Page 16 of Under The Mountain Man’s Spell

"I'm not brave like her," I added. "The woman in the dress. You should know that. I'm going to be scared."

"You ran toward that fire this afternoon with a first-aid kit on your shoulder." His voice had gone rough. "I watched you do it. That's brave, Molly."

"That's different."

"Is it?"

He closed the six feet between us then, slow enough that I could have stopped him. His hand came up, and his thumb found the line of my jaw, rough and warm and gritty with ash, and brushed once along the streak of soot I hadn't known was there. I stopped hearing the crew. All I could smell was the fire and him.

"Is that a yes?" he asked, low.

"Yes," I said. "Lights on."

He kissed my forehead, once, hard, and left a smudge there that I wore all the way up the ridge. A wolf whistle split the air, followed by the sound of a fist hitting somebody's arm.

"Chief," Silas called, with perfect gravity. "We've got this. You're needed elsewhere."

"Go home, Chief," someone else added.

"Shut up, all of you," Grayson said, but he was grinning.

He took my hand then. It was the first time since Friday night, and his palm was warm and calloused, and I felt a faint shake in it that matched my own. We walked toward the north lot, where his truck was parked. The last time I'd walked away from a festival with him, I hadn't looked back once. This time I did. Four firefighters stood in a row beside the engine with the hose abandoned at their feet, grinning like they'd just won a bet.

* * *

He turned on every light in the cabin.

I stood in the doorway with my hands knotted in front of me and watched him do it, one switch after another: the kitchen, the hall, the lamp in the corner I'd never seen lit, the porch, even the little bulb over the stove. The windows went black and the whole place blazed gold. I could see every inch of it.

The couch where I'd said please in a red dress turned out to be a plain tan sofa with a crocheted afghan folded over one arm and a tabby cat asleep in the middle of it. She opened one yellow eye, found me unremarkable, and closed it again.

"That's the whole house," Grayson said from the far end of the room. He was still in his soot-black T-shirt and turnout pants, with his hands loose at his sides, giving me the same careful distance he'd given me all day. "Your call, Molly. We can stop at the light switches."

I looked at him under the glare of the overhead bulb. Smoke had darkened his eyebrows and settled into the creases beside his eyes, and two of his knuckles had blistered without him noticing. He smelled like the inside of a chimney. So did I.

"I smell like a campfire," I said.

"So do I."

"There's ash in my braid." I picked a flake off my collar and held it up. My heart was going so hard I could feel it in my wrists. "I'd like a shower. A hot one. And I'd like you in it with me."

Something moved across his face, quick and raw, and then he went still, the way he did when he was holding himself back with both hands. "You're sure."

"I'm sure. And the light stays on in there, too."

"It'll be bright enough that you'll need sunglasses." His voice had dropped to a rasp. "Second door on the left."

"I know where it is." Then, because honesty was the point of the night, I added, "I just never saw it."

The bathroom was white tile and a deep shower behind a glass door, a scarred wooden shelf, and a mirror over the sink that showed me exactly what I looked like: braid half undone, soot streaked across one cheek, glasses crooked. Grayson twisted the tap, and steam began to curl up the glass. He turned back to me and waited. He didn't touch me. He was giving me the whole choice again, and the courtesy of it nearly undid me.

"Take your shirt off," I said. My voice came out steadier than I expected. "Please."

One corner of his mouth went up. "Is that a request or an order?"

"It's an order. I'm told I have a gift for them."

He pulled the T-shirt over his head and dropped it on the tile, and I forgot how to talk.