Page 57 of Melting for the Firefighter

The best man.

Even knowing the story, the cruelty of it still shocks me.

Lance folds his arms across his chest.

“She asked whether I was seeing anyone. Jordan told her to ask me.”

“Will she?”

His gaze settles on my face.

“If she does, I tell her about you.”

About me.

The phrase feels careful. Safer than girlfriend. Safer than mine. Safer than anything that might require him to say what I am to him when I am no longer standing in his kitchen wearing his shirt.

“What will you tell her?”

Lance crosses the space between us.

He cups my jaw and kisses me.

There is nothing hesitant about it. His mouth moves over mine with a certainty that leaves no room for doubt.

My body softens against him before my thoughts catch up.

His thumb brushes my cheek when he lifts his head.

“That,” he says against my lips.

It should be enough.

For today, I let it be.

Founder’s Day turns Main Street into another world.

Food trucks line the curb, filling the air with the smells of grilled onions, cinnamon sugar, and barbecue smoke. Red, white, and blue bunting hangs from every lamppost. Children race between booths with painted faces and balloons tied around their wrists while music drifts from the temporary stage outside town hall.

Grandma’s Garden sits at the center of it all.

Tessa helped me decorate the booth with trailing greenery and yellow ribbon. Bouquets fill galvanized buckets around the table. Sunflowers lean toward the light. Mason jars hold daisies, lavender, and rosemary.

A sign painted by the high school art club hangs across the front.

HELP GRANDMA’S GARDEN GROW AGAIN.

The donation jar is already half full.

I have cried three times.

“You’re doing it again,” Tessa says.

“Doing what?”

“Looking at the jar like it contains live spiders.”

“Taking money from people feels strange.”