Page 33 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
He’s not subtle. Never has been.
I scoop up my hat and jam it back on my head, my jaw clenched. But my eyes betray me, dragging back to her. She’s by the bleachers now, brushing Parker’s hair off his forehead, nodding along to whatever story he’s telling. Her lips tilt into a smile that makes something twist in my gut.
I turn back toward the field, my heart hammering harder than it should. I’m supposed to be focusing.
Coaching. Leading drills. But all I can think about is how nothing, not even this, is enough to make me forget what it felt like to touch her.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
I rub my temple and turn toward the bleachersagainto see Kate grinning behind her sunglasses, and it makes me wonder what she’s smiling at. Parker’s already running off and away from her and toward the field. She stands back, arms crossed, hip cocked.
Chapter nine
Kate
Just until I’m home…that’s what I tell my brain each time I think about Noah.
The hours crawled by today, one ordinary task after another. Lesson plans. Coffee that’s gone cold before I finish it. Wiping little fingers streaked with watercolor and answering the same curious questions about clouds and dinosaurs on repeat. I tell myself the routine is good. Safe. Familiar.
But all day long, there was this tug, quiet, insistent, pulling me right back to him regardless of how hard I tried.
Noah.
I tried. God, I tried to shut it down. To fold the memory of last night and this morning into the tightest, smallest space in my chest and seal it away. I tell myself there’ll be time for thinking later. Overthinking, most likely. But right now, I don’t want to think of him or how my body betrayed me.
However, the more I push, the more my mind rebels, slipping back to the way his shirt smelled of cedar and storm-wet earth-like rain-soaked firewood, like safety wrapped in something untamed.
The texture of the cotton l still lingers against my skin, even though I’ve long since folded it away and tucked it out of sight. My body remembers what my mind is trying so desperately to forget.
The roughness of his hands, calloused and gentle, trailing over skin no one’s touched in so long I’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. And yet there was a softness in him, too, like he knew how easily I could shatter, like he could sense every crack beneath the surface but held me like I wasn’t broken at all.
His voice plays over in my head, the murmur of my name painting over old scars I thought I’d forgotten. And his eyes…God, his eyes, the way they settled on me like I wasn’t some wandering stranger passing through but the missing piece to something he hadn’t realized he’d lost.
Like I belonged. To him.
It’s ridiculous. One touch, one kiss, and I’m adrift, untethered from everything I’ve spent years building to keep myself safe. But no matter how I try to anchor myself back to the present, to the rhythm of ordinary life, the memory of him loops through me, quiet, constant, and impossible to outrun.
Before I know it, the day was over, and the sky softening to that late afternoon honey-gold, and I found myself standing in front of Parker’s class, watching them spill out in a tumble of tiny sneakers and bright backpacks.
His face lit up the moment he spotted me, cheeks flushed, hair a little wild like it always is when he’s had a good day. He barrels straight for me, launching himself against my side with all the force a five-year-old can manage. I'm happy his first day was a success.
But when I tried to corral him to head home he rebelled.
“Mom! It’s T-ball day! Mrs. Darden said she told you!” His voice wobbled, and his lips trembled; he was so close to crying.
I mentally kicked myself. How could I have forgotten that his homeroom teacher did mention it in the morning when I dropped him off?
"Oh right, I forgot for a minute," I told him and his relief was immediate.
His excitement made me forget, for a second, that I’ve spent the whole day fighting thoughts of a man I barely know but can’t seem to shake, and I almost made my son cry.
He soon forgets the mini-episode as we headed toward the field with Parker’s little hand swinging in mine. His chatter fills the air, all about his new teacher, the snack schedule, and the new kid who brought blue Gatorade and instantly earned celebrity status.
I nod along, offering the right sounds in the right places, but to my chagrin, I’m not fully with him again. I’m somewhere else entirely.
I’m with Noah.
His name threads through the quiet spaces between Parker’s words, uninvited but impossible to shake. There’s something about him I can’t seem to pin down. Something solid and worn-in, like the old farmhouse he calls home. Something that feels like it could be dangerous if I let it.
