Page 9 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
I press my hand to the cool wood of the doorframe and breathe for a second.
It’s not the house I ran from. It’s not marble floors and cold chandeliers and staff that hover like ghosts. This is warm. Real. Mine.
I pass the hallway, catching sight of two small bedrooms, one already made up of soft gray linens that smell faintly of cedar and another that’s been left bare, waiting. I make a mental note to let Parker pick out some new bedding. Dinosaurs, maybe. Or space rockets.
Speaking of…
My feet still, a chill skittering down my spine.Where is Parker?
I call his name once, then again. My voice echoes back through the house, too quiet. A third time, louder now. My throat tightens as silence greets me again.
“Parker?”
Nothing.
A low buzz of panic coils beneath my skin. My heartbeat kicks up, thudding against my ribs like it’s trying to punch its way out. I whip around, moving from room to room, checking closets, behind doors, and under the beds. He’s not here.
He was here. I saw him with the dog.
I bolt for the front door, bare feet slapping the wood floor, the screen door squealing on its hinges as I throw it open and race out into the blinding sun.
“Parker!”
Then I hear it.
A sharp cry. High-pitched and broken. “Mommy!”
My eyes snap toward the sound, and my stomach drops straight through the earth.
He’s in the tree.
At least ten feet up, clinging to a branch that gives every indication of being too thin for comfort. His face is blotchy with tears, and one sneaker is dangling precariously from his foot. His lips trembling, his hands locked around the bark like he’s frozen in place.
Oh God. No, no, no.
I sprint toward him, heart pounding. “Parker! Oh, sweetheart, don’t move! Stay right there, Mommy’s coming, okay?”
My voice is too high. I hear it crack. I’m shaking, hands fluttering uselessly at my sides because I can’t climb that high. I can’t reach him.
He’s sobbing harder now, knees bent, body rocking as the branch sways.
I scream.
I don’t mean to. It rips out of me, raw and panicked and helpless.
And then,
He’s there.
He. The man with the storm cloud eyes. The same man who barely said three words to me earlier is suddenly beside me, barefoot, dripping wet, and wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.
But I hardly register that because he doesn’t ask questions and doesn’t say a word. He looks once, really checking out Parker’s position, then at the tree, and moves.
His body coils, muscles tensing, and in one fluid motion, he grabs the lowest branch and hoists himself up. Fast. Efficient. Like he’s done this a hundred times before.
His shoulders ripple under the morning sun, bronzed skin damp and glistening, the faint shimmer of water still tracing lines down his spine as he climbs higher. There’s power in every movement, but also purpose. Focus. Control.
When he’s a few feet below Parker, he slows and speaks for the first time.
