Page 85 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
She never mentioned a father. Not even once.
“I really don’t know who you are,” I say, stepping forward. “But if Kate wanted to see you, you wouldn’t be here asking strangers.”
The man doesn’t flinch. He just… smiles. A slow, practiced stretch of the mouth that never quite reaches his eyes. He studies me like I’m a junior associate who’s about to embarrass himself in front of the board.
“And you are?” he asks, voice low, polished, smug.
I square my shoulders, feel the weight of the badge in my wallet like a spine. “The town’s Fire chief,” I say. “And someone whom Kate is special to and trusts.”
That gets a slight lift of his brow. The air feels heavier all of a sudden. Hot, thick, like summer just landed square on my chest.
“You’re her boyfriend, I see. However, does that trust,” he says, tilting his head just a hair, “include her family history?”
The words don’t register at first; they hover in the space between us, quiet, loaded.
My hands curl into fists without asking. I shake my head slowly. “If she had a father in her life,” I enunciated each word carefully. “I’d know.”
He lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. More air than sound. “You really think she tells you everything?”
His eyes are too calm. As if he’s already seen this play out, and he’s just waiting for me to catch up.
My jaw tightens, and I can feel the muscles in my neck straining.
Then he steps forward, close enough for me to smell his cologne; sharp, citrusy, expensive. A scent that doesn’t belong in a town where most men smell like salt and woodsmoke.
“As I said, I’m Richard Sinclair,” he says.
I stop breathing and stare at him.
“I’m Katherine’s father,” he continues. “And Parker’s grandfather.”
Parker.
My vision dips for a second, and I blink hard.
The blood in my body feels like it’s draining to my boots, leaving a cold, hollow echo in my chest.
Because something inside me starts clicking into place. The check. The name on the envelope. The way Kate tenses when someone asks about her past, like she’s bracing for somethingawful. The kind of silence that feels less like mystery and more like protection.
Richard watches me. Not with pity. Not even with cruelty.
With amusement.
Like this is fun for him.
“If you’re so close to her,” he says, voice going quieter, like we’re sharing some sick secret, “then surely, you already know about her trust? The Sinclair business. What she walked away from?"
My stomach twists. The ground shifts, tilting enough to feel unsafe.
I want to say something. Anything. But my throat’s a locked box, and every thought in my head is turning on itself.
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a slim white card. Holds it up between two manicured fingers like a damn magician revealing the punchline.
“I’m not here to fight,” he says. “I just want to talk to my daughter and grandson. You can let her know I’m in town. Or not. I’ll find her regardless.”
He tucks the card into my hand, and I let him. I don't stop him. I don't even breathe.
The engine starts with a soft, confident hum.
