Page 3 of Christmas with the Firefighter
Mr. Ford nods and disappears back to wherever innkeepers go at midnight, leaving us alone in the warm glow of the fireplace. The Christmas tree lights twinkle softly in the corner, and Nat King Cole has replaced Bing Crosby on the hidden speakers.
It's romantic as hell, and I'm standing here in wet clothes with my hair dripping and my dignity in tatters, and somehow this steady, solid, unexpectedly gentle man is looking at me like I'm something worth seeing.
“You look like you could use some warming up." he says, settling into one of the leather chairs by the fireplace like he has all the time in the world
He's right. I'm shivering now, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving me cold and shaky and more vulnerable than I want to admit. The fire looks inviting, and the chair across from him looks even better, and something about his calm presence makes me feel safer than I have all day.
So I sit.
And for the first time since I fled my cousin's dining room table, I stop trying to make myself smaller.
"I'm Corey, by the way," he says, leaning back in his chair like we have all night to get acquainted.
"Miranda." I tuck my feet under me and realize I'm smiling for the first time in hours. "And I promise I'm not usually this much of a walking disaster."
"I don't know," he says, and there's definitely amusement in his voice now. "You made quite an impression."
Chapter 2 – Corey
I should check the alarm panel in ten minutes.
That's what I tell myself as I settle deeper into the leather chair, watching Miranda curl her legs beneath her. The fire crackles between us, casting golden light across her face, and I realize I haven't thought about the reset protocol once in the last five minutes.
She's still shivering slightly, wet sweater clinging to curves that make my mouth go dry, and I stand before I can overthink it. "You need another blanket."
"I'm fine—"
"You're not fine. You're cold and wet, and hypothermia isn't worth being polite about."
There's a basket of throws near the front desk, thick wool in deep greens and burgundies that smell faintly of cedar. I grab the softest one and bring it back to her, trying not to notice the way her breath catches when I drape it around her shoulders.
"Thank you." Her voice is quiet.
She burrows into the blanket until only her face shows, cheeks pink from heat and embarrassment.
"Better?" I ask, settling back into my chair.
She nods, pulling the blanket tighter. "Much. Though I'm pretty sure I've officially earned the title of 'worst guest in Snowcap Inn history.'"
"Doubtful. I'm sure they’ve seen worse."
"Worse than flooding the hallways because I burned milk?"
I think about the bachelor party that set off firecrackers in the courtyard last summer, or the wedding party that tried to deep-fry a turkey in one of the guest rooms. "Trust me, you're not even close."
That earns me a small smile, and I feel ridiculously pleased with myself for putting it there.
The lobby has settled into the kind of quiet that only comes late at night, when the world feels smaller and secrets come easier. Snow taps against the windows in soft whispers, and the fire pops and hisses.
It feels intimate in a way that makes me hyperaware of everything—the way Miranda's breathing has steadied, the way her hair is starting to curl as it dries, the way she keeps glancing at me like she's trying to figure out if I'm real.
"Can I ask you something?" she says, pulling her knees up to her chest inside the blanket cocoon.
"Sure."
"Do you always stay this long for false alarms?"
The honest answer is no. The honest answer is that I usually check the system, confirm there's no actual emergency, and get back to the station within twenty minutes.
