Page 8 of His Big Holiday Firefighter
“Walk with me?” Noah asked suddenly, his voice soft but intent. “There’s something I want to show you.”
We found ourselves in a quiet corner of the festival, where someone had wrapped an ancient oak tree in thousands of tiny lights. The snow was falling harder now, muffling the distant sounds of the festival and creating a private world of white. The lights reflected off the falling snow, forming a magical dome of sparkles around us.
“I used to climb this tree as a kid,” Noah said softly, looking up at the branches. “Your grandmother would bring me hot chocolate after particularly bad shifts at the firehouse. Said the lights helped remind her that darkness never lasts forever.” He turned to me. “She helped me believe in magic again, after my mom...”
I was struck by how the lights played across his features, how vulnerable he looked in that moment. “Noah, I?—”
“I know you’re planning to leave,” he interrupted, his voice full of emotion. “I know this is just temporary for you. But James...” He stepped closer, one hand coming up to cup my cheek, his touch impossibly gentle. “What if it doesn’t have to be?”
Suddenly, Noah was kissing me, and everything else fell away. He tasted of cinnamon and possibility, his lips warm despite the cold air. I melted into it, my hands fisting in his flannel shirt, overwhelmed by the rightness of it all.
The kiss deepened, grew heated. Noah backed me against the tree, one hand tangling in my hair while the other gripped my hip. The bark was rough against my back, grounding me as his mouth made me feel like I might float away. I gasped when he nipped gently at my lower lip, the sound swallowed by another kiss that made my knees weak.
My phone buzzed aggressively in my pocket, Sarah’s special ringtone cutting through the moment like a knife. She was a great real estate agent, but damn, she had the worst timing.
We broke apart, breathing hard, but Noah didn’t step back. Instead, he rested his forehead against mine, his eyes closed as if in prayer.
“You should get that,” he said quietly, but his hand tightened slightly on my hip.
“Noah—”
“It’s okay.” He finally stepped back, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “You have to do what’s right for you. Just... think about it? Please?”
I watched him walk away, snow swirling in his wake like stardust. My phone buzzed again, but I couldn’t feel my fingers enough to answer it. Or maybe that was just an excuse. My lips were still tingling from his kiss, and for the first time since I’d arrived in Pine Ridge, I wasn’t sure what “right” meant anymore.
CHAPTER SIX
I had ignoredsix calls from Sarah by the time I heard Noah’s familiar footsteps approaching the bakery. Each ignored call made my chest tighter, like a band slowly constricting around my ribs.
I was definitely selling, so why the anxiety?
I flipped through the pages of the contract she’d left, not really focusing on the words.
My lips still tingled with the memory of Noah’s mouth against mine. The feel of rough bark against my back, the solid warmth of Noah’s body pressing me against the tree, the way he had looked at me like I was something worth keeping.
The bell chimed, and I shoved the contract aside. I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t, suddenly unsure how to face him after last night’s kiss, after everything we said and left unsaid.
“Sorry I’m late.” Noah’s voice was careful, neutral, but I heard the tension humming just beneath the surface. “Traffic.”
There was no traffic in Pine Ridge. We both knew it. Just like we both knew why his footsteps hesitated slightly before approaching the counter, why the air between us felt charged with something that wasn’t quite regret and wasn’t quite hope.
“It’s fine.” I began measuring flour, my movements precise and mechanical, as if technical perfection could somehow fix the mess my carefully ordered world had become. “I thought we could try something new today. A variation on my grandmother’s ginger cookies.”
I heard him set down his equipment, slower than usual. The familiar domestic sounds seemed wrong somehow, like a beloved song played slightly out of key. Each clink of metal on the counter made my skin prickle with awareness.
“Your grandmother’s recipes aren’t meant to be changed.” His voice was still careful, but there was an edge to it now, sharp as a knife’s blade.
I finally turned, meeting his eyes for the first time. “Everything can be improved,” I said, more sharply than I’d intended.
Noah’s jaw tightened. The muscle there jumped slightly. “Some things are perfect exactly as they are.”
We weren’t talking about cookies anymore. We both knew it.
The next hour passed in tense silence, broken only by necessary communication. Our usual easy rhythm was gone, replaced by awkward movements and avoided touches. I found myself over-correcting, staying too far away, while Noah seemed to take up more space than usual, his presence a gravitational force that made every movement feel like an orbit.
“The dough’s too dry,” he said finally, watching me struggle with the mixer. His voice held the same gentle concern he’d used when teaching me about browning butter, and somehow that made it worse.
“It’s fine.”
