Page 13 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
I see her before she makes it to the porch—sweat slicking her forehead, the material of her workout clothes clinging like it’s got something to say, her breath all heavy and controlled, lips parted enough that my gut tightens as though I’ve done something wrong.
And imaginably, I have.
I don’t know her. Not really. But I know she paints and sings while at it. Hums mostly. Little pieces of songs like they’re caught in her throat and can’t find their way out. Yesterday, it was something soft and sweet, with no lyrics….only a melody that curled into the air and got stuck under my skin.
I haven’t been able to shake the tune out of my head or the way I’m becoming fond of that sound. I realize I’m humming it now.
Under my breath...
Shit.
“Is that a smile, Bennett?”
The fire station’s switchboard operator, Margaret’s voice, comes from behind me, full of teasing warmth and way too much knowledge. I don’t move, but my jaw goes tight, and I drop the bootlace like it bit me.
I don’t turn. Perhaps if I stay still enough, she’ll forget I exist.
“You are smiling.” Her shoes squeak against the tile as she rounds the bench and stops in front of me. One hand on her hip, the other gripping a cup that probably hasn’t been washed since last Tuesday. “Didn’t think that muscle still worked.”
“Must be gas,” I mutter, reaching for my boot again. “Go bother someone else, Margaret.”
“Don’t play with me, sweetheart. You’re humming, and your face isn’t doing that usual broody thing. You’ve been caught.”
I look up. Narrow my eyes.
Margaret Henley doesn’t flinch. She never does. She’s wearing that knitted lavender sweater that smells similar to cinnamonand peppermint tea, and she’s giving me the eyes she saves for when I try to lie.
“Is this about that pretty thing staying in the cottage?”
My fingers are still. Blaze lifts his head from where he’s curled near the lockers and lets out a grumble like great,here we go.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You never do,” she says, smiling like she’s already ten steps ahead. “But you’re humming. And smiling. And the only thing that’s changed around here is a woman with eyes like summer sunsets and a little boy who waves at me as though I’m Santa Claus.”
I run a hand down my face. “Margaret—”
“She’s got a story,” Margaret says, gentler now. “You can see it in the way she holds that boy. Like he’s all she’s got, and she’d burn down the world for him.”
My chest tightens.
Yeah. I’ve seen it too.
The way her arms wrap around him after the tree incident. The way she breathed in his hair, like she needed the scent of him to breathe at all. I’d barely touched the ground the day he went up into the tree before she had Parker scooped against her chest like a mother lion claiming her cub.
Fierce. Wild. Beautiful.
Josie wanted that. For our kid. That kind of love. And that’s why I keep my distance and avoid her. She’s the first to make me feel what I felt for Josie and more.
While I avoided her, I haven’t stopped staring stupidly at her. Haven’t stopped wanting to.
Margaret watches me too closely. “You’re allowed to live, Noah. I want to see you happy, and it seems like the pretty little thing does that.”
My stomach knots. I turn my head away.
She sighs like she’s known me too long. “Anyway. I didn’t come in here to meddle—well, I did—but there’s a storm brewing.”
That gets my attention.
