Page 4 of The Spark Between Us

"Did I?" I ask. "I don't recall specifically saying Grant..."

Grant shifts his weight, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "I can go if this isn't a good time—"

"NO!" I practically shout, then immediately want to crawl into the oven with my lasagna. "I mean, no, stay. Please. There's plenty of food. I always make too much. Ask Dad. It's kind of a problem actually. I should probably see someone about it. A food therapist. Is that a thing?" I'm babbling. Why am I babbling?

Dad chuckles.

"I'll grab beers," he says, heading to the fridge and leaving me alone with the human equivalent of a Greek statue.

"How have you been?" I ask, trying to sound like a normal human woman and not a lovesick college graduate who just moved back home. "Dad mentioned you hurt your shoulder in that warehouse fire?"

Grant's eyebrows lift slightly, surprised I know this detail. As if I haven't been pumping Dad for information about him for years.

"It was nothing," he says with that stoic, manly dismissal that makes me want to simultaneously roll my eyes and swoon.

"A two-by-four to the shoulder isn't nothing," Dad corrects, returning and handing Grant a beer. "But he's too stubborn to admit when he's hurting. Always has been."

I watch as something passes between them—that unspoken bond forged in places I've only heard about in Dad's rare, serious moments. For a second, I feel like an outsider, reminded of all the history they share that I'm not part of.

"Dinner will be ready in about forty-five minutes," I say, putting the lasagna into the oven and trying not to bend over too far in these old jeans. "Just need to finish the salad and garlic bread."

"I'll help," Grant offers, taking a step toward me.

My brain short-circuits at the thought of working side by side with him in the kitchen, our arms potentially touching, maybe reaching for the same knife in a cute meet-cute moment except we've already met but still—

"Absolutely not," Dad interrupts my internal spiral. "You two sit. I'll make the salad. My baby girl just graduated college—she deserves a break."

"Dad," I groan, feeling my face heat up. Nothing says "see me as a desirable adult woman" like your father calling you "baby girl" in front of your crush. "I've been home doing nothing for two days. I'm perfectly capable of making salad."

"Humor me," Dad insists with a wink that is NOT subtle. "You and Grant catch up. He tells me you texted him about helping with the summer safety demonstrations?"

My eyes flick to Grant, who suddenly seems very interested in the label on his beer bottle. I'd sent that text immediately after Dad mentioned Grant's new assignment. When he didn't respond, I spent an embarrassing amount of time analyzing what I'd said wrong.

"Just offering an extra pair of hands," I say, aiming for casual and missing by about a mile. "I need something to keep me busy while I figure out my next steps."

Grant finally meets my gaze. "Could definitely use the help," he says, and my internal organs perform a choreographed dance routine.

"Great!" Dad claps his hands together. "It's settled then. You two can work out the details while I handle this." He starts pulling vegetables from the refrigerator.

I roll my eyes at Dad's transparent matchmaking. He's been doing this for years—finding excuses for me to spend time with his crew, especially Grant. I used to think it was just him wanting to keep me close to his firefighter family, but lately I've wondered if he's picked up on my feelings. The thought is mortifying. Am I that obvious?

(Yes. Yes, I am. My college roommate Tasha had a strict "Grant Talk" time limit after I spent an entire weekend analyzing a two-word text from him that just said "Stay safe" during a campus blizzard.)

"Let's go sit," I suggest to Grant, gesturing toward the living room.

He follows me, and it’s hard not to notice his strong presence behind me—his footsteps, the subtle scent of his soap that I catch as he moves past me to take a seat on the couch. I settle into the armchair across from him, tucking my legs beneath me and trying to look casual, sophisticated, and not at all like I'm mentally calculating the exact distance between us (seven feet, four inches, too far).

"So," I start, forcing brightness into my tone. "How have you been, really?"

Grant takes a sip of his beer before answering. "Good. Busy. The usual."

"Four years of psychology training tells me that's a deflection," I tease, channeling my inner confident woman who definitely exists somewhere inside me, probably hiding behind my insecurities and collection of romance novels.

The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile, but not quite. "Four years of psychology training is dangerous in the wrong hands."

"Are my hands wrong?" The question comes out suggestive enough that I want to dive behind the couch and never emerge. Grant's eyes widen slightly, and I rush to change the subject. "I mean—tell me about these safety demonstrations. What would I be helping with exactly?"

He seems relieved by the pivot. "Basic fire safety for elementary schools. Stop, drop, and roll. How to call 911. Not playing with matches. That sort of thing."

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