Page 5 of Christmas with the Firefighter
"Is it?"
The question hangs between us, gentle but persistent, and I realize that no, it's not fine, not in the way that matters.
"I learned not to get attached to temporary things," I say finally.
Miranda nods like she understands, and maybe she does. Maybe she's learned her own version of the same lesson, that being wanted is different from being chosen, that some people will take what you offer and move on without looking back.
"So you stick to the job," she says. "Keep it professional. Don't let anyone get too close."
"Something like that."
"Sounds lonely."
"Sounds safe."
She considers this, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders. "I do the opposite, I think. I keep moving so I never have to find out if someone would choose me or just tolerate me until I leave on my own."
"And how's that working out for you?"
She laughs, and this time there's real humor in it. "About as well as you'd expect from someone who sets off fire alarms making cocoa."
The shared acknowledgment of our respective defense mechanisms should feel heavy, but somehow it doesn't. Ifanything, it feels like relief, two people recognizing each other across the space between their respective forms of self-protection.
"There are cookies," I say, nodding toward the plate left on the side table. "Might help with the sugar crash from all that adrenaline."
Miranda unfolds herself from the blanket cocoon and reaches for the plate, her fingers brushing mine as she takes it. The contact is brief, accidental, but it sends heat up my arm and settles somewhere low in my belly.
"Sugar cookies," she observes, like we didn't just have a moment that made the air between us thicken.
Miranda takes a bite and closes her eyes, making a small sound of appreciation that does absolutely nothing good for my ability to think clearly. "Oh my god, that's incredible."
"Right? I may have responded to more calls here than strictly necessary over the years."
She laughs, and the sound is warm and genuine, filling the space between us with something lighter than the heavy confessions we've been trading. "So you're saying I'm not your first Snowcap Inn emergency?"
"Not even close. Though you're definitely the most memorable."
The words slip out before I can filter them, loaded with meaning, and I watch her cheeks flush pink in the firelight.
"Because of the property damage?" she asks, but there's something hopeful in her voice that suggests she knows that's not what I meant.
"Because of a lot of things."
We're sitting closer now, I realize. Somehow during the conversation our chairs have migrated toward each other, or maybe we've both been leaning in without thinking about it.
Her knees are almost touching mine under the small table between us, and I can smell her floral smell.
She takes another bite of cookie, and a small crumb sticks to her bottom lip. Without thinking, I reach out and brush it away with my thumb, the contact soft and warm and so much more intimate than it has any right to be.
Time slows. Her lips part slightly under the gentle pressure of my thumb, and her eyes go wide and dark in the firelight.
I should pull my hand back, should apologize for overstepping, should remember all the reasons why getting involved with a woman who's leaving tomorrow is exactly the kind of mistake I've spent years learning not to make.
But, I let my thumb trace the curve of her lower lip, soft and warm and perfect, and watch her breathing go shallow.
"Corey," she whispers, and my name in her voice sounds like a question and a prayer and a warning all at once.
"I know," I say, though I'm not sure what I'm acknowledging. That this is complicated? That she's leaving? That I don't do temporary, and she doesn't do permanent, and we're both about to ignore every lesson we've learned about protecting ourselves?
