that promised something new was just beginning.
CHAPTER 14
Dean
The firehouse was never truly quiet, not even at one in the morning. The air held a hum, a restless energy—radios murmuring from the office, the faint whir of fans drying gear, the steady tick of the wall clock. The dorms smelled faintly of detergent and sweat, the kitchen of burnt coffee left on the pot too long.
I’d been half dozing in my bunk, boots lined neatly on the floor, when the alarm shattered the stillness. The bell clanged, sharp and merciless, followed by the dispatcher’s voice crackling through the speakers:“Structure fire reported. Abandoned warehouse, east district. Possible spread risk.”
Adrenaline hit like a switch. I swung my legs over the bed, jammed my feet into my boots, and grabbed for my turnout gear. Around me, the others were already moving—Mike cursing under his breath as he yanked on his coat, Alvarez double-checking his helmet straps, Carter stumbling out of the dorm still shoving his arms through his sleeves. The place erupted into noise: Velcro ripping, buckles clanking, radios crackling louder now with updates.
The bay doors groaned open, letting in the night air, damp and sharp with the smell of lingering rain. The engines gleamed under the fluorescent lights, hulking red beasts ready to roar. I shrugged into my SCBA harness, the weight familiar against my shoulders, and pulled my hood up over my head. My gloves dangled from my belt, waiting.
“Warehouse fire,” Mike muttered beside me as we joggedtoward Engine 3. “That place is a tinderbox. Been empty for years.”
“Exactly why we’re going,” I said. “Don’t want it spreading.”
We piled into the cab, the door slamming shut, and the engine rumbled to life. The siren wailed, echoing off the empty streets, as we tore into the night. My pulse hammered, steady and strong, the way it always did on calls.
This was the job. Midnight or not, rain or not. Get in, fight what you had to, protect what you could. And make damn sure the fire didn’t win.
The warehouse loomed out of the darkness like a beast lit from the inside, flames chewing through broken windows and curling out of the roof. Even from the cab, I could feel the heat prickling my skin. The sirens died as we rolled up, replaced by the roar of fire and the hiss of steam where rain still clung to metal.
“Goddamn,” Mike muttered, hauling his mask into place as we jumped down. “Whole place is lit.”
The crew moved fast, practiced, each man and woman slipping into their role. Lines were uncoiled, nozzles checked, the pump operator already working the panel. The first jet of water hissed against the flames, steam exploding upward, but it barely dented the inferno. The fire was too far gone.
“Mike, Alvarez, hit the east side windows!” I barked, my voice carrying over the roar. “Keep it from licking the roofs next door. Carter, with me—we’re on the south exposure.”
Water thundered from the hoses, arcing bright against the night. The fire snarled back, embers spitting high into the sky like sparks from a forge. I hauled my line forward, boots crunching on wet gravel, eyes narrowed against the heat. The mask fogged, cleared, fogged again as I fought to keep my vision steady.
