Fire Fighter Daddy (Small Falls #2)

Chapter 1

Maisy

T he fire station loomed larger the closer I got. My boots scuffed against the cracked pavement as I stood at the front entrance, gripping my messenger bag like a lifeline. A gust of wind whipped past me, yanking a strand of black hair loose from behind my ear. It tickled my cheek, but I didn’t bother fixing it. My stomach churned. Nerves, probably. First-day jitters. Or maybe just too much cold brew this morning.

"Come on, Maisy," I muttered under my breath. "You can do this."

I adjusted the strap of the bag, fingertips aching from how tight I’d been holding it. The door looked heavier than it probably was. Solid. Old. Intimidating, even. Everything about this place screamed official. Important. Not a place for screw-ups.

Not a place for me .

But maybe I could change. Maybe this could be the end of the old me. No more sneaking out to skate at midnight or borrowing vehicles without asking. Definitely no more breaking into abandoned warehouses for “artistic inspiration.” Nope. This Maisy? Maisy 2.0? She was responsible. Organized. Professional, even if the combat boots still made the occasional appearance. And she had bills to pay and art classes to fund. No room for messing around.

I yanked open the door before I could overthink myself into turning around.

Inside, chaos hit me like a wall. Radios crackled from somewhere down the hall. A loud buzzer went off in the distance, followed by the clatter of boots on tile. Two firefighters hauled what looked like half a truck’s worth of equipment across the floor, their voices overlapping as they talked about hoses—or maybe something else entirely. I couldn’t tell. The air smelled sharp. Rubber, polish, and something faintly metallic. It wasn’t unpleasant, just . . . busy.

A guy in full gear walked past me, tall and broad, with soot smudged across his neck like a badge of honor. He glanced at me, one brow raised, then nodded once before heading toward what I assumed was the garage bay. I nodded back, though he was already gone by the time I did it. Smooth.

"Excuse me—" I started, but another firefighter breezed right by, not even sparing me a glance.

Okay, cool. Guess I wasn’t exactly priority number one. Fair.

I kept moving, weaving through the maze of uniforms and motion. My boots squeaked against the polished floors, which only made me cringe harder. Every step felt loud. Obvious. Like I was announcing, Hey, everyone! Watch Maisy try not to trip over herself! A few people noticed me—quick glances, some curious, others guarded. I tried giving them polite smiles. Most didn’t smile back.

"Friendly bunch," I mumbled under my breath.

Of course I was wondering if I’d see Brett.

I sighed. Ah, Brett Wilkins.

My childhood crush. Not just childhood. Adolescent, too. I spent far too much time standing in my back yard, pretending not to notice Brett Wilkins mowing his lawn shirtless next door.

He was loud. Easygoing. Confident. Everything I wasn’t.

Plus he was like, eight years older than me or something. On top of that, he worked with my dad. Still worked with my dad. He was so off the table, he couldn’t even see the table.

And yet here I was, on my first day of an important new job, scanning the corridors for the chance at a glimpse of his heavenly dimples.

"Eyes forward, Frank," I told myself, shaking off the memories. "This isn’t high school."

I squared my shoulders and picked up the pace. The bag bounced against my side as I passed another pair of firefighters. One of them glanced at me, brow furrowing like he almost recognized me. Almost. There was a good chance he did, seeing as I was the chief’s daughter. I ducked my head before he could say anything.

I had to prove that I didn’t just get this job because of dad. I wanted to show him—and everyone else in Small Falls—that Maisy Frank wasn’t some scatterbrained wild child anymore.

Even if it took everything I had to convince myself first.

I pushed open the door to the admin office, and it let out a pitiful creak that matched the sinking feeling in my stomach. The room was small—smaller than I’d expected—and crammed with filing cabinets that looked older than me. A single computer sat on a desk that must’ve been held together by sheer willpower and duct tape. Papers spilled across its surface like confetti after a parade.

"Okay," I muttered under my breath. "Not exactly Pinterest-worthy, but it’ll do."

I set my messenger bag down carefully, like it would bust the rickety desk if I dropped it too hard. The chair groaned when I pulled it out, its legs catching on the uneven tile floor. Sitting down, I felt the seat dip awkwardly to the left, and I had to plant my feet to keep from sliding off.

"Fantastic start," I mumbled, flicking the computer’s power button. The ancient machine hummed to life, the screen glowing faintly like it wasn’t entirely sure it wanted to cooperate. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their harsh glare making everything feel colder than it already was. This wasn’t the art studio I dreamed of—not even close—but I clenched my fists and told myself it didn’t matter.

"Get through this," I whispered, "and one day you’ll be sketching in a sunny loft somewhere, not buried under payroll forms."

The computer chirped as it booted up, the sound startling me more than I cared to admit. The screen buzzed and hummed. Damn, this thing was ancient. I shook it off and started organizing the nearest stack of papers. Shift schedules, incident reports, timesheets—it was chaos, but chaos could be tamed. I just needed to focus.

That resolve lasted about thirty seconds before the door swung open behind me.

"Maisy." My dad’s voice was sharp, cutting through the air like the crack of a whip.

I froze, mid-reach for an errant sticky note. Slowly, I turned in the squeaky chair, and there he was. Chief Geoff Frank, towering in the doorway like some kind of firehouse deity. His uniform was crisp, his jaw set in that no-nonsense way that made everyone in Small Falls stand a little straighter. Including me.

"Hey, Dad," I said, trying to keep my voice light. Casual. Like my heart wasn’t climbing into my throat.

"Chief," he corrected, stepping into the room. His boots thudded against the floor, echoing louder than they should’ve in such a cramped space. He crossed his arms, broad shoulders blocking most of the light coming in from the hallway.

"Right. Chief," I corrected, dropping my gaze to the desk.

"Good," he said, though his tone didn’t make it sound like it. His eyes swept the disaster zone of paperwork, and I swore I saw his jaw tighten. "This is your responsibility now. Payroll. Scheduling. Phones. You need to stay on top of it."

"Got it," I said quickly, nodding like a bobblehead.

"And Maisy . . ." His voice dipped lower, enough to make my stomach churn. He tilted his head, pinning me with a look that could’ve stopped a wildfire in its tracks. "No parties on the roof. No skipping out halfway through the day. None of your old stunts. Am I clear?"

My cheeks burned. It wasn’t just the words—it was the way he said them. Like I was still sixteen, sneaking out past curfew or hotwiring mall scooters for kicks. I wanted to snap back, tell him I wasn’t that kid anymore, but instead, I swallowed hard and nodded.

The shuffle of boots and low murmur of voices filtered through the half-open office door. I rubbed my palms against my thighs, trying to ground myself before diving into the work. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, but then a flicker of movement outside the window caught my eye.

Brett.

He strode down the hall with that easy confidence he always had, his navy-blue uniform perfectly fitted across broad shoulders and arms so solid they could probably break concrete. He leaned slightly toward another firefighter, nodding at something the guy said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. Professional. Focused. Unshakable.

I froze, gripping the edge of the desk so hard my knuckles popped. My heart stuttered, then kicked into overdrive. It was almost embarrassing how quickly my brain spiraled—how easily it latched onto every detail of him. The way his silver hair caught the light. The calm authority in his stance. That steady, no-nonsense energy he had, like nothing ever threw him off balance.

For years, I’d told myself it was just a silly crush. A leftover thing from high school when Brett Wilkins moved in next door and became the blue-eyed, too-perfect-for-reality boy I doodled hearts around in the margins of my notebooks. Except now, the crush wasn’t silly. Or small. It was maddening. Embarrassing. And completely out of reach.

"Maisy," Dad’s voice snapped me back to reality. I turned sharply, nearly knocking over a pen cup. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me like he knew exactly what I’d been doing.

"Yeah?" My voice came out weirdly high-pitched, so I cleared my throat and tried again. "Yes, sir?"

"Focus." He stepped inside, looming like only he could. "I’m leaving for the conference in an hour. I need to know you can hold the fort while I’m gone."

"Got it," I said quickly. My hands found the edge of the desk again, gripping tighter than necessary. I wouldn’t screw this up. Not today. “Fort held. Everything good.”

"That means no distractions," Dad continued, his tone flat as a pancake. "No forgetting to answer phones, no losing paperwork, and definitely no disappearing halfway through your shift."

"Right. Of course." I nodded so hard it made my neck ache.

"Good." He paused, his dark eyes narrowing slightly, and I braced myself for whatever was coming next. "Wilkins’ll be keeping an eye on you."

"Wait, what?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them. My stomach did this awful flip-flop thing, like I’d just stepped off a rollercoaster straight into freefall. "I don’t need a babysitter."

"Not a babysitter," Dad said gruffly, frowning. "A backup. Someone to make sure things run smooth while you’re figuring it out. Seeing as he’s our neighbor, and he works here too, figured I’d ask him to keep an eye out. Plus, I trust the guy."

"Figuring it out" felt like a slap. Like he didn’t think I could handle this job without training wheels. We’d been talking about this for weeks, with dad prepping me on what to expect from the job. He’d never said that Brett would be watching me, waiting to swoop in if I screwed up. I wanted to argue, to tell him I wasn’t the same scatterbrained kid who used to get phone calls home about skipped classes or forgotten assignments. But I bit my tongue instead.

"Fine," I mumbled, looking down at the mess of papers on the desk to avoid his gaze. My skin burned—probably beet red by now—but I couldn’t meet his eyes. Not without giving away too much.

"Fine is right," Dad echoed, though he didn’t sound convinced. He lingered for a moment longer, then gave a short nod and strode out, his heavy boots echoing down the hall. “Well. See you in a week.”

As soon as he was gone, I slumped back into the chair, my pulse still racing. Brett keeping an eye on me? Just the idea sent a fresh wave of heat crawling up my neck. God, how was I supposed to focus knowing he was right there, watching, judging . . . maybe even noticing how I tripped over my own feet sometimes?

"Pull it together," I whispered, pressing a hand to my temple. This was my shot to prove I wasn’t a total disaster. No distractions. No screw-ups. Definitely no daydreams about Brett Wilkins’ arms.

I was here to get the office organised and man any communications. The last administrator quit without any notice about a month ago, and my dad had been struggling to keep the place going. When he’d asked me if I’d like to interview for the job, I thought he’d been joking.

Then again, when did dad ever joke about anything?

"Okay," I muttered to myself, rolling my shoulders back. "Let’s do this."

The first folder I grabbed spilled half its contents onto the floor. Perfect. With a groan, I crouched down and gathered the loose pages, shoving them back inside with more force than necessary. My hands shook, but I clenched them into fists, willing the tremor to stop. No one was watching. No one could see me second-guessing every move.

"Focus," I told myself again, quieter this time.

I thumbed through the payroll forms, scanning the names and numbers. It wasn’t rocket science—it just required attention to detail, something I’d always been accused of lacking. My father’s voice echoed in my head, stern and clipped: " Maisy, you can’t skate by on charm forever. " I swallowed hard and set the forms to the side before flipping open another file.

Time passed quick. I worked on organising files by time and importance, and dealt with phone calls that came in. Luckily, I wasn’t actually dispatching the team, that was someone else’s job. No. The calls for me were from our suppliers, and from other local offices.

Hours went by, and before I knew it, I looked at my watch and it was 1:30pm.

Of course I’d almost forgotten to eat.

The computer hummed as I powered it down, the screen blinking to black. My stomach growled—a low, insistent reminder that I hadn’t eaten since . . . well, obviously I’d been too nervous for breakfast, so my last meal had been the hot pocket I’d had for dinner last night.

I didn’t tend to get that hungry, but the morning’s work had me ravenous.

I shoved my chair back, grabbed my bag, and slipped into the hallway. The air was cooler here, tinged with that strange mix of rubber and disinfectant that clung to every corner of the firehouse. At the far end, sunlight streamed through an open bay door, turning the polished floor into a glossy mirror. I let myself drift toward it, drawn by the promise of fresh air like a moth to a flame.

A breeze brushed my face as I reached the doorway, carrying the faint scent of cut grass from the lawn outside. I inhaled deeply, letting it chase away the sterile tang of the office. My fingers fidgeted with the strap of my bag, and my gaze darted down the hallway—just once. Just in case.

Brett wasn’t there. Not that I’d expected him to be. Not that I wanted him to be there.

His name rested just behind my teeth, unspoken but heavy. I shook my head and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. Stupid.

"Stop thinking about sexy, forbidden fire fighters," I muttered under my breath, forcing my feet to move.

There was another big reason that Brett would never be interested in me.

Or, I guess you could say, a Little reason.

Quiet, quick steps carried me across the bay and out the main exit before anyone could stop me to ask questions—or worse, give me that look. The one that said they were waiting for me to mess up. Again.

Outside, the world opened up. Cool brick walls gave way to the wide expanse of Small Falls, its cobblestone streets winding lazily past Victorian storefronts and the slow churn of the waterwheel in the distance. I paused just outside the door, the sun warming my skin instantly. It felt good—real. A stark contrast to the buzzing fluorescents inside.

I stood there for a moment, gripping the strap of my bag tight enough to make my knuckles ache. My dad’s voice echoed in my head, sharp and exacting: No skipping out, Maisy. No slacking off. No excuses.

I didn’t have money to get take-out, so I headed home. Dad wouldn’t be here, he was either already on his way to the conference, or still at the station. There was food in the house, so that would be good enough.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the stillness of our little house. Quiet. Warm. Safe. Full of memories. I let the door click shut behind me, leaning back against it for a second. Just one second.

My chest loosened up a bit, tension slipping away. No crackling radios. No tight-lipped stares from Dad or raised brows from Earl. Just pastel walls and stuffed animals waiting for me like old friends.

I dropped my bag onto the counter with a muted thud and flipped it open. The corner of my sketch poked out between my notebook and a stack of receipts. I nudged it deeper inside, careful not to smudge the lines. It wasn’t much yet—just a half-finished illustration of a rabbit in a tiny teacup—but it was mine. My dream. And I wasn’t about to let anyone at the station see it. Not while they were already looking for reasons to doubt me.

My stomach growled, loud enough to make me flinch, so I moved toward the fridge. Inside: leftovers I didn’t want and condiments I probably should’ve thrown out weeks ago. I settled for a quick sandwich, slapping together peanut butter and jelly like I was racing a timer. Crumbs scattered across the counter, but I’d clean them later. Probably.

I always liked it when Dad was away. Gave me a chance to be myself in the house. I’d thought a lot about moving out, but it didn’t make sense right now. I got back from college last year, and didn’t have the money for my own place just yet. I could just tell that dad was keen for me to leave, too.

Mum had died when I was quite young—just ten years old. I remembered her clearly, but I didn’t have as many memories as I’d like. Dad had never really moved on. Hadn’t dated, had barely smiled.

Maybe if I could move out, he could stop being a dad and just start to . . . be . Maybe it was nothing to do with me. Couldn’t help but feel guilty, though.

After I’d eaten, I drifted over to my room. I’d left Maurice at home this morning, but I’d regretted it. He was still there, waiting on my bed, big green eyes looking at me full of happiness. I picked the moth-eaten old bear up, and cuddled him. "Hey, buddy," I said softly. The softness pressed against my chest, calming the nervous buzz under my skin.

I squeezed Maurice tight, closing my eyes for a moment. For just a second, I let myself sink into that gentler world. No payroll forms. No disapproving looks. Just comfort. A toy I’d had since forever. A childhood I wished I could re-live.

“I’ll take you into work with me,” I said to my old friend.

But then the thought hit me, sharp and sudden, like ice down my back. What if someone saw? Worse—what if he saw?

Brett’s face flashed in my mind without warning—those hazel eyes catching mine, his steady voice saying my name. Heat rushed to my cheeks, spreading all the way to my ears. God, what would he think if he walked in right now? If he saw the plushies tucked behind my pillows or the rows of pastel knickknacks on my shelves? Would he laugh? Would he say anything at all? Or worse...would he look at me like I was some silly, immature kid who couldn’t get her act together?

I buried my face in the bear’s fur, groaning quietly. "Stop it, Maisy," I hissed. But the image wouldn’t leave. Brett, standing here, seeing all of this. Judging me. Or maybe—not judging. Maybe something else entirely. My heart skipped, and I shoved the thought aside before it could take root.

I squeezed Maurice’s ear between my fingers, rubbing the soft fabric in circles. The tension in my chest loosened, just enough for me to exhale without it catching halfway up my throat. I’d done okay so far. No major screw-ups. Files? Sorted. Phones? Answered without a single stammer, well—one, but that didn’t count. My dad hadn’t stormed in with his “disappointed face” yet.

"One step," I murmured, barely noticing how the teddy’s stitched mouth smiled back at me. "Just keep stacking."

The dream wasn’t impossible. It couldn’t be. Illustration classes were just a few paychecks away, and once I got that certificate, I could take my sketches out of this house and into the world—kids’ books, bright colors, happy endings. If I hadn’t wasted my time doing an engineering course at college, I could be living my dream already.

When I thought back to the moment I’d told dad I didn’t want to be an engineer—that I wanted to be an illustrator instead—it made my blood run cold. He’d been so upset.

I didn’t have time to relive that now.

I knew what would make me feel better. While my dad was away, I was going to throw a party.

A big one.