Page 94 of My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door
Parker sniffs. “Is it ‘cause of me?”
“No. Never you.”
He doesn’t answer, just stares at the ground like he’s trying to find something to hold on to in the dust and rock.
I stroke his back, trying to steady my voice before speaking again. “Hey. How about we stop by Maddox’s? Emily’s probably got cookies with your name on them.”
He hesitates.
“That will make you happy, wouldn’t it?” I press. I hate making him sad.
Then he nods, quietly and slowly.
I pull out my phone and call Emily. She picks up on the second ring.
“Hi Emily, how are you?” I try to sound upbeat as I smile at Parker. He doesn’t smile back. “Where are you? I was hoping Parker could see Maddox.”
“I’m home,” she says. “Taking a break from stirring jam, but I would love some company.”
“That’s awesome,” I breathe in relief. “We’ll be there soon.”
“Perfect, I shouldn’t have kicked Knox out of the house so early.” She draws in an exaggerated breath, “But now, I’m glad I did. We can have some girls’ time.”
Girl’s time does sound good.
“On our way.”
We take the detour, cutting across the sloping path that separates the property from hers. Her place sits nestled behind an unruly hedge of wild roses that seem hell-bent on reclaiming the walkway. Thorns attempt to snag my skirt as we pass, and the scent hits me, sweet, wild, tangled.
The shutters on the little cottage are sky blue, peeling in places, but they make the place feel… lived in. Real. There’sa wind chime near the porch that catches a breeze just as we approach, sending a soft tangle of notes into the air. Light and a little off-key, like laughter through tears.
The front door opens before I can knock.
Emily takes one look at me and frowns. “Oh, honey.”
She steps aside, waving us in without a word. Her apron’s smeared with something red that I guess is the strawberry jam, and her hair’s tied up in a messy bun that’s half slipping down the side of her head.
“Maddox is out back, kiddo. Go find him,” she says, ruffling Parker’s hair.
He hesitates for a second, then bolts through the house toward the backyard. I hear the door slam, then the muffled thump of feet in the grass.
Emily waits until he’s out of earshot. “Are you okay? You don’t look good.”
“I don’t?” I rasp out, trying to smile. It doesn’t hold. “I thought I always looked like a model in front of a magazine.”
She smiles and tilts her head toward the kitchen. “C’mon.”
Inside, her kitchen is exactly what I need and don’t deserve; it’s a cozy chaos. Bunches of dried herbs hang from the beams, brushing against the tops of my shoulders.
There’s a smell in the air, lavender, clove, something sweet baking in the oven. The counters are covered in jars of jam, baskets of apples, and a cutting board stained with beet juice.
She gestures toward the old wooden table, its surface worn and scarred, a deep crack running through one side. I drop into a chair, hands limp in my lap. The seat creaks under me.
Emily pours tea into a chipped yellow mug, the steam curling into the space between us. Chamomile, maybe. Or something stronger. It smells like the kind of peace I've forgotten.
She slides it over. “You know Noah’s been sleeping at the station, right?”
I close my fingers around the mug. The ceramic is hot. It burns, but I don’t let go because I know he’s doing that because of me.
