Page 87 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
I glance toward the window, heart fluttering when I imagine the sound of his boots on the porch. Maybe he’ll bring Blaze, and he’ll smile when he sees the effort. We’ll talk about more than Josie and his regrets. We will talk about us.
The balsamic glaze is simmering when I light the last candle on the dining table. It's nothing fancy, just a flicker of goldenwarmth in a glass jar, but tonight, everything feels a little more intentional.
The roast chicken is resting on the counter, the house smells like garlic and rosemary and maybe a little too much hope.
I wipe my palms on my jeans and glance at the clock. Still early. I adjust the candle between the two place settings…too much? No, I decide.
My gaze darts toward the clock again. I figure there’s plenty of time to plate everything and maybe even fix my hair before..
…before the soft, comforting quiet cracks open like a dropped plate.
The doorbell rings.
My spine stiffens, and I turn my head toward the sound. I know it’s not Noah because he doesn’t ring the bell; he knocks. And as much as I love the visit from people in town, I want tonight to be just Noah and me.
The bell chimes again.
I frown and wipe my hands again, padding barefoot to the front door. I open it and forget how to breathe.
“Hello, Katherine.”
Cold and shock collide in my gut. No. Not him. Not here. Not now.
Father?
He’s standing on my porch like he visits every other day, in a tailored coat and polished shoes that don’t belong anywhere near Porthaven’s sandy roads. Behind him, a black sedan sits at the curb, its headlights slicing into the soft blue dusk.
“What—” My voice scrapes up my throat. “How did you—?”
The last time I saw him, he’d leaned over his desk, cufflinks glinting under the office lights as he said, “You keep this up, and I’ll make sure a judge agrees you’re unfit and you never see your son again.”
Now he stands on my porch like a ghost.
“It’s bad manners not to greet a visitor.” His voice is the same, smooth, even, the kind of tone that used to make me straighten my shoulders before I realized it was a weapon
I move to shut the door, panic flaring hot and fast, but his foot is already there, wedged against the frame.
“Not so fast now. I just want to talk,” he continues, smooth and calm, as though he’s asking to borrow a cup of sugar.
I push the door again, ready to push him away.
“Hear me out, you can ask me to leave afterward,” he says again, and for a second, I don’t know what to do.
I hesitate. Every instinct screams no—but the idea of getting him out of my life for good pulls harder than my fear.
Parker isn’t home, which is a good thing, and the thought steadies me enough for my fingers to loosen from the doorknob and make me step back.
“Two minutes,” I say before stepping back.
Richard Sinclair walks in like he’s surveying a hotel room. His gaze drags over the quilt tossed on the couch, the crayon marks on the wall Parker promised he’d clean, and the stack of library books by the armchair.
Then he sees the table.
Two wine glasses. The damn candle.
His eyebrow lifts.
“You’ve made yourself comfortable,” he says, pacing slowly through the room. His voice is coated in something too polite to be warm.
