Page 12 of Embers in Autumn

Dean

I’d been lying on the couch, stretched out with my eyes half-closed, enjoying the rare quiet after three days of storms. I was almost asleep when my phone buzzed on the coffee table and I nearly ignored it.

I sat up so fast the cushion shifted under me. Her message glowed on the screen, simple, almost casual. After a few text back and foreword she sent me one that made me hold my breath.

Well. I made the pie. If you want to bring the ice cream… about an hour.

“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath.

Was she serious? Did she really want me to come over, or was this one of those flirty texts people sent without thinking? But she’d given me a time. An hour. That wasn’t small talk. That was an invitation.

And my brain couldn’t let it go.

If I went, what kind of ice cream should I even bring? Vanilla was the obvious choice—classic, perfect with cherry pie. But what if she hated vanilla? Chocolate. Everybody loved chocolate. That was safe too. Unless she was allergic to dairy. Or vegan. My stomach tightened. What if she was vegan?

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, running a hand over my face. It was easier dragging a hose into a burning house than figuring this out.

I shot off the couch and headed straight for the shower.

It was quick, barely more than a rinse, but enough to shake the nerves buzzing in my veins.

Fresh jeans, a clean shirt. I pulled on my boots and caught my reflection in the mirror by the door.

Stubble lined my jaw, rough and uneven. Maybe I should’ve shaved.

But with all the calls we’d run this week, I hadn’t had the time. Too late now.

By the time I slid behind the wheel of my truck, my pulse was hammering. The wipers kept time against the windshield as I drove through the drizzle, heading straight for the grocery store.

Inside, I grabbed a cart and made for the freezer aisle.

Vanilla was the first to land in the basket.

Safe. Chocolate followed right after. Safe again.

I slowed at the vegan section, scanning almond milk and oat-based cartons, imagining the look on her face if she opened the door and found me holding one.

Then I remembered her at the café, hands curled around a pumpkin spice latte. No way she was vegan. I put the carton back and grabbed salted caramel instead. Insurance.

On the way to the checkout, the wine aisle pulled at me.

My steps slowed. Would it be weird? Too much?

Ice cream was part of the deal. But wine…

wine said something else. Thoughtful. Intentional.

I scanned the bottles and picked up a red that seemed safe.

Not the cheapest, not the most expensive. Just solid.

Balancing the bag against my hip as I walked back to the truck, I shook my head. “Damn it,” I muttered. “Much easier to fight fires.”

Because this—choosing ice cream, worrying about whether to shave, second-guessing a bottle of wine—felt more dangerous than anything I’d done in years.

And still, I couldn’t wait to knock on her door.

I parked in front of the bookshop. The last of the rain clung to the windshield in glassy beads. Upstairs a warm rectangle of light glowed through the curtains. My heart kicked once. Before I got out, I hit call.

Lana picked up on the second ring with a burst of noise behind her. Someone shouted about a boss fight. A controller clicked like a woodpecker in a steel tree.

“Dad, we beat level five,” she announced without hello. “Uncle Andrew keeps forgetting to dodge and Aunt Sarah says we are not allowed to use words that are not church approved. Also we made popcorn and it is everywhere.”

I smiled, the tightness in my chest loosening. “Sounds like a perfect night. You good?”

“Yeah. I miss you though.” Her voice softened a little. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” I said. “Sleep tight, bug.”

We hung up and I sat for another breath. I got a grip, grabbed the bag with the wine and ice cream, and stepped out into the damp evening. The bell downstairs stayed still behind the dark glass. I took the side stair to the apartment above, wiped my palm on my jeans, and knocked.

The door opened and there she was. Barefoot. Soft sweater, dark jeans. Hair loose around her shoulders. The scent of sugar and cherries and something warm swept around me. Her eyes lifted to mine and everything in my body went very sure and very calm.

“Hi,” she said, voice a little breathless.

“Hi,” I answered, suddenly grateful for every choice that had put me in front of this door.

She stepped back to let me in. The apartment opened in one long sweep, a single space that felt both careful and lived in.

To the left, a small kitchen with open shelves and a farmhouse sink.

Straight ahead, a sitting area with a velvet loveseat the color of moss and a low table stacked with books.

On the right, an old oak wardrobe stood like a sentinel beside a sliding door that must have led to the bedroom.

Vintage lamps pooled honeyed light on the wood floor.

A ladder-back chair wore a folded quilt in autumn colors.

The bones were old, the angles a little crooked, but the lines she had chosen were clean.

Modern where it needed to be, reverent where it mattered.

She followed my gaze and smiled. “It was two small rooms when I moved in. I tore down the wall between the parlor and the old sewing room, kept the ceiling beams, sanded the floors myself, and called in my cousin for the electricity. I kept some of my grandmother’s furniture. I like the mix.”

“It suits you,” I said. It did. Practical. Warm. No fuss for show. The kind of place that invited you to stay.

There were candles lit in the corners, short squat ones in jars. My instincts pricked and then the smell of the pie swamped everything else. The oven breathed heat into the room. Something bubbled inside.

She held out her hand for the bag. “Can I take these?”

“I brought vanilla, chocolate and caramel,” I said. “And a bottle of red. If that is alright.”

“That is very alright.” She set the ice cream in the freezer and the wine on the counter. “The pie needs about ten more minutes.”

I glanced up out of habit and saw the smoke detector on the ceiling near the kitchen doorway. The light blinked a tired red, then paused, then blinked again. My hand went to my pocket without thinking. No ladder in sight. The ceiling was high enough to be a problem.

“That detector needs a new battery,” I said. “It is going to start chirping any minute.”

She tilted her head, following my gaze. “I know. I do not have a ladder and the chair is a no go. I promised myself not to die doing something stupid.”

“I have spares in the truck.” I was moving before I finished the sentence. “Two minutes.”

“You do not have to. I'll be fine.”

“Be right back.”

I jogged down to the truck, grabbed a pack of nine volts from the glove box, and was back up before the oven fan had even kicked on.

I dragged the ladder-back chair under the detector, planted my feet, and lifted the battery compartment.

The casing was old but clean. I swapped the battery, shut the cover, and pressed the test. The alarm chirped in a single burst that made both of us wince.

“Alive,” I said, stepping down. “No more blinking.”

Her relief came in a breathy laugh. “I should hire you for odd jobs. Coffee, safety checks, and taste testing.”

“Add book recommendations and it is a full package.”

We moved to the kitchen without touching, close enough that the heat from the oven warmed the space between us. She poured the wine, careful and steady. I watched her hands. She slid a glass toward me and lifted her own.

“To not setting your place on fire,” I said.

“To learning the difference between ambiance and arson,” she answered, clinking her glass to mine. The sound was bright and delicate. She took a sip and closed her eyes for a heartbeat. I felt that small movement like a tug under my ribs.

Silence slipped in. Not empty. Waiting. She tucked a curl behind her ear and looked anywhere but at me.

“Listen,”Her words tumbled over themselves, nervous and quick, and all I could do was stare at her mouth.

“I am not good at this. Whatever this is. Is it a date? That feels too formal. Not a date sounds like a lie. Maybe it is pie with a person I like looking at, which is ridiculous, because who says that out loud—”

I could not stop myself from smiling. God, she was cute like this.

All flustered, eyes darting, lip caught between her teeth as if she could hold the words back.

She had no idea what she did to me standing there in that soft sweater, with her hair loose around her shoulders and her cheeks warm from the oven.

I stepped closer. One small shift, but it brought me into her orbit, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin.

“Let’s find out what it is,” I said, and I kissed her.

The moment our lips touched, I knew I was lost. She melted against me, her body fitting mine as if she had been made to. I cupped her face, tilted her head, deepened the kiss until she opened for me. She tasted of wine and something sweeter, something that was just her.

Her fingers slid into my hair, tugging just enough to make my control fray. I groaned low in my throat, and she pressed closer, chest to chest, thigh brushing my leg. My hands dropped to her waist, pulling her against me until there was no space left.

And that was when my mind betrayed me.

Because kissing her was not enough. Not nearly.

I wanted to feel that sweater riding up under my palms, her skin bare and hot against my hands.

I wanted to press her against the counter, knock aside the wine glasses, hear her gasps as I kissed down her neck.

I wanted to slide my hands lower, grip her hips, lift her until she wrapped around me and I could bury myself so deep she would never think of anyone else again.