Page 3 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
I glance at him, that wild brown hair and those hopeful eyes staring right at me.
“I’m still a little scared,” I admit, turning the key. “But also kind of excited.”
He grins like that’s the best answer I could’ve given.
“Well, duh. We’re going to see our new house now!” I match up with his excitement.
The engine rumbles to life beneath us. I pull out of the school’s lot with the windows down and my Parker’s sticky fingers reaching for the wind.
As we follow the road out of town toward whatever waits on the other side, I hum along with his own version of “Wheels on the Bus.”
“And the people on the bus go shush, shush, shuuuush,” he whispers dramatically, giggling. I eye him in the rearview mirror and smile.
The gravel crunches beneath the tires as we follow the last curve in the drive. The directions said, “Keep going past the sycamore until you see the white gate; can’t miss it.” And there it is. Worn paint. Slightly leaning. A patch of wildflowers pushing up stubbornly from its base.
When we turn in, the trees open, and I see it.
My breath catches.
The cottage is nestled behind a row of sea-blown pines that makes it feel like it’s been keeping secrets. Whitewood faded to soft gray, roof sloped and weathered like it’s been dozing under the sun for decades.
Marsh hibiscus spill over from a cracked stone planter, their extensive pink petals tilted toward the breeze. I eye a porch, roomy enough for a chair or two, and a string of seashells dangles from the eaves, chiming in the wind like they’re whispering a welcome.
“Whoa,” Parker says, his voice small now. He presses his sticky fingers to the glass, eyes wide. “Is that our house?”
The way he says ‘our’ makes my chest pinch.
“I think it is,” I whisper.
I put the car in park, but my hands stayed on the wheel for a second. My heart’s still racing, like it hasn’t caught up to the quiet yet.
Ahead, the narrow gravel drive curves around a sizable farmhouse I hadn’t expected, perched higher on the land, like it’s been watching this place for years. It’s handsome in that rugged, coastal way. Weathered wood, clean lines, a large front porch that dares the ocean air to knock it down.
But it’s the little cottage tucked into the trees that draws me in.
That’s the one from the photos. That’s the one that made me press send on the inquiry, even though I wasn’t sure I’d have the job, or the money, or the courage to try again.
The cottage feels quieter. Like it’s been waiting for someone.
For us.
We step out, and the salt in the air hits me right away, briny and clean, tinged with something earthy and green. I swear I can hear the sound of water nearby, lapping steadily against a dock out of view. A distant gull cries overhead. The ground is soft with pine needles, and the air tastes like summer and second chances.
I open my door to the sound of cicadas buzzing overhead and the crunch of gravel under my sandals. Parker hops out behind me, dragging his little backpack and eyeing the cottage like it’s some kind of magical hideout.
“Mom, a swing! Mom! Look, there’s a swing!” He runs ahead, his feet kicking up dust.
I follow him, slower, my feet unsure, like the earth might shift if I move too fast. I trail my fingers along the wooden railing, flaking under my touch.
The cottage is even cuter up close, with whitewashed clapboard siding, sun-bleached shutters, and a wild mess of marsh hibiscus blooming in shades of blush and cream aroundthe porch railings. The salty breeze mixes with the faint scent of honeysuckle clinging to the trellis.
This is ours.
I unlock the door, and the hinges creak like they’re welcoming us in. The air smells faintly of old wood, lemon polish, and something else; maybe the sea itself, clinging to the walls like a whisper. The floors creak beneath my feet, groaning in protest like they haven’t been walked on in a while.
It’s small, a little worn, but warm in a way that makes my chest loosen. Parker darts from room to room like he’s on a treasure hunt, calling dibs on the one with the window that affords a view over the trees.
I follow, soaking it all in, the scuffed baseboards, the sunlight spilling across faded hardwood, and the faint tick of an old clock on the kitchen wall.
