Page 3 of The Spark Between Us

I turn to see Chief Brock jogging toward me, keys in hand. My escape route blocked.

"You eaten yet?" he asks, clapping me on the shoulder. "I'm heading home, and Ellie's making her famous lasagna. Said to invite you if I saw you."

Every alarm bell in my head starts ringing at once. This is exactly the kind of situation I need to avoid. Dinner at their house? Tonight? With no time to mentally prepare? I should say no. I need to say no.

"Lasagna, huh?" The words come out of my mouth without permission.

"Best you'll ever have," Brock grins. "She uses her mother's recipe. Remember how Sarah could cook? Ellie's got that same touch."

An image flashes in my mind—Ellie in the kitchen, flour on her cheek, that smile that makes her eyes crinkle just like her dad's. Her curvy hips as she leans against the counter.

I should make an excuse. I should go home to my empty apartment and my strict routine that keeps me safe. I should protect my friendship with Brock. I should protect Ellie from my inappropriate thoughts.

"Sure," I hear myself say. "Sounds great."

The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I'm in trouble. But I can't take them back. I don't want to take them back.

Brock's face lights up. "Perfect! Follow me over. Ellie will be thrilled you're joining us."

I nod, not trusting my voice. As I walk to my truck, self-loathing washes over me. What kind of man can't resist having dinner with his best friend's daughter? What kind of friend am I?

But beneath the self-recrimination is a current of anticipation so strong it's almost dizzying. I'm going to see Ellie. After months of only memories and dreams, I'm going to see her smile and hear her laugh. She's a sin wrapped in a curvy package, and apparently, I'm too weak to resist even this innocent invitation.

I follow Brock's truck through the streets of Cedar Falls, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. Every turn is a chance to change my mind, to call him and make an excuse. Each intersection offers an opportunity to turn away, to do the right thing.

But I keep following, because when it comes to Ellie, I've never been strong enough to do the right thing. Not in my heart. Not where it counts.

Chapter 2 - Ellie

I'm elbow-deep in cheese and béchamel sauce when I hear Dad's truck pull into the driveway. I’m nervous. Did he do it? Did he actually invite Grant like I asked? I'd tried to be casual about it this afternoon.

"You should invite Grant for dinner. I mean, if you want. No big deal. Just being neighborly."

Totally smooth. Not obvious at all that I've been planning this "casual" dinner since the moment I decided to come home to Cedar Falls.

I wipe my hands on the dish towel tucked into my waistband and frantically check my reflection in the microwave door. Oh God. I look like I was dragged backward through a hedge. My hair is escaping its messy ponytail in approximately seventeen different directions, there's a smudge of tomato sauce on my cheek, and my old Cedar Falls Wildcats t-shirt has definitely seen better days.

This is NOT how I envisioned looking when I saw Grant Walker for the first time in four months. In my fantasy, I was wearing that cute sundress I bought specifically for my homecoming, with my hair cascading in perfect waves down my back, looking mature and sophisticated and definitely not like Chief Brock's frazzled daughter.

The front door opens, and I hear two sets of footsteps. My pulse skyrockets. Dad's voice, and then another—deeper, more reserved. A voice that stars in approximately 98% of my daydreams.

Grant is here. In my house. And I look like a tornado survivor.

"Ellie?" Dad calls out. "Look who’s here."

"Coming!" I yelp, frantically wiping at the sauce on my face and only succeeding in smearing it further across my cheek. Perfect. Just perfect.

No time to change. No time to fix my hair. This is what I get for trying to be clever and "accidentally" have Grant show up for dinner. I take a deep breath, plaster on what I hope is a casual smile, and turn toward the kitchen doorway just as they walk in.

And there he is.

Grant Walker, six-foot-two of pure firefighter fantasy. His dark hair is shorter than at Christmas, his jaw more defined, and those stormy gray eyes meet mine for a millisecond before darting away. He's wearing a simple black t-shirt that hugs his arms in a way that should be illegal in at least forty-nine states.

"Grant!" I exclaim, my voice coming out an octave higher than normal. "What a surprise!"

Dad gives me a knowing look. "I invited him like you said."

I could murder him. Right here. In front of a witness and everything.

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