Page 49 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
I swipe the back of my hand across my face; the gym’s recycled air cools against my overheated skin, but it barely makes a dent. My heart’s still hammering, too fast, too hard.
I crank the speed up again- past reasonable, past safe - until the belt hums beneath me like it’s on the verge of spinning out. I don’t care. Let it break. Let me break.
And then, as if the universe needs to rub salt in the wound, my father’s face slips right into my head. I can picture the look on Richard Sinclair’s smug face if he ever found out I’d let another man get this far under my skin.
How much he’d gloat, how satisfied he’d be to know I chose someone who could vanish without a trace. How bad my judgment is.
A flicker of movement catches in the corner of my eye, but I don’t turn. Not until a hand wave in front of my face, snapping me out of the fog.
Emily.
She’s standing there, one brow cocked, ponytail looped through the back of a baseball cap, arms folded as if she’s been watching long enough to figure out exactly what’s going on. I hadn’t even noticed her walk in.
The gym had been empty when I showed up with Parker. God knows how long she’s been studying me before coming over.
She leans her elbow on the side of the treadmill, casual but not unkind, head tilted like a woman waiting for her cue.
“Training for a marathon, or just trying to outrun your thoughts?” Her voice is easy and light, but the warmth behind her smile is edged with knowing.
She pushes off the rail and leans in a little closer, eyes narrowing as she gives me a once-over.
“Jesus, Kate.” A soft, lopsided grin tugs at her mouth. “You trying to punish the machine or yourself?”
My chest seizes, lungs are still gasping for air. I slam my palm against the speed button, the belt slowing beneath my feet until I’m barely moving. My legs wobble, loose, and unreliable, as though they’ve forgotten what solid ground even feels like.
I swipe at the sweat slicking my face, throat bone-dry and raw. My mouth opens, but no words come. I try to speak, but nothing makes it past the tight knot lodged deep in my throat. My breath catches, shallow and shaky, as I struggle to hold it together.
Emily watches me, the sharpness in her smile softening, the tease melting away. “Rough week, huh?” she murmurs.
I nod. That’s all I can manage. One small, brittle nod. Anything more, and I might fall apart right here on the gym floor.
Emily tips her head toward the end of the treadmill, motioning for me to come down. Her expression softens, all the teasing gone, replaced by quiet concern.
“Come on, Kate,” she says gently, “let’s get you something to drink before you keel over.”
I hesitate, pressing my palms to the rails, feeling the ground tilt beneath me like my legs might fold. My chest still heaves, sweat cooling sticky against my skin, but I nod and step off the machine, wobbly and lightheaded.
The second my feet hit the floor, the silence around me cracks open, and the soft clatter of weights, distant music thumping low through hidden speakers, and the sharp, cheerful sound of children’s laughter fills my ears.
I swivel my head toward the play area where I left Parker playing and heave a relieved sigh that he’s no longer alone. Beyond the rows of machines and mirrored walls, tucked into a bright corner near the front desk, there’s a play area.
Colorful foam mats scatter the floor, toy bins overflowing, and two climbing cubes shaped like friendly animals sit side by side. A small girl with bouncing dark curls is crawling and chasingParker around the mat, her giggles sharp and sweet as he roars like a dinosaur.
Maddox is right behind them, trying to referee the game with all the serious focus only a kid his age can muster. A soft smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, and I appreciate the thought behind the play area for the kids.
It’s the kind of detail only someone who really understands a woman’s life would think of. A place for kids so moms like me can breathe and exercise without guilt, even if it’s for an hour.
My gaze drifts around the space for the first time, taking it in beyond the tunnel vision of my self-inflicted punishment. The gym’s nothing like the cold, sterile chain gyms I’ve seen in the city. The walls are painted a warm, muted beige, with exposed wooden beams stretching across the ceiling.
Plants hang in mismatched baskets from the rafters, softening the hard edges of weight racks and punching bags. The smell isn’t overpowering like disinfectant, just the faint scent of coffee drifting from the café next door and clean cotton.
The machines are new but lived-in, well-used but cared for. It feels less like a place for muscle heads, and more like a space for real people, for community.
When my focus slides back to Emily, she’s still watching me. Her cheeks are flushed, her ponytail dark with sweat at the nape of her neck, but she looks effortlessly good. Polished, even in workout gear. Tank top, fitted leggings, and that casual ease that some women are born with.
“You look good,” I say, meaning it. “Like... seriously good. You could be the face of this place.”
A flush that has nothing to do with exertion blooms across her cheeks, her smile turning shy.
