Page 13 of The Spark Between Us

Grant's mouth quirks up. "Your dad believes in tradition. Says if something works, there's no need to change it."

"Except the coffee machine," I note, pointing to the sleek new espresso maker that looks like it could launch rockets. "That's definitely new."

"Max's contribution," Grant explains. "Said life's too short for bad coffee. He threatened to go on strike."

"A man with priorities," I nod approvingly.

We drop off the files in the admin office, then Grant leads me toward the main bay where the fire trucks are housed. Even though I've been here countless times growing up, I feel a renewed appreciation for the space – the gleaming red trucks, the neatly arranged equipment, everything in perfect order.

"This is the new engine," Grant explains, stopping beside a massive fire truck. "Arrived last month. Latest technology, faster response time."

I nod, pretending to be interested in the truck when really I'm just really noticing Grant standing close enough that our arms almost touch. He smells amazing – something sweet but subtle that makes me want to bury my face in his neck.

"Want to see inside?" he offers.

Chapter 5 - Grant

"Want to see inside?" I offer, immediately regretting the words. Confined space. Close proximity. Bad idea.

But her face lights up with genuine enthusiasm. "Really? Is that allowed?"

"I think I can clear it with the boss," I say dryly, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism while fighting the urge to smile at her excitement.

I open the passenger door of Engine 12 and gesture for her to climb up. "Watch your step."

She grabs the handrail and pulls herself up with surprising agility. I follow, noticing how small the cab feels with both of us inside. Her scent—that citrus and vanilla combination that's been haunting me—fills the confined space.

"This is amazing," she says, running her fingers lightly over the dashboard controls. "So many buttons and screens. It's like a spaceship."

"Pretty much," I agree, grateful for the safe topic. "The technology's come a long way. These screens show building layouts, hydrant locations, and quickest routes. Makes a huge difference in response time."

She turns in the seat to face me, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Do you still get... you know, triggered? When the alarm goes off?"

The question catches me off guard with its directness. Most people skirt around my military past, afraid to ask about the PTSD that Brock undoubtedly mentioned to her at some point. But Ellie goes straight for what matters.

I consider deflecting but find myself answering honestly instead. "Sometimes. The initial alarm can... take me back for a split second. But once we're moving, responding, I'm fine."

She nods, studying my face with an understanding that's both comforting and unsettling. No pity, just genuine interest.

"Dad says it's different for him. That the adrenaline just kicks in and his military training takes over. But he doesn't have the same... reactions you do."

"Your dad was always better at compartmentalizing," I admit. "Even in Afghanistan. Mortar round would hit nearby, and while the rest of us were diving for cover, Brock would be calmly assessing the situation, figuring out where it came from, who was hit."

"That sounds like him," she says with a small smile. "He never really talks about it much. Afghanistan. But he talks about you. How you saved his life."

I shift uncomfortably. "He exaggerates. We saved each other more than once."

"He doesn't exaggerate," Ellie counters, leaning slightly closer. "Dad doesn't offer empty praise. If he says you saved his life, you saved his life."

Our eyes lock, and for a moment, I forget where we are—that this is Brock's daughter, that I'm twenty years older than her, that this attraction is inappropriate in every possible way. All I can see is Ellie, looking at me like I'm someone worth admiring.

The radio on the dashboard suddenly crackles with static, and I flinch before I can stop myself—an instinctive reaction to unexpected loud noises. It's brief, barely noticeable to most people, but Ellie sees it. Of course she does.

I clear my throat and shift back slightly. "We should continue the tour."

Something like understanding flashes across her face, but she doesn't comment on my reaction. She just nods and moves toward the door. I exit first, then offer my hand to help her down. She places her smaller hand in mine, and the simple contact sends an electric current up my arm. I release her as soon as her feet touch the ground, shoving my hand in my pocket like it's been burned.

"The command center next?" she suggests, seemingly unfazed while I'm having an internal crisis over a two-second hand touch.

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