Page 8 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
Because I should not be this twisted up over a stranger. A tenant. A single mom with tired eyes and a cherry-stained shirt.
But that doesn’t stop my body. Doesn’t stop the ache that blooms low and fast, the heat that coils tight the second she stares up at me like I’m something to be studied and classified.
My hands brace against the tile, forehead pressed to the cool wall, water beating down over my shoulders. My breath slows. Just enough that I think I might ride it out.
Then I hear it.
A scream.
High-pitched. Sharp. Repeated.
My heart kicks. Once. Hard.
I’m out before the next one cuts the air.
I don’t even stop to think. I grab the first thing in sight, my towel, still damp, and bolt toward the front door. The floorboards rattle under my steps. The screen door bangs behind me. Blaze is already leaping ahead, ears pricked, barking once like an alarm bell.
She’s standing in the yard, spinning, panic radiating off her like heat waves off the asphalt. Her arms are outstretched, palms open like she could physically will whatever is up to come back down.
My eyes snap up.
The kid’s in the damn tree.
High. Too high. He’s gripping a branch like he’s on top of the world, legs swinging, frightened as hell.
Her voice cracks at his name,Parker, like it costs her something to say it out loud.
She’s not crying yet, but I know she’s close. Her whole body’s tight, straining, as if she lets go of the tension, she’ll fall apart right there in the grass.
The towel slaps against my thigh as I run.
And for a second, I forget how weird this is. Forget that I’m practically naked, still dripping from the shower. That the sun is searing the tops of my bare feet. That I’m not her protector, her man, not even her friend.
None of that matters.
He’s in my tree.
And she’s staring at him like he’s her whole damn world.
Chapter three
Kate
I’ve been around gentlemen who know how to introduce themselves and never ignore a lady, yet none of them intrigues me the way he does.
I mean, seriously. How can someone appear like he was carved from rugged mountain stone, affect me like a thunderclap straight to the chest… and still manage to be the rudest person I’ve ever met?
I watch the screen door remain shut behind him, the thud of it oddly final. Like punctuation. A period at the end of a very confusing sentence.
Still, I refuse to let the man with stormy eyes and zero conversational skills ruin this day. Not when the sun’s out, the air smells like wildflowers and old wood, and this little cottage, my cottage, feels like something out of a dream.
I wipe my palms on my jeans, take a deep breath, and step inside again, but this time, I allow myself to properly take it allin. It smells faintly of lavender and lemon polish. The kind of clean that’s been taken care of. Not sterile, just… loved.
The floors are wide-plank pine, worn in places, creaking slightly under my weight. There’s a small fireplace in the living room, the bricks painted soft white with a mantle that’s chipped on the corner like someone once bumped into it laughing.
The furniture’s simple, classic linen cushions in soft creams and dusty blues, the kind of textures that make you want to curl up barefoot with a good book.
There’s a tiny kitchen tucked in the back, complete with vintage green cabinets, a butcher block counter, and an old porcelain sink beneath a window that affords a look over the meadow. It’s perfect, like something out of a Nancy Meyers movie. All it’s missing is the warm scent of cinnamon rolls and perhaps a golden retriever asleep by the door.
