Page 14 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
I sit up straighter. “What kind of storm?”
“Big one. The Front’s moving in fast. Power lines could be an issue. Sheriff’s already telling folks not to be caught out in it. You might wanna check on your little cottage family before it hits; they are newcomers and won’t be used to storms around here.”
My jaw twitches.
“I’ll make sure they’re good.”
She gives me one last pointed look before heading out, muttering something about knitting needles and romantic tension. “I want you to find a woman, but maybe you already did.”
Blaze huffs again and stretches.
I scratch behind his ears. “Don’t give me that eye, I didn’t do anything.”
He blinks slowly.
Outside the window, I can see clouds starting to thicken, gray and full-bellied. The air feels different.
My fingers tap the bench, and I glance down at my watch.
I won’t avoid her when I get home. Just a check in. Make sure they’re okay. That’s all.
It takes everything in me to not leave work immediately and head back home. Instead, I focus on what needs to be done.
By twelve in the afternoon, the guys are out back doing inventory, voices conversational and easy, and I’m left in the engine bay, tightening a loose valve on the pump. It should take all of ten minutes. It takes me twenty because I can’t stop hearing her voice.
That damn humming.
I wipe my hands on a rag and toss it into the bin. The sky through the bay windows appears heavier now, clouds swelling gray and low. She’s probably still outside. She'll think it’ll blow over. Most people do until the wind comes sharp and sideways.
I tap the top of the workbench once.
Then again.
And then I’m moving.
I give the guys a quick shout of heading home, grab my gear, and slide into the truck without waiting for them to ask why. Blaze perks up in the passenger seat the moment I slide behind the wheel.
He knows why we’re going home.
I don’t speed.
But I don’t drive slowly either.
It’s past noon when I finally pull into the drive.
The clouds have thickened—slow-moving, bruised, and swollen—pressing the sky like it’s holding something back. There’s a tightness in the air, an electric kind of hush, like the land’s waiting for the first crack of thunder. Even Blaze doesn’t bolt from the truck the way he usually does.
He hops down, stretches, then pads forward slowly, ears perked. I spot them before I even reach the house.
Parker’s giggles cut through the stillness, high and clear. He’s running circles around the yard again, arms stretched like wings. The minute Blaze catches sight of him, he begins to chase him, tongue lolling out, tail wagging hard enough to stir dust.
It’s a happy chaos that immediately makes my chest feel lighter. But the boy and the dog don’t hold my attention for long before my gaze finds her.
Kate’s seated on the ground, legs crossed, barefoot on a sun-warmed sheet. There’s a canvas in front of her, colors bleeding across it in long strokes. She’s humming again, low, absent-minded, like it comes from somewhere deeper than her throat.
Her head tilts, catching the light, and her eyes follow the motion of her brush like the world’s narrowed down to that moment. That color. That breath.
She doesn’t see me.
