He pauses, exhaustion written across his face.
“Hmm. Maybe asking you if I can hitch a ride to Brady’s in Carson City isn’t the best idea, not if you’re half asleep on your feet and the roads are so treacherous, they’re closed.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “To be honest, I’d rather stack wood in only a t-shirt at the moment, but if you really want me to, I can?—”
The idea of him stacking wood in a t-shirt and watching those muscles flex sends a warm wave through me.
“But I should get going, get some rest. I don’t live far.”
The view out the nearest window is a wall of white. Not exactly eager to send Reese into that or say goodbye just yet. The fact that he knew me before all the glitz and glam of my name in lights is unexpectedly comforting, all things considered.
“You worked a forty-eight-hour shift and then chased my dog through a hotel. The least I can do is sugar you up.”
His lips part slightly as if confused or concerned. He inclines his head. “Is that slang for something?”
My cheeks warm and I stumble back slightly, also working on a sleep—and sanity—deficit. I clap my hand over my mouth. “I drove here with no plan, no map, no change of clothes. It all became too much. I meant sugar as in chocolate, marshmallows, you know, the works.”
“Wait. What?”
Now I want to jump back in bed, pull the covers over my head, and not come out until next year. I told Reese that nobody knows where I am and that I threw my phone out a window. That I’m essentially on the run.
Fa la la la fail!
I didn’t mean to essentially reveal that I’m hiding from my career. From Lilith, my publicist, my social media manager, and the entire circus that’s become my life. But the words tumbled out, and now Reese Marchiano—Brady’s best friend, the guy I used to have the biggest, swooniest crush on—knows I’m having a breakdown.
Great. Very mature. Quite professional, Becca.
“I was in the mood for a hot cocoa too,” I say, trying to sound normal. Like, I haven’t just confessed to committing grand theft auto and phone-icide.
He looks at me with concern, those evergreen eyes studying my face in a way that makes me want to both run away and stay right here forever.
“I guess I can’t turn down an offer like that. Noella makes a great cup of hot chocolate. You’ve convinced me.”
Still dressed in last night’s performance attire, we wander downstairs. A blazing fire crackles in the stone fireplace, casting warm light across the cozy space. Garlands stuck with decorative stems made of glittery branches, berries, pinecones, and winter flowers in metallic silver and gold, frosted pine, and red berries create a lush Christmas tableau. Glass icicles drip from entryways along with dried orange slice garlands strung with twine and wooden beads. Candles cast everything aglow and the scent of cinnamon and chocolate fills the air.
As if anticipating us, Noella has two steaming mugs of cocoa ready in no time and delivers them to the small table by the fire, each topped with a mountain of whipped cream, crushed peppermint candy canes, and chocolate shavings.
I want to take a bath in it.
“They don’t mess around with their hot chocolate here,” I say, gesturing to the festive creations.
“It’s the best around. It gives me some ideas for the bakery,” Reese says, almost as an aside.
“What bakery?” I think back, wondering if Mrs. Marchiano opened one or if Reese is married to a beautiful baker who makes all of his buttery, doughy dreams come true.
I glance at his left hand and don’t see a wedding ring on his finger.
“The Firehouse Bakery, aka Crush Cakes, is the crew’s business to be.”
“The crew, as in you and the other firemen?”
He nods. “All of us are going in on transforming the old firehouse in Huckleberry Hill into a bakery and cafe. The county built a new safety complex in town and the neglected building, complete with a brass pole to slide down, was begging for something special. Plus, it’s something for us guys to do in our off time.”
“That sounds delightful.” So cozy with that small town sweetness. And not at all what I’d expect from a bunch of burly firefighters—if the rest of them are anything like Reese.
He tells me a little more about the origin of Crush Cakes—cupcakes that consist of just the top part, the good stuff—and that they plan to open next spring.
Listening to him talk about their vision taking shape makes me melt into the chair. Pookie, sensing that I’ve finally relaxed, settles into my lap with a contented sigh. The dog has already forgotten about her great escape.
