Page 14 of Embers in Autumn

Amber

Sunday morning came soft and still, the kind of quiet that clung to the walls of my little apartment. I sat at the kitchen table with my coffee, steam curling up in front of me, and yet somehow Dean’s ghost was still there.

What had I been thinking, inviting him over for pie? God. That line screamed I’m alone and horny. If he had been any less of a gentleman, I might have regretted it the second the words left my mouth.

But he had been a gentleman. More than that. And the memory of his mouth on mine, the way he had kissed me like he had been starving for it, still pulsed through me. My stomach fluttered at the thought, butterflies I thought had died with my last relationship suddenly alive again.

If the oven had not ticked its warning, startling us both back into reality, I was ready to give in. Right there in the kitchen. My back against the counter, his hands everywhere, the pie forgotten.

Smiling, I wrapped both hands around the mug, grounding myself in its warmth.

The kiss had been intense, but it was what came after that left me unsettled in the best way.

The way he talked. The things he shared.

He could have brushed me off, steered the night back into lightness.

But instead, he laid pieces of himself on the table, scars and all.

It made me think that maybe he wasn’t the kind of man who disappeared after a night of heat. And maybe not the kind who lingered just long enough to take and never give back.

I lifted the mug to my lips and closed my eyes. For the first time in a long time, the memory of a man did not leave me hollow. It left me hopeful.

My mug was still warm in my hands when my phone buzzed against the table. I jumped, nearly spilling coffee down my sweater. The screen lit up with his name.

Dean: Good morning.

Just two words, simple, but they sent a shiver down my spine. I set the mug aside, thumb hovering, before typing back.

Amber: Morning. Already saving the town from floods and fires?

It only took a second.

Dean: Day off. Thought I’d start it the right way. By texting the woman who makes the best pie I’ve ever had.

I rolled my eyes but grinned at the same time.

Amber: Pretty sure it was the ice cream that carried it. You picked a good one.

Dean: Wrong. It was you.

I stared at the words, heat rising in my cheeks. I typed slower this time.

Amber: Careful, firefighter. Flattery will get you everywhere.

Dean: Everywhere? I like the sound of that.

My stomach dropped, butterflies and nerves colliding.

Amber: I meant more pie.

Dean: I didn’t.

I set the phone down for a second, breathing in deep, then picked it up again.

Amber: You’re trouble.

Dean: You have no idea. Last night I left before I did half the things I wanted to do.

My pulse thudded.

Amber: Half? That’s a lot of restraint.

Dean: You have no idea. The way you looked, the way you tasted. Do you have any idea what it did to me not to take you against that counter?

I gasped, the kitchen suddenly too warm.

Amber: …Dean.

Dean: What? You think I didn’t notice the way you melted against me? The way you tugged my hair like you wanted me closer?

I dropped the phone to the table, pressing my palms to my cheeks. God. This was spiraling. But the buzz came again.

Dean: I keep thinking about your lips. How soft they were. How they’d feel around…

I slammed the phone face down, heart racing. My whole body felt flushed, tingling, restless. I pushed my chair back and stalked toward the bathroom, muttering under my breath.

Cold shower. I needed a very, very cold shower.

Steam curled off the bathroom mirror as I wrapped myself in a towel, my skin still prickling from the cold water. My head felt clearer, but when I picked up my phone again, the clarity vanished in an instant.

Three more messages waited.

Dean: Still thinking about that kiss. And how much better it’s going to be when I don’t have to stop.

My breath caught, but the last one softened the heat that burned through me.

Dean: Want to go for a walk with me today? Fresh air. Just us.

My lips curved before I could stop them. The man had a way of throwing me completely off balance. From toe-curling spice to simple sweetness in a matter of seconds.

Amber: A walk sounds good.

He didn’t leave me hanging long.

Dean: I’ll pick you up in twenty.

I dressed quickly, choosing something comfortable but presentable, a soft sweater and jeans, then padded downstairs just as his truck pulled up. The sight of him climbing out made my pulse skip. Casual clothes, hair still damp from a shower, smile warm as autumn sun.

“Ready?” he asked, opening the passenger door for me.

The ride was easy, filled with little silences that felt natural, not forced. By the time we parked by the town’s park entrance, the leaves above us blazed gold and red, drifting down in lazy spirals.

Vendors lined the path, the air rich with roasted nuts, cider, and sugar. My stomach growled at the scent of warm dough.

Dean caught it, grinning. “Pretzel?”

“Yes, please.”

We each took one, mine salted, his dusted with cinnamon sugar. The first bite nearly made me groan. Soft, warm, buttery—pure autumn in bread form.

“God, this is heaven,” I mumbled around a mouthful.

“Simple things are the best,” Dean said, tearing off a piece of his. “I used to come here as a kid with my sister. Every fall, same stand, same pretzels. She still insists the cinnamon ones are better.”

I laughed. “She’s right.”

His smile deepened, but then he tilted his head. “What about you? You said your grandma lived here, right?”

I nodded, brushing salt from my fingers. “Every summer. She’d bring me to this park. We’d sit on that old bench by the pond and feed the ducks. It felt like a whole world back then. Coming here now feels… smaller, but also the same, if that makes sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.” He slowed his steps, gaze drifting to the pond in the distance. “Places hold pieces of us. You walk the same path years later and it still remembers you.”

Something inside me softened at that. We strolled on, our shoulders brushing occasionally, the kind of closeness that felt both natural and dangerous. I let myself smile, let myself enjoy it—the simple act of walking beside a man who made me feel both seen and safe.

We wandered past the pond where the water wore a thin shimmer of light.

A pair of ducks stitched small wakes across the surface, and a child’s laugh rang out from the playground like a bell.

My pretzel was half gone, Dean’s cinnamon sugar one dusted his fingers, and I was thinking about how easy the morning felt when his hand found mine.

It happened without fanfare. One second my fingers swung at my side.

The next, his palm slid into my palm, warm and sure, his fingers threading through like the most natural choice in the world.

My heart misfired. I felt sixteen, ridiculous and breathless over something as simple as skin to skin.

I looked up, startled, and he gave me a small smile that said he knew exactly what he had done to me.

“Cold?” he asked, like he was doing me a favor by warming my hand.

“Maybe a little,” I said, though my cheeks were already hot. “This helps.”

We walked like that, hands linked, our steps finding a shared rhythm. Leaves drifted down around us, catching on his shoulders and in my hair. A dog trotted by with a stick bigger than its head. Somewhere behind us a busker plucked the first notes of a song that sounded like October should.

Dean squeezed my hand. “Tell me something embarrassing about yourself.”

I snorted. “I once wore two different shoes to work and did not notice until lunch. Does that count?”

“That depends,” he said. “Were they both black?”

“One was black, one was brown. Different heel heights. I limped through three meetings and a client presentation.”

He laughed, warm and low. “Bold choice. Iconic, even.”

“Your turn,” I said, emboldened.

“I once got stuck in a Christmas tree while rescuing a cat.”

I blinked. “You are making that up.”

“Wish I were. Firehouse charity tree. Thirty feet, strung with lights. Cat darted in during set up. I climbed. The tree won.”

I tried to picture him half buried in pine, broad shoulders tangled in lights, and failed not to giggle. “Did you save the cat?”

He lifted our joined hands in a small victory salute. “Of course. I have a reputation to maintain.”

We turned down a path lined with maples. Sunlight filtered through their crowns, laying copper and gold at our feet. My hand had stopped sweating and started fitting, the way a hand learns another hand. It felt like a promise I did not fully understand yet.

I stole a glance at his profile. “Is it hard,” I asked, “your job. Not the carrying hoses part. The other part.”

“The other part,” he said softly, as if he knew exactly what I meant.

He paused, thinking. “It is hard in ways that do not make good stories. The calls you cannot fix. The faces you take home even when you tell yourself you will not. The sleep you lose for no reason you can explain. But it is also simple. I go where I am needed. I help the best I can. Then I try again tomorrow.”

“Do you ever wish you had picked something easier?”

He considered, then shook his head. “I like being useful. It keeps me honest.” He glanced at me. “What about you. Do you ever wish you had chosen something that made more money and less trouble than a bookstore?”

“On paper, yes,” I said. “In my body, no. This is the only thing that makes me feel like I am exactly where I am supposed to be.”

“Then you chose right,” he said, and for a moment I had to look away because the certainty in his voice felt like sunlight directly on skin.

We looped around the pond and found the old bench under a maple that had gone completely to flame.

We sat, our shoulders touching, watching a line of geese claim the water with noisy authority.

I could have let the morning float by like that, warm and easy, but something inside me tugged, asking to be said.

“I am a little reserved about moving forward,” I blurted, then winced. Subtlety had never been my strength.

He turned, careful, his thumb still resting against my knuckles. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” I shook my head quickly. “It is not you. It is just… you have a daughter.” The words caught, then rushed out.

“That does not bother me. It does not. I think it is one of the things I like most about you. I just want to be sure that whatever this is between us will not make Lana feel sad. Or ignored. Or confused. Or…” I stopped myself, breath messy, thoughts battering against my ribs.

He set his pretzel down and angled toward me. The pad of his free hand lifted, gentle as breath, and he touched my cheek. Warm palm, steady fingers, the soft drag of skin that felt like a vow.

“Hey,” he said. “Lana seemed to like you in the bookshop.”

I huffed a laugh. “Lana liked the nice bookseller who matched a scented candle to the book she picked. It is a whole other story to like the woman your father is dating.”

He considered that, then nodded as if accepting terms in a fair bargain. “Then come for dinner.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Dinner,” he said, calm as anything. “I am free on Wednesday afternoon. I will cook for the three of us. You and Lana can talk. We can all sit at the same table and figure out what this is. Or at least where to start.”

My mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “You are very sure of yourself.”

“I am sure of wanting to do this right.” He waited. No pressure, no hurry. Just the offer, set gently between us like a plate we could both reach for.

I felt the smile build from somewhere low and real. “It is only fair you cook,” I said, finding my footing. “Given that yesterday I did.”

“Deal,” he said, eyes crinkling. “Any requests that are not cherry pie for dinner?”

“Surprise me,” I said. It was a dangerous sentence and I let it stand.

We sat there a moment longer, hands still joined, the day stretching around us in a bright hush. A breeze lifted, carrying the smell of leaves and sugar and the faintest trace of his skin. My chest felt improbable and light, like something that had been tightly wound was loosening at last.

He shifted closer, his shoulder pressing more firmly to mine. “Amber.”

I looked up. The maple above us dropped a single leaf that spun and drifted until it caught in my hair.

He reached, tucked it free, then did not move his hand away.

His fingertips brushed the line of my jaw, the curve of my neck, the place where pulse met skin.

The world narrowed until it was just that touch and my breath chasing itself.

“May I,” he asked, voice quiet, “kiss you.”

The question landed like a gift. “Yes,” I said, and I heard the yes in my bones.

He leaned in. The bench, the pond, the vendors, the entire town slid to the edges.

His mouth met mine with a patience that held heat inside it, a slow press that deepened on a shared exhale.

I rose into him, my free hand finding his shoulder, the knit of his shirt warm under my fingertips.

He kissed me like the first time had been a map and now he had the route, like he knew where to pause and where to stay.

I felt the curve of his smile against my bottom lip and answered with one of my own.

The kiss opened, sweet turning sure, the kind that pulls the air right out of your lungs and hands it back richer. Leaves ferried down around us, catching in our hair and on our coats. Somewhere a dog barked, then quieted. The bench creaked once and then stilled as if it, too, was listening.

When we finally parted, he rested his forehead to mine. Our hands had never let go.

“Wednesday,” he said, breath warm against my mouth.

“Wednesday,” I echoed, and the word felt like a promise delivered under a canopy of red and gold.

He kissed me again, and this time it was epic in the way small things can be epic, because it was ours. The park went on breathing. The day went on brightening. And under the maple, with pretzel salt still on my tongue and his hand still wrapped around mine, I let myself fall a little more.