Page 11 of The Spark Between Us

"I hate you," I declare, but I'm smiling as I head toward the hallway. "I'm telling Jennie you're being mean to me."

"She already knows I'm a lost cause!" he calls after me.

With each step toward Grant's office, my pulse accelerates. This is absurd. I'm a grown woman with a literal degree in human behavior. I should be able to control my body's reaction to a man who is probably just being nice to his best friend's daughter.

His door is open, and I can see him at his desk, frowning at his computer screen with the intensity of someone solving world hunger rather than what's probably just an email about fire extinguisher inventory. He's wearing his navy uniform shirt, and his dark hair is slightly damp, as if he showered right before coming in. The sight of him makes my mouth go dry, and my brain cells pack up and leave for vacation.

I knock lightly on the doorframe. "Morning."

Grant looks up, and for a split second, his face transforms – surprise, pleasure, and something else flashing across his features before he schools his expression back to professional neutrality. But I saw it. I definitely saw it.

"Ellie," he says, standing up so quickly he bumps the desk. "You're early."

"Is that a problem? I can go sit in my car and pretend I just arrived if that works better for your schedule," I joke, immediately wanting to kick myself. Why am I like this?

"No, no," he says quickly. "Early is good. Great, actually. Come in."

I step into his office, immediately noticing how meticulously organized everything is – files in perfect stacks, pens aligned by size, everything in its place. The man even color-codes his sticky notes. It's both impressive and slightly concerning.

"I brought coffee," I say, lifting my travel mug. "But I see you already have some."

"Never too much coffee," he replies with a small smile that does illegal things to my internal organs. "Have a seat."

I settle into the chair across from his desk, crossing then uncrossing my legs. Grant sits back down, and I notice him take a deep breath, as if preparing to disarm a bomb rather than discuss fire safety with a recent psychology graduate.

"So," I say brightly, opening my notebook to a fresh page like the organized professional I am definitely pretending to be. "Fire safety demonstrations. Where do we start?"

Grant visibly relaxes at the business-like approach. "Right. I've pulled the materials from last year." He turns his computer screen so I can see it. "We visit four elementary schools, plus the summer camp at Cedar Lake. Basic fire safety for kids ages 5-12."

"Sounds straightforward enough," I say, scribbling notes. "What's my role going to be? Professional hand-puppet operator? Smoke alarm impersonator?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I thought you could help with the presentations, maybe work with the younger kids especially. Your psychology background would be useful for making the information age-appropriate without scaring them."

I'm pleasantly surprised he's given this serious thought. "I could definitely do that. Maybe develop some interactive elements? Kids learn better when they're engaged and not being lectured about the dangers of matches by terrifying authority figures."

"Good idea," Grant says, looking genuinely impressed. "We have some basic props, but nothing very interactive."

For the next twenty-five minutes, we discuss ideas and logistics, and it's like the awkwardness melts away. I catch glimpses of the confident, thoughtful leader Dad's always described – the real Grant beneath all that stoicism and perfect posture.

"What about a simple song for the younger ones?" I suggest. "Something catchy about stop, drop, and roll that they'll remember when their sleeves catch fire at grandma's birthday candle-blowing ceremony?"

"Can you sing?" Grant asks, looking curious.

"Badly," I admit with a laugh. "But enthusiastically. Which is all you need for kindergarteners. They're not exactly Broadway critics."

His smile widens, and my heart does that stupid flippy thing again. "I'd like to see that."

"Be careful what you wish for," I warn. "Once I start singing, it's hard to get me to stop. Ask my shower head – it's heard my entire Taylor Swift repertoire."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to crawl under his desk and die. Did I really just make a reference to me in the shower? To Grant Walker? Judging by the pink tinge suddenly visible on his cheeks, he's thinking the same thing.

"I mean," I stammer, "I sing in the shower. Like normal people. Not that you needed to know that. Or picture that. Oh God." I cover my face with my hands. "Can we pretend I didn't just say any of that, and you never have to picture me wet and naked? I MEAN—not wet and naked—just—SHOWERING—normal showering—"

I'm digging myself deeper with every word. But then I hear something rare and wonderful – Grant's full laugh. Not his usual restrained chuckle, but an actual laugh that makes me peek through my fingers.

"Consider it forgotten," he says, eyes crinkling at the corners.

I clear my throat. "So, um, when's the first demonstration? You said 11thJuly, right?"

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