Page 7 of The Grumpy Firefighter
I touch my lips, still feeling the ghost of Paul's kiss. "Yes, it did."
"Just so you know," Logan adds, his tone suddenly serious, "he hasn't looked at anyone that way in the two years I've known him."
Before I can ask what he means, Paul returns, keys in hand, his expression unreadable in the shadows. But when he offers his arm to help me to his truck, his touch is gentle, and the air between us crackles with something new and unexplored.
Chapter 4 – Paul
Clean-up feels interminable tonight.
The maze will need a full safety inspection before we can reopen, but for now, we're focused on securing props, packing away decorations, and removing anything that could deteriorate overnight. The station's back lot is quiet except for the occasional rustle of plastic tarps and murmured conversations between crew members.
And her laugh.
It cuts through the night air like a beacon, drawing my attention even when I'm focused on disassembling fog machine components. Natalie sits on an overturned crate, her ankle propped on a makeshift footstool, directing Austin and Bradley on how to properly store the vintage books and floating display. Despite my insistence that she should be home resting, she refused to leave until everything was properly secured.
"Those go in the banker's box labeled 'Haunted Library A,'" she instructs, gesturing with animated hands. "The enchanted ledger needs special padding so the hinges don't get damaged."
Even with smoke-stained clothes and hair falling from its knot, she radiates an energy that seems impossible after the night we've had. Her cheekbones catch the harsh work lights, creating shadows that accentuate the curve of her smile.
"Chief, where do you want these?" Nathan asks, holding several coils of rope we used for guardrails.
I clear my throat, turning my attention back to the task at hand. "Equipment locker, second shelf. Check them for smoke damage first."
The kiss keeps replaying in my mind, unwelcome and persistent. The softness of her lips, the surprised gasp she made when I responded, the warmth of her skin beneath my palm. It was impulsive and adrenaline-fueled, the kind of thing that happens after near-misses and shouldn't be repeated.
"Earth to Paul," Logan says, appearing at my elbow. "You've been taking apart that same connector for five minutes."
I scowl at him, finally separating the metal pieces with more force than necessary. "Just being thorough."
"Thorough. Right." He glances meaningfully toward Natalie, then back to me with a knowing expression. "That's definitely what's happening here."
"Don't you have work to do?" I ask pointedly.
"Just finished securing the perimeter." He leans against the worktable, crossing his arms. "Interesting night, wasn't it?"
I give him a look that would make most people retreat. Logan just grins wider.
"For the fundraiser," he clarifies innocently. "Good turnout before the... incident."
"We'll need to issue refunds or rain checks," I say, deliberately focusing on practicalities. "Arthur's already drafting an email to ticket holders."
"Very professional," Logan nods. "And speaking of professional, you planning to address the station-sized elephant in the room, or should we all just pretend we didn't see you and Natalie—"
"That's enough, Lieutenant," I cut him off, keeping my voice low. "It was an impulsive moment after a stressful situation. It won't happen again."
Even as I say the words, I know they taste false.
Logan studies me for a moment, his usual teasing expression softening into something more serious. "You know, Chief, not everything needs to be controlled. Sometimes good things just... happen."
Before I can respond, a clatter and muffled curse draw our attention. Natalie has attempted to stand, knocking over her makeshift footstool in the process. Without thinking, I cross the space in quick strides, reaching her just as she wobbles precariously.
"Whoa there," I say, catching her elbow. "What happened to staying off that ankle?"
She looks up at me, that irrepressible smile tilting her lips despite the wince of pain. "I was getting stiff just sitting. And I wanted to check on the Victorian reading desk before we pack it away."
"The reading desk is fine," I say firmly, guiding her back to her seat. "You're supposed to be resting."
"I'll rest when everything's properly stored," she counters, but allows me to help her sit. "Those books are antiques—well, the props are designed to look antique, but still. They need proper care."
