Page 39 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
I move in close, closer than I should. There's barely a breath of space between us now, her body's warmth radiating into mine, pulling me in like gravity. The faint scent of her hits me then, soft, like sun-soaked cotton, with a whisper of vanilla lingering in the air.
It’s light and delicate, but it clings to me, wrapping around my senses and leaving me dizzy. I try to focus and tell myself I’m only here to help, but it’s impossible to ignore the way my pulse quickens.
I slide my arms beneath Parker carefully, his weight settling into mine. As I lift him from her hold, my hand brushes lightly against her breast, a fleeting touch that neither of us mentions.
It’s an accident, a momentary slip, but it feels like everything stops.
Her skin is warm, too warm. Soft beneath my arm. For a split second, I feel the rise of her breath beneath my palm, her body shifting with mine. The brush of my arm shouldn’t mean anything, shouldn’t even register, but the sensation sends a jolt through me.
I freeze, muscles locking up because that simple touch feels like a betrayal. Like I’ve crossed some invisible line I didn’t know existed.
Her breath hitches. Just a whisper of a sound, but it’s enough. It’s enough to make the air between us thick, as though we’re both suddenly holding our breath, afraid of what might happen if we don’t. Her eyes flick up to mine, expanded and uncertain, and for a split second, we’re not even at the same pace anymore.
There’s something unspoken there, something in the way she stares at me. Not fear, not quite desire, but a charged tension that crackles between us, like she’s bracing for something she doesn’t want to stop.
Her pulse drums through me like a second heartbeat. And in that heartbeat, when nothing but air and restraint keeps us apart, I want to close the distance. To touch her on purpose. To stop pretending I don’t crave it.
But then, she exhales softly, the breath that she’d been holding on to, and I realize that my arm is still lingering too close, toolong, against the soft swell of her breast. I jerk it away, almost violently, like it’s burned me.
The sudden coldness is stark, but I don’t dare move further. I’m frozen, suspended in this moment, waiting for her to say something, anything. Her lips part, and for the briefest moment, I think she’s going to say something. But she doesn’t. She just lowers her gaze.
I clear my throat, trying to regain some composure. "I got him," I manage, my voice rougher than I want it to be. “I’ll take him inside.”
I shift Parker’s weight, trying like hell to focus on the kid, not the woman standing inches from me. Kate lingers for half a beat, her gaze flicking up to meet mine, unspoken words swimming in the quiet between us.
“You want to come in for a drink?” she asks softly, voice smooth but a little tight around the edges, like the invitation costs her more courage than she planned on spending.
God, I want to. I want to do more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time. But the part of me that’s still got a grip on common sense knows better. Knows that if I cross that threshold tonight, I might not walk back out the same.
I shake my head once, steady but slow. “Better not,” I murmur. “Not tonight.”
Something flickers in her eyes — relief or disappointment, I can’t tell. She steps back, giving me space as she leads the way toward the cottage. I follow, careful with Parker’s head resting against my shoulder, the kid so deep asleep he barely stirs when Kate reaches for the door and holds it open.
Inside, the porch light spills a warm glow onto the steps, and I follow Kate to his room, where I gently lower Parker onto the bed. Kate brushes a hand over her son’s hair, smoothing it back, her expression softening into something that twists a little deeper inside me.
She turns back to me, and for a second, neither of us moves. The air between us hums with everything unsaid.
“Goodnight, Noah,” she says at last, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Chapter eleven
Kate
The house is so quiet it’s almost as if it’s holding its breath, the hush that makes every sound louder. The tick of the wall clock stretches long between seconds, but Parker’s soft, even breaths fill the silence, slow and deep, his little chest rising and falling beneath the quilt I tucked around him hours ago.
His curls are a wild, sleep-tousled mess, clinging to his forehead, cheeks still kissed pink from a day well spent. I smooth my palm over his hair, tracing the shape of his warm, round forehead with the pads of my fingers, lingering there like I can will the world to stay quiet, stay still, a little longer.
Most nights, this is where I’d stay. Right here, curled up beside him, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing lull me to sleep. I’d drift off wrapped in his warmth, and somewhere around midnight, my body would remember my own bed.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the quiet doesn’t soothe. It needles beneath my skin, sharp and restless, crawling through my muscles like something is sitting under the surface, too big to settle, too tangled to name.
My eyes burn from staying open, the ceiling above Parker’s bed nothing but a dark, empty canvas, and I already know sleep isn’t coming. It won’t, not for a long while.
I ease off the bed with careful, practiced movements, pulling the blanket up higher around Parker’s small shoulders. My toes meet the cool bite of the wooden floor, the chill slicing through the warmth his bed left behind. And with every step down the hall, the emptiness inside me spreads like a shadow.
The kitchen light is too bright at first, and I blink against it, squinting while I reach for the kettle. My hands move on autopilot, filling it, setting it on the burner, and flipping the switch. The kettle hums to life, and the faint hiss of heating water is the only voice in the room.
