Page 52 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
But Emily and Rachel exchange another one of those looks, one that says I’ve walked straight into a trap.
Rachel arches a brow, her mouth curving into a slow, knowing smile. “Well, that sounds like the perfect excuse for some shopping therapy.”
Emily laughs, nudging my side. “Exactly. We’ve got a few hours. Come on, Kate. You’ve earned a night out.”
Their persistence isn’t pushy, just... stubbornly kind. And beneath it, something inside me softens, and some thread of loneliness pulls tight, then loosens as the thought settles.
A night out. A room full of people. A chance to stop thinking. Even if only for a while.
I let out a breath and nod, slow but certain this time. “Okay. I’ll go.”
Rachel grins, looping her arm through mine like the deal’s already sealed. “Good. Trust me, you won’t regret it.”
But as we gather our things and head toward the locker room, a single thought tugs quietly at the edges of my mind, insistent, stubborn, and impossible to ignore.
If it’s the fire station fundraiser, Noah will be there.
And I’m not sure if I’m ready to see him.
Or if I ever was.
But I also can’t put my life on pause because of him, can I?
Chapter fourteen
Noah
The glass in my hand sweats against my palm, the cheap whiskey inside warming my throat but doing nothing to dull my guilt.
I’ve been nursing the same drink since the party began, while I should be making rounds, greeting the townsfolk, and thanking donors personally for their support as the fire station chief.
I should be drifting around the room, mingling with both the locals and the off-duty firefighters, making introductions, and ensuring the event stays warm and community-centered.
But after getting the short welcome speech out of the way, I remained perched at the back of Harbor Hall like some washed-up shadow, away from the laughter and small-town chatter rolling through the room.
The place looks similar to every fundraiser Porthaven’s ever thrown. Strings of bulbs overhead cast a soft golden light over polished wood and weathered beams, the scent of salt air sneaking through the open windows, mingling with barbecuesmoke and the sweetness of someone’s homemade pie on the long buffet table.
Mason jars filled with wildflowers line every table, some already knocked off-center by elbows and conversations that lasted longer than they were meant to.
But I’m not really here.
Not in the way that I ought to be.
I haven’t been in the right headspace, not for five goddamn days. Not since I laid my hands on her again. Not since I let my guard down and gave in to the one thing I swore I couldn’t afford. Kate.
Her name has lived under my skin ever since. Quiet but niggling; like a splinter too deep to dig out. Every night, it’s the same. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, her voice tangled in my head, her touch still clinging to my skin.
Every day for the past five days, I woke up thinking I’d go find her. That I’ll say the words I owe her. I’ll give her the apology she deserves.
But I don’t.
Because I’m a goddamn coward.
I lift the glass again, not because I need another sip but because I don’t know what else to do with my hands. The whiskey burns all the way down my throat to my stomach; the only thing tonight that’s honest.
“Hell of a crowd.”
The voice breaks through the static in my head, gruff and familiar. Frank Darden. He has the kind of voice that’s lived long enough to hold both humor and hard truths.
