Page 11 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
The towel slung around his hips barely hangs there, loose and wet, and beneath it, there is nothing. Nothing at all. From where I stand, the angle leaves nothing to the imagination. The towel gaps at one side, pulled taut across his hip and clinging to the shape of him.
His firm buttocks flex under the shifting weight of my son, muscles tightening and easing like a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
The deep V of his hips vanishes beneath the terrycloth that looks seconds away from giving up the fight. There’s no waistband, no barrier, just damp skin and the soft brush of shadow hinting at the man beneath it.
My lips part, but air refuses to come.
There’s only one word to describe him…glorious…magnificent.
A bead of water traces a slow, unhurried path from his chest, gliding down the hard ridges of his stomach, following the groove of his abs until it disappears into that fraying towel. The sight sets off a spark deep in my belly, sharp and sweet, leaving me unsteady on my feet.
He shifts again, adjusting Parker’s weight against him, and the movement pulls my attention back to my son.
The sharp lines of his back and the curve of his hips belong to a man built for strength, but his hands cradle my son like Parker’s the most fragile thing in the world.
I hear the soft scrape of his feet against the frame of the treehouse as he moves. When he finally climbs down, Parker is still tucked safe against his torso as he lands quietly, knees bending to absorb both of their weight like it’s nothing.
I focus my eyes on Parker and on how grateful I am this man was nearby.
His arms tighten briefly around my son, keeping him close for one more breath, then another.
Then, gently, he lowers Parker to the grass.
My knees nearly give out from relief.
“Mommy…” Parker sniffles, reaching for me.
I fall to my knees and scoop him into my chest, hugging him so tightly his little arms can barely wrap around me. I press kisses into his hair, whispering over and over, you’re okay, you’re safe, I’ve got you now; but part of me knows I didn’t get him.
He did.
And he’s still standing there.
Bare chest rising and falling in the heat. His hand is braced on his hip, hair mussed from the wind and the climb, and that wet towel hangs scandalously low.
And his eyes, those impossibly deep, serious eyes, are locked on me.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like he’s trying to decide if I’m going to yell or faint.
I clear my throat, heart thundering somewhere behind my ribs, and stand slowly with Parker cradled against me. My legs feel like they’re made of water.
“Thank you,” I say, breathless.
It’s not enough. The words don't scratch the surface of what I feel: panic, gratitude, and the realization that the situation may have been worse if he hadn’t shown up when he did. But it’s all I have.
He nods once, like it was nothing. Like saving small children in a towel with nothing underneath is just… his Tuesday.
And then, he steps forward and offers his hand. “I’m Noah,” he says, voice gravel-thick. “Noah Bennett.”
I stare for a half a second too long.
Calloused. Tanned. Strong. Damp. Enormous.
Everything about it is male, real, and dangerous in a way that makes my breath catch. I shift Parker against my hip, tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and take it.
