Page 6 of The Spark Between Us

He nods and rises from the couch, and I allow myself one brief, indulgent moment to appreciate the view as he walks away. When he's out of sight, I exhale dramatically and flop back in the chair, pressing my hands against my cheeks, which feel as warm as the sun.

Four years of college, dating guys my own age, trying to get over this impossible crush, and yet here I am—still turning into a human disaster around Grant Walker. I should have a PhD in unrequited love by now.

I hear laughter from the kitchen—Dad's loud guffaw and Grant's lower chuckle—and my heart does that stupid flippy thing again. This was my idea—coming home, orchestrating this dinner—but now I'm second-guessing everything. What am I doing? Grant is twenty years older than me. He's my dad's best friend. He probably still pictures me as the gangly teenager who used to hang around the station after school.

With a sigh, I push myself up from the chair. Time to put on my game face and get through dinner without making a complete fool of myself. Again.

"Just in time," Dad says, nodding toward the oven timer that's started to beep. "Your masterpiece awaits."

I grab the oven mitts, suddenly very conscious of Grant's eyes on me as I bend to remove the bubbling lasagna. When I straighten and turn around, he's looking away, focused intently on helping Dad finish the salad.

But I didn't imagine it. And if I didn't imagine it...

I set the lasagna on the trivet with new determination. Maybe coming home wasn't such a bad idea after all. Maybe this impossible crush isn't so impossible.

Or maybe I'm about to make the biggest fool of myself in Cedar Falls history.

Either way, dinner is going to be interesting, to say the least.

Chapter 3 - Grant

I'm losing my mind.

This is the only logical explanation for what's happening right now—me, sitting at Chief Brock's dinner table, trying desperately not to stare at his daughter while she serves lasagna and smiles and flips her hair out of her eyes in that way that makes my heart race.

The universe is testing me. It must be.

"Grant? More lasagna?"

Ellie's holding the spatula over my plate, looking at me expectantly. There's a small smudge of tomato sauce on her cheek that she missed earlier, and it's taking every ounce of my self-control not to reach across the table and wipe it away with my thumb.

"Sure," I manage to say, like a normal person who isn't having an internal crisis. "It's great."

"Mom's recipe," she says with that smile—the one that lights up her whole face. "I've been perfecting it for years."

"It shows," I say, which sounds stupid even to my own ears, but she beams like I've said something profound.

Brock watches our exchange with an expression I can't quite read. There's something knowing in his eyes that makes me instantly wary. I've been careful, so careful, for two years. There's no way he's picked up on my feelings for Ellie. Is there?

"So," Brock says, refilling my beer without asking, "Ellie was just telling me about this counseling center job. Sounds perfect for her, don't you think, Grant?"

"Absolutely," I agree, keeping my tone even, professional. "Psychology was always a good fit for your skills."

"Because I'm nosy?" Ellie asks with a laugh.

"Because you listen," I correct before I can stop myself. "Really listen. Most people don't."

Something softens in her expression, and for a moment, we're just looking at each other across the table, the conversation suspended. I break eye contact first, focusing on my food.

Dangerous territory, Walker. Back it up.

"I've been thinking about the safety demonstrations," I say, deliberately changing the subject. "If you're serious about helping, we could meet next week to start planning. The first one is scheduled for July 10th at Cedar Elementary."

"Perfect," she says, and there's that smile again. "I'm free whenever. One of the perks of unemployment."

"You're not unemployed, you're in transition," Brock corrects her, sounding every bit the proud father. "And you've got an interview at the counseling center next Wednesday, right?"

"Dad," she groans, "don't jinx it."

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