Page 10 of The Grumpy Firefighter
Alone in my room, I sit on the edge of my bed, head in my hands. The ghost of her touch lingers on my skin. The memory of her lips haunts mine.
Outside, rain continues to fall, a steady rhythm against the windows like a countdown to something inevitable. Down the hall, Natalie Wells is under my roof, in my station, slipping past defenses I've maintained for years.
Chapter 5 – Natalie
Morning creeps into the station through half-drawn blinds, painting stripes of gold across the wooden floor. I've been awake for nearly an hour, lying in the spare bunk, listening to the quiet sounds of the station coming to life. My ankle throbs dully, but it's nothing compared to the persistent hum of awareness that's been running through my body since last night.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, testing my weight on the injured ankle. Better, though still tender. The borrowed WFFD t-shirt falls to mid-thigh, soft from countless washes. I'd slept in it and my underwear, my smoke-scented clothes folded neatly on the chair.
The hallway is empty, quiet except for the distant sound of a coffee maker gurgling somewhere downstairs. I make my way toward it, hand trailing along the cool surface of the wall for balance, floorboards occasionally creaking beneath my careful steps.
The kitchen appears empty at first glance, coffee pot half-full, a single mug on the counter beside it. But as I reach for the mug, a movement catches my eye through the glass door leading to the apparatus bay.
Paul stands beside the gleaming red fire engine, clipboard in hand, methodically checking something off a list. Morning light streams through the high windows, catching on the polished surfaces of the trucks and equipment. He's wearing a navy WFFD t-shirt and uniform pants, his strong forearms bare where he's pushed up his sleeves.
I pour coffee, oddly mesmerized by the simple routine of his inspection. There's something compelling about his focus, theway he moves with such economy and purpose, touching each piece of equipment with knowing hands.
The glass door makes a soft sound as I push it open, coffee mug warm between my palms. Paul looks up immediately, his expression shifting from surprise to concern to something warmer in the space of a heartbeat.
"You should be resting that ankle," he says by way of greeting, but his eyes linger on my bare legs before returning to my face.
"Good morning to you too, Chief." I smile, limping closer. The bay floor is cool beneath my feet, smooth concrete polished by years of heavy boots and equipment. "Don't worry, I'm being careful."
He sets his clipboard on a nearby workbench, crossing to meet me. "How does it feel today?"
"Better. Almost normal."
He raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Let me see."
I balance on my good foot, extending the injured one slightly. Without hesitation, he crouches down, warm fingers encircling my ankle with surprising gentleness. His touch is clinical, professional, thumb pressing lightly to check for swelling, but my body responds as if he's caressing much more intimate places.
"Still swollen," he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin. "You should stay off it today."
I'm suddenly, intensely aware of our positions—me standing in nothing but a borrowed t-shirt and underwear, him kneeling before me, those capable hands on my bare skin. Heat blooms low in my belly, spreading outward in waves.
"I had other plans for today," I say, voice huskier than intended.
His eyes lift to mine, darkening as he registers my tone. For a breathless moment, he remains kneeling, hands still cradling my ankle, the air between us charging with possibility.
Then he stands, a fluid motion that brings him close.
"What kind of plans?" he asks, voice low and rough at the edges.
I set my coffee mug on the gleaming hood of the nearby engine, freeing my hands. "I was thinking about finishing what we started last night."
His jaw tightens, a muscle flickering beneath the stubble that shadows his cheeks. "Natalie—"
"Unless you don't want to," I add quickly, suddenly uncertain. "In which case I can just drink my coffee and pretend I didn't just proposition the fire chief while practically pantless in his station."
A surprised laugh escapes him, warm and genuine, softening the stern lines of his face. "That's not—" He shakes his head, stepping closer until I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "I want to. That's not in question."
"Then what is?" I ask, tilting my head back to maintain eye contact. This close, I can see the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples, the tiny laugh lines at the corners of his eyes that suggest he once smiled more often.
His hand lifts, knuckles brushing feather-light against my cheek. "You're injured. We're in the station. The crew could return any minute for shift change."
I lean into his touch, skin tingling where his fingers trail along my jaw. "Nathan said they're covering the morning inspection rounds in town. We have at least two hours."
"You checked the schedule?" His voice holds equal parts amusement and heat.
