Chapter 5
T he coffee pot burbled as I leaned against the counter, arms folded tight across my chest. The smell of dark roast filled the kitchen, sharp and bitter, but it didn’t cut through the ache in my head.
It was my day off, but—of course—my brain didn’t know it. It was stuck on a loop, thinking through every single interaction I’d had with Maisy since she’d started at the station.
I had it bad. And my display at the diner yesterday was evidence of that. I couldn’t help sticking up for her. She was doing great, answering the team’s questions, and giving as good as she got, but I had to ride in like a knight in shining armor.
Still, I was going to see her today.
"You’re gonna fix the door you kicked down," I muttered, pouring the coffee into a chipped mug. "Nothing else."
The mug warmed my hands as I stood there, staring out the window above the sink. My place was quiet, neat. Too neat, maybe. No distractions. Just me and my thoughts—and they were doing a damn good job of driving me crazy.
A little disorder could do me some good. That was a dangerous thought. As a natural Daddy Dom, I thrived when I brought order to disordered situations. I’d love to show Maisy just how sexy that could be.
“Stop, it,” I said to myself, then finished the coffee in two gulps, and set the mug down harder than I meant to. Fix the door, keep it professional. That’s all this was. Geoff Frank trusted me, and I wasn’t about to screw that up.
First though, I had to get some gear.
***
W ilkins Hardware smelled the same as always: sawdust and metal. The bell over the door gave its little clang as I walked in, and I nodded at Mrs. Hillis on her way out with a bag of nails.
"Morning, Brett," she said, her voice sugary sweet like she hadn’t spent the last fifteen years gossiping about every Wilkins brother behind our backs.
"Morning," I replied, keeping it short. No time for small talk.
“Not saving any cats from any trees today?”
“Not on a Saturday,” I replied. “Only on Caturdays.”
It was a corny joke, but it didn’t deserve the stony silence that was beamed my way.
I grimaced.
The floorboards creaked under my boots as I headed for the counter. Marcus was there, leaning casually on his elbows like he owned the place—which, technically, he did. His eyes flicked to the supplies in my hands: hinges, screws, a couple of pieces of lumber tucked under my arm.
"Well, look at you," he said, grinning slow. "Somebody got himself a project?"
"Something like that," I said, setting the stuff down with a thud.
Marcus straightened up, crossing his arms. He had that look—the one that said he saw right through me. It made my jaw tighten.
"Fixing something, big brother?" Marcus leaned forward on the counter, one brow cocked high. His grin was slow, easy, and sharp as a nail—like he already had the whole story figured out.
"Just doing a favor," I said, setting the lumber down with more force than necessary. Dust kicked up from the worn countertop, catching in the light overhead. "For the Chief’s daughter."
Marcus didn’t blink, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a laugh. "The Chief’s daughter? That’d be little Maisy Frank, right?" He dragged out her name, loading it with just enough mischief to make my neck prickle.
"She had an incident with her door," I added, keeping my tone clipped. I grabbed the screws and hinge from the pile and lined them up neatly, like that would shut him up. It didn’t.
"An incident," he echoed, his grin downright predatory now. "What kind of incident requires you personally to swoop in with tools?"
"Not your business," I muttered, but Marcus wasn’t letting go anytime soon. He crossed his arms, leaning further over the counter, clearly enjoying himself.
"Humor me," he said, eyes glinting. "Did she call you or—" He paused, tapping his chin like he was thinking real hard. "—did you just happen to stumble across this ‘incident’ while playing hero?"
"She knocked on my door last night," I snapped before I could stop myself. And there it was—the opening he’d been waiting for.
"She knocked on your door?" Marcus straightened, his eyebrows shooting up. "Oh, this is getting good. Keep going."
I sighed, scrubbing the back of my neck with one hand. There was no getting out of it now. "Fine. Look. She didn’t knock on my door. Her alarm was going off. She needed help shutting it down."
"Uh-huh," he said, nodding like this all made perfect sense. "And you noticed that her door needed fixing while you were there?"
"Something like that." My jaw tightened. "It was broken. She couldn’t close it properly. I offered to fix it."
"Offered," Marcus repeated, biting back a laugh. "Out of the goodness of your heart, I’m sure."
"Can we not do this?" I shot back, glaring at him. "She’s Geoff Frank’s kid, okay? He asked me to keep an eye on her while he’s out of town. That’s all this is. Anyway . . . how are the wedding plans going?"
It was an obvious, desperate attempt to change the subject. But I was actually interested. Marcus and Lucy’s wedding was scheduled for six month’s time. To me, it felt like a long way away, but Marcus acted like it was happening tomorrow.
"Don’t think you can squirm out of this that easily, brother.” The smirk never left his face. "I’ll tell you all about my wedding plans later. What’s the rest of the story? You can’t leave me hanging with just ‘an alarm and a door.’"
"Nothing else to tell," I said, but he just stared at me, waiting. The silence stretched long enough to make me crack. "Fine. She . . . had some stuff lying around. Got caught up in it when I went inside."
"Stuff?" Marcus’s brow arched again, curiosity practically dripping off him. "Like what? Dirty laundry? Half-eaten pizza boxes?"
"Plush toys," I muttered under my breath, hoping he wouldn’t catch it.
"Wait, wait"—he held up a hand, like he needed to process—"plush toys? As in stuffed animals?"
"Yeah," I admitted through gritted teeth. "A lot of ‘em."
"Jesus, Brett." Marcus let out a bark of laughter that echoed through the store. A couple of customers turned their heads, but he didn’t care. "You think she’s a Little? She doesn’t attend the Little League."
Lucy, Marcus’ fiancee, had organised a club for local Littles to spend time in Littlespace. Since Lucy ran it, Marcus knew everyone who was a member of the club.
“I don’t know. I’ve always had a feeling, but . . . I’m not sure.”
“Well, it’s possible she’s not, of course. Plenty of people like plushies, Little or not.”
“Right.”
“But you could ask. The two of you could be seriously compatible. You’ve got a real knack for this knight-in-shining-armor thing, you know that? Always swooping in to save the day."
"Cut it out," I said, grabbing another hinge off the shelf and tossing it into my bag. My grip tightened around the handle of the basket. It wasn’t heavy, but right now, everything felt like dead weight.
"Come on, Brett," he pushed, leaning forward like he was settling in for the show. "It’s been the same since we were kids. You see someone who needs help—" his grin widened, "—especially if they’ve got those big, doe eyes—and bam! You’re there. Captain Saves-the-Day."
"Don’t start with me, Marcus." My voice came out sharper than I intended, but he didn’t flinch. He never did.
"Maisy’s not some damsel in distress," I added, forcing myself to look at the rows of screws instead of his face. "She’s just . . . going through something."
"Right, ‘something.’" He drew the word out slow, like he was savoring it. "And here you are, all set to fix her door and probably her whole life while you're at it."
"Listen," I said, keeping my voice low but firm. "She’s the Chief’s daughter. Geoff trusted me to look out for her. That’s all there is to it. Anything else"—I jabbed a finger toward the counter—"is off-limits. Whether she’s a Little or not."
"Off-limits, huh?" His tone didn’t change, but the edge of humor softened. He tilted his head, studying me like he was trying to crack open my skull and pick through what was inside.
"Yeah. Off-limits." I straightened, pulling the basket back toward me. "She’s just trying to get on with her new job. She doesn’t need . . . complications."
Marcus let out a low whistle, his smirk fading just enough to make room for curiosity. "Complications. That what you’re calling it?"
"Drop it," I snapped, tossing a twenty onto the counter without waiting for him to ring me up. "Just drop it, alright?"
"Alright, alright." He raised his hands again, this time in genuine surrender. But as I grabbed my bag and turned toward the door, his voice followed me.
"Just saying, Brett. You can spend all day telling yourself she’s off limits or whatever, but you don’t fool me. Oh—don’t forget, we’ve got the tux fitting next week."
"Noted," I muttered, pushing my way past the bell above the door, its clang barely registering over the pounding in my chest. Ugh. I had forgotten about the tuxedo fitting. It wasn’t my idea of a good time, but it was important to Marcus.
The air outside hit me like a slap, cooler than I expected. I adjusted the bag in my grip, the tools inside rattling. My knuckles were white around the strap.
"Idiot," I muttered under my breath, not sure if I meant Marcus or myself. Probably both. God, I hated when he got under my skin like that. But the worst part? He wasn’t wrong. That protective streak of mine—the one that made me run into burning buildings without thinking twice—had flared up the second I saw Maisy standing there, all wide eyes and fragile edges.
And that’s exactly why I couldn’t let it go any further. Because she was exactly my type. If I let anything happen, I didn’t know whether I’d be able to stop it.
I yanked open the truck door, tossed the bag onto the passenger seat, and climbed in. For a moment, I just sat there, gripping the wheel like it might steady me. It didn’t.
I shoved the truck into reverse, backed out of the hardware store’s lot, and hit the road before Marcus could come up with any more questions to needle me with. The bag of supplies sat in the passenger seat, rattling every time I hit a bump. My jaw tightened.
"Not now," I muttered to myself, gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make my knuckles ache. "Not ever." The words came out clipped, hollow. I didn’t care. Saying it made me feel like I had some control over this mess.
The truck idled too long at a red light, the engine grumbling. I tapped the wheel impatiently, glancing at the car clock. It felt like I’d been sitting there for hours. Every second gave my mind too much room to wander, and I hated it. Hated how clearly I remembered her scent—something soft and sweet, like vanilla—and the ridiculous tea party setup scattered across her bathroom floor.
"Christ," I groaned, raking a hand through my hair. The light finally turned green, and I pressed the gas harder than I should’ve, tires crunching against gravel as I sped forward.
I parked by her driveway and killed the engine. Curtains were drawn, but the windows were cracked open, a slow breeze teasing at the edges. The air smelled clean—fresh-cut grass or something close to it.
"Professional. Courteous. Quick," I muttered, shifting the strap over my shoulder. My boots hit the porch steps harder than I meant. The sound echoed off the quiet street behind me. I stopped at the door, squared my shoulders, and pressed the bell.
The chime inside sounded faint, muffled. A moment passed. Then another.
The door swung open, and—Jesus.
Maisy stood there, half breathless, skin glistening like she’d just run a mile. Her hair was pulled back, messy strands clinging to her neck. She had on these tiny shorts and a cropped tank that left nothing to the imagination. A water bottle dangled from her fingers, cool droplets slipping down its side.
"Uh," she said, her eyes going wide. They darted from the bag of tools to my face, then back again. Her chest rose and fell in quick little beats, and I remembered too late that staring was rude. Silence stretched between us, thick and awkward. My tongue felt clumsy, like it had forgotten how words worked.
"I’m here to fix the hinges," I said, my voice rougher than I intended. My eyes dropped immediately to the doorframe—neutral territory. Safer than the sight of her flushed cheeks or the curve of her breasts shining with sweat.
"Right." Her tone was soft, almost hesitant. Her fingers fidgeted against the water bottle, nails tapping a rhythm that didn’t help my focus. She glanced down at her outfit, like she’d just realized what she was wearing. A flicker of something crossed her face—relief maybe, but it was tangled up with self-consciousness.
"Sorry, I wasn’t expecting—" she started, her words tumbling out as she stepped aside, holding the door open. "Come in."
"Thanks." I cleared my throat, gripping the strap of the tool bag tighter. Crossing the threshold felt heavier than it should’ve, like I was stepping into something I shouldn’t.
"Thank you, Brett," she said, quieter this time, almost like she meant for me not to hear it. But I did. And it hit somewhere deep, right in the spot I didn’t want to acknowledge. Vulnerability. That damn look in her eyes.
"Just fixing the mess I made," I muttered, keeping my tone clipped. I couldn’t afford softness here.
"That’s, uh, really nice of you," she added after a beat. “Come on in, I’ll fix you a coffee.” Her voice wavered slightly. It was subtle, but enough to twist something inside me.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay locked in on the task at hand. Hinges. Screws. Wood. Fix the damn door and leave. That was it. That was all.