Page 9 of The Spark Between Us

I nod, though I can't really relate. At 22, I was already in the military, my path clearly defined.

"She's always looked up to you, you know," Brock continues. "Even as a teenager. Always asking about you when I came back and you were still deployed, making sure I sent you those care packages she put together."

This is news to me. "She put those together?"

"Most of them," he confirms with a smile. "Said you needed reminders of home."

I remember those packages—cookies, books, silly drawings and notes that made even the worst days bearable. I'd always assumed they were from Brock, maybe with some input from Ellie. The realization that she was behind them all along does something complicated to my insides.

"I didn't know that," I admit.

"She's got a big heart, my girl," Brock says, a father's pride evident in his voice. "Just like her mother."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Sarah was one of the kindest people I'd ever known, welcoming me into their home like family when I first met Brock in the military. She died when Ellie was sixteen—cancer. It devastated both Brock and Ellie. I'd been deployed at the time but had come back for the funeral. I remember Ellie then—tall and gangly, her face tear-streaked but determined to be strong for her father.

"Well," I say, clearing my throat, "I should get going. Thanks again."

Brock nods and claps me on the shoulder. "See you tomorrow at the station."

I walk to my truck, feeling his eyes on my back. As I slide into the driver's seat, I glance back at the house. Through the window, I can see Ellie in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher. She straightens and looks out, directly at my truck, though I doubt she can see me in the darkness.

I start the engine and pull away before I can do something stupid, like go back inside.

The drive to my apartment is short but gives me just enough time to berate myself thoroughly. I'm attracted to my best friend's daughter. I'm twenty years older than her. I've known her since she was a teenager. There are so many reasons why this is wrong, why I need to get these feelings under control.

And yet, the memory of her smile, the feel of her skin beneath my thumb, the way she looked at me across the dinner table—these things follow me into my apartment, lingering like ghosts I can't exorcise.

I grab a beer from the fridge and drop onto my couch, rubbing a hand over my face. Monday. I'll see her on Monday. The thought both thrills and terrifies me.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text message. From her.

*Thanks for coming tonight. It was really great to see you. Looking forward to Monday! -Ellie*

I stare at the message, reading it over and over. It's perfectly innocent. Friendly. Appropriate. So why does it make my heart race like I'm back in that burning warehouse?

I type half a dozen responses, deleting each one before settling on something safe.

*Thanks for dinner. See you Monday.*

I hit send, then immediately regret how curt it sounds. I quickly type another message.

*The lasagna really was incredible.*

Better, but still not quite right. Before I can overthink it further, I add one more text.

*It's good to have you back in Cedar Falls.*

As soon as I send it, I wish I could take it back. It's too personal, too revealing. But it's also true. Despite all the complications, despite knowing this attraction is inappropriate and impossible to act on, I am glad she's back.

And that's the problem.

I set my phone down and take a long pull from my beer. Monday suddenly feels both too near and too far away. Four years of maintaining distance, of seeing her only during holidays and brief visits, and now she's back for good. Working with me. In the same town. Possibly on the same safety project for weeks.

I'm so screwed.

I finish my beer and head to the bathroom, stripping off my clothes for a shower. As the water runs hot over my shoulders, I try to clear my mind, to focus on anything except Ellie. It doesn'twork. Her face, her laugh, her voice—they're all there, imprinted on my brain like a brand.

I rest my forehead against the cool tile and let the water cascade down my back. This has to stop. I need to get these feelings under control before I do something I can't take back, something that would hurt Brock and ruin everything.

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