Page 12 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
And dear God.
The second our palms touch, my whole body flares to life like a struck match.
There’s heat in the center of my palm. A jolt, fast, subtle, and hot, flickers down my arm and straight to the place between my ribs that’s already been humming since I stared up into that tree.
His hand is warm, firm, and not too tight. But the hold lingers.
As if he presumably feels it, too.
My skin burned where he touched me.
“I’m Kate,” I manage, my voice a little too breathy, a little too full of things I can’t say. “Kate Montgomery."
He hums deep in his throat, and I turn back to Parker, not willing to take my eyes off him for more than a moment. I mean to thank him again. I mean to say something smooth or witty, or maternal.
Instead, I regard him again, “You didn’t even hesitate.”
His brow lifts slightly. “Didn’t have time to.”
Simple. Direct. Masculine in that rugged, effortless way that makes my stomach clench.
The breeze stirs the trees behind us. A bird calls out somewhere in the distance. My heart pounds like it’s trying to climb out of my chest. Noah stares down at my hand again, the one he’s still holding. His jaw tightens before he drops it and takes a half step back.
“Well… welcome to Porthaven,” he says and turns toward the house.
“Thank you,”
I watch the towel sway as he walks away, clinging precariously, defiant, and scandalous, and realize I am officially not okay.
My son almost fell out of a tree.
And I am now absolutely, totally, and inconveniently aware of every inch of the man who saved him.
I need a cold drink.
Or a shower.
Or a lobotomy.
Maybe all three.
Chapter four
Noah
One Week Later.
It’s not even eight, but the station’s already humming with voices and coffee machines grinding like they’ve got somewhere better to be.
I’m sitting on the bench in the back room, pretending to re-lace my boots for the third damn time. My fingers tug at the laces, but my brain’s miles away—right back on that gravel path that curves around my land. Right where she jogs.
Kate.
She runs at the same time every morning as she did this morning. Right before her boy wakes up. She has the same quiet rhythm, the same determined bounce in her stride, like she’s chasing something no one else can see.
She doesn’t know I watch her come back—hell, she doesn’t know. I used to run at the same time until I started waking up earlier, just to avoid her and not give any attention. But the joke’s on me, isn’t it?
Because somehow, I still end up watching.
