Page 28 of One Night Flame

I’d showered, pulled on an old sweatshirt that slouched off one shoulder, and tried to focus on laundry like that would settle the nervous flutter in my chest. Fold the towels. Matchthe socks. Pretend my life hadn’t tipped sideways sometime around dessert last night.

I crouched to pick up a stray tee from beside the laundry basket and something caught my eye—pale, almost silver in the morning light.

A single blond hair.

I froze, heart stuttering. Stupid. It was just hair. He had a head full of it. But it felt… personal. Like a fingerprint. A reminder. A ghost of his hand on my waist, his mouth on my throat.

I set the shirt down and brushed the hair into the trash, trying to shake off the ridiculous wave of emotion that came with it.

Then I couldn’t quite stop myself from picking up a pillow from the bed and inhaling. His scent clung to it. Not overpowering. Just enough to stop me cold.

I closed my eyes. Breathed it in like a memory. He’d been here. In my space. In my bed. In me. And now I didn’t know what to do with that.

Not just the want—that I understood. But the way I still felt it. The way I didn’t want it to fade. Which, frankly, was the most terrifying part of all.

I was sitting cross-legged in the middle of my bed, folding laundry in a half-hearted attempt at being productive, when my phone buzzed beside me.

Incoming Call: G-Force.

I rolled my eyes and smiled. Gillian had insisted on programming that nickname herself when we were thirteen and thought we were invincible. We’d been summer friends back then—me visiting my grandmother, her the hometown girl with a flair for rebellion and better taste in music than anyone I’d ever met. Ironic that the hometown girl had moved away, and I was the one in Huckleberry Creek now.

I swiped to answer and said, “You’ve been waiting to call, haven’t you?”

“Lucy Sullivan.” Her tone was all mock sternness and southern bite. “You told me your grandmother bought you a firefighter, and then you went radio silent. What else was I supposed to do—respect your privacy?”

I flopped onto my back and stared at the ceiling. “I didn’t go radio silent. I just… needed a minute.”

“A minute?” she snorted. “It’s been twelve hours. You better have stories that make my ears burn.”

I laughed, but it came out more like a breath. “It was… a night.”

She gasped. “Youdidride the fire pole!”

“Gillian!”

“What? I’m just saying—if Grandma served you up a man that fine on a silver platter, I hope you at least thanked her with flowers and a fruit basket.”

I grabbed a pillow and hugged it to my chest, suddenly a little dizzy with everything I was feeling. “He was actually… kind of amazing.”

“Oh,” she said, softer now. “That’s worse.”

“Why?”

“Because now I have to worry about your heart, not just your hormones.”

I shifted the pillow under my chin, biting back a grin. “It was just a date. A good one.”

Gillian made a noise that sounded like a cat hacking up judgment. “Did you, or did you not, invite the auction firefighter into your home like the opening scene of a Hallmark movie gone rogue?”

I laughed so hard I almost dropped the phone. “Okay, fine. Yes. But in my defense, it didn’t feel like a setup. Or like… a joke. It felt real.”

“So? Spill. Was he as good as he looked onstage?”

I’d texted her pictures from the auction.

My smile stretched wider. “Better.”

“Stop. I’ll combust from jealousy.”

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