Chapter 6
Maisy
B rett knelt in my bathroom doorway, one hand braced against the doorframe while the other poked at the splintered wood with a screwdriver. His tool bag sat open beside him, scattered with wrenches and bits of hardware I couldn't name. The hallway felt too small with him there, his broad shoulders filling the space like he owned it. My pulse hammered loud enough to drown out the scrape of metal against wood.
I shifted from foot to foot, arms crossed tight under my chest. "Is it bad?" I asked, even though I barely recognized my own voice.
"Not terrible," he answered without looking up. His voice was steady, calm, like he fixed doors for a living instead of running into burning buildings. "Looks like the frame's a little warped. Shouldn't take long to patch up."
He leaned forward, pulling a measuring tape from his bag. The stretch of his back under that flannel shirt made my throat go dry. I wiped my forehead, fingers brushing against damp skin. The post-workout adrenaline hadn't worn off yet—or maybe it was something else making me buzz.
"Okay. Cool," I said, though my voice came out higher than I'd meant. I backed away before I could embarrass myself further.
In the kitchen, I flicked on the coffeemaker and stared at the machine like it held all the answers. The hiss of water heating filled the silence, grounding me for half a second. I grabbed a mug from the cabinet, then set it down again when my hands wouldn't stop fidgeting.
Above me, the creak of floorboards sent a jolt through my chest. A clank followed—probably Brett’s screwdriver hitting tile—and I squeezed the edge of the counter. I couldn't stop picturing him upstairs, sleeves rolled up, silver hair catching the light as he worked. God, I needed to get a grip.
"Pull it together, Maisy," I muttered to myself, shaking my head.
But even as the coffeemaker sputtered to life, filling the room with the rich scent of brewing coffee, I couldn’t shake the awareness of him. Every sound from upstairs—a low scrape, the faint murmur of him swearing under his breath—sent my nerves into overdrive.
When I woke up this morning, I hadn’t expected to see him at all today. That thought had come with a strange pang of disappointment, though I’d shoved it aside. Now he was here, and I didn’t know what to do with myself.
The coffeemaker beeped, cutting through my jittery thoughts. I grabbed two mugs and poured, the rich aroma doing nothing to settle the swarm in my chest. My hands shook, just a little, as I filled them both. Stupid. It was coffee. Not a marriage proposal.
"Okay," I whispered, gripping the handles tight. "It's fine. You're fine."
I wasn't fine.
Balancing the mugs, I headed back upstairs, the creak of the steps louder than usual—or maybe that was just my pulse pounding in my ears. As I reached the top, I glanced toward the bathroom doorway and froze.
Brett had ditched his flannel shirt. The tank he wore clung to every line and curve of muscle, from the sharp cut of his shoulders to the flex of his arms as he worked. I swallowed hard, trying not to stare, but it was impossible. The man looked like he'd been carved out of granite. Sculpted, perfect, and completely unaware of how much space he took up in my brain.
How many push-ups did it take to look like that? A thousand? Ten thousand?
"Brett," his name slipped out before I could stop it, just a whisper under my breath.
He turned slightly at the sound, and I realized I hadn’t moved. Still standing there, holding two mugs like an idiot. My cheeks burned. I cleared my throat, shaking myself out of it, and stepped forward.
"Coffee," I blurted, thrusting one mug toward him like it was a peace offering. Or a shield.
"Thanks." He glanced up at me, his mouth curving into a quick smile that hit me square in the chest. Then he took the mug, his fingers brushing mine for half a second. I felt it like a spark.
"Careful, it's hot," I said, my voice higher than normal. Great. Real smooth, Maisy.
"Got it." He blew on the coffee and took a sip, his eyes dropping back to the doorframe as if the moment hadn’t sent my nerves skittering. The soft groan he let out after tasting it, though—that definitely wasn’t nothing. It rolled through me like thunder, settling low in my belly.
"Good?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Really good," he said, taking another sip. Then he set the mug on the floor beside him and gestured to the crooked wood in front of him. "You know, this thing’s worse than I thought. It’s gonna take some work to get it right."
"Do you do this kind of thing a lot?" I asked, desperate for something—anything—to keep me from staring at the way his arm flexed when he reached for his screwdriver.
"Not really," he admitted, glancing up again. "My brother's the handy one. And my dad, too. They’re the pros. I just picked up enough to scrape by."
"Scrape by?" I echoed, raising an eyebrow. "You look pretty confident to me."
"Looks can be deceiving," he said with a grin, his focus dropping back to the task. His tone was light, but there was something else there—something softer. Like he didn’t want me to think he had it all figured out.
"Yeah," I murmured, curling my fingers tighter around my own mug. "They sure can."
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, letting the warmth of the coffee mug seep into my palms. Brett crouched in front of the busted doorframe, his tank clinging to his shoulders like a second skin. He muttered something under his breath—probably about the wood being warped—and I tried not to stare at the cut of his jaw when he tilted his head just so.
“So, uh, how was the first week at work?”
“Okay, I guess,” I replied. “Although I’m feeling the pressure.”
“Really?” He gave me a confused look. “You seemed very at ease with the guys at the diner.”
“Just bluffing,” I admitted. “Plus, I’m okay with the guys, it’s the work that I’m worried about. You know, it can feel like everyone expects me to be perfect all the time. Especially at the station. Even when Dad’s not there, it’s like . . ." I trailed off, biting my lip.
"Like he’s watching anyway?" Brett’s voice was low, steady. Like an anchor.
"Exactly." I let out a breath, shaky and sharp around the edges. "It’s been that way since forever. I was a bit of a rebel when I was a kid. So dad was tough on me. Got even worse when I went to college. And I didn’t even want to go to college." The confession spilled out before I could think twice. My hands tightened around the mug, my knuckles brushing against its curve. Why was I talking to him like this?
Brett turned, settling back on his heels. His hazel eyes locked on mine, intent and unflinching. "What did you want to do?"
I blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"If it were up to you," he said, resting his forearm on his knee. "What would you have done? If not college?”"
My stomach twisted, heat rising into my face. I managed a shrug, trying to play it off. "It’s dumb."
"I doubt it." His tone was calm, coaxing, like he was pulling me out of a burning building but giving me all the time I needed to take that first step.
"Art school," I blurted, then winced. My grip tightened on the mug. "Illustration, mostly. Drawing. Painting. You know. Stuff no one actually makes a living doing."
His surprise was subtle—a quick lift of his brows—but his smile came slow and easy. "That’s not dumb, Maisy."
"It’s childish," I mumbled, shifting my weight again. My pulse thudded hard in my ears. God, why had I said anything?
"I’d love to see your work sometime." His voice went softer, the words curling warm and unexpected in my chest.
"Maybe later," I said quickly, my cheeks burning. My fingers toyed with the rim of the coffee mug, smearing faint trails of condensation. I couldn’t meet his eyes, not when the thought of showing him my sketches left me feeling raw and exposed.
"Whenever you’re ready," he added, and the sincerity in his tone only made it worse. Or better. I wasn’t sure anymore. “You’re doing art classes now though, right?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“So it’s not too later.”
“I guess not. What about you? Are you happy being a firefighter?”
“I am.” He grinned. “Job never gets boring. I like the people I work with.” His eyes widened. “I-I didn’t mean you. I mean—shit—I like you, I just didn’t mean, like like.”
“It’s okay,” I said, my pulse pounding, “I didn’t think you did.”
Brett gave me a quick smile, the kind that made my chest feel tight in all the wrong—and right—ways.
"Guess I’d better get back to it," he said, his voice easy and low, like we hadn’t just had a conversation that left my insides tangled. "Before I say something else stupid. And your dad will be back before I finish this work."
"Yeah," I managed, my cheeks still hot from earlier. "Wouldn’t want that." My laugh came out awkward, but if he noticed, he didn’t say anything.
"Thanks for the coffee, though. Needed that." He tapped the rim of the mug lightly, then stood. The shift of his shoulders under the snug tank top was impossible not to notice. I needed to leave before staring became obvious—or worse, habitual.
"Right. Well, I’ll let you . . . do your thing," I said, backing toward the living room. My heart pounded as I turned away, grateful he couldn’t see the way my hands clenched and unclenched at my sides. Walking into my art nook felt like stepping into a sanctuary, even if it wasn’t much more than an overstuffed corner by the window.
I exhaled, scanning the chaos: easels leaning precariously, paint tubes scattered like confetti, and canvases stacked against the wall, each one half-whispering unfinished stories. I grabbed a blank canvas and propped it up, rummaging through brushes until I found one that felt right. Something broad and solid, something I could lose myself in.
The first stroke of color cut across the white, bold and sure. Then another. And another. My breathing slowed, matching the rhythm of brush to canvas. This was what I needed—something to drown out the buzz in my chest and the restless flutter in my stomach.
But it didn’t work. Not entirely.
A creak sounded out down the hallway—floorboards shifting under his weight. My brush faltered mid-sweep, leaving a jagged streak behind. Another sound followed: the faint clink of metal tools hitting wood. His voice, low but steady, carried through the house as he muttered something I couldn’t quite catch.
I tried to focus on the canvas again, blending colors into shapes, but my attention kept slipping. Every noise tugged at me. The scrape of wood against wood. The soft thud of footsteps. I caught myself glancing toward the door more than once, cursing under my breath each time.
Then I saw it—the narrow crack where the door hadn’t been pulled fully closed. Just wide enough to catch glimpses as he passed through.
I swallowed hard, my grip tightening on the brush. Through the gap, Brett moved with that quiet confidence of his, sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing as he worked. The tank stretched over his chest, snug across his shoulders. Every now and then, he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, silver hair catching the light in a way that shouldn’t have been so distracting. But it was.
I dragged my eyes back to the work, my pulse thrumming like a live wire. Focus. Just focus. But the sounds kept coming, pulling me back to that sliver of space in the doorway. To him.
The brush hovered in my hand, trembling just slightly. My eyes flicked from the canvas to the crack in the door and back again. Brett bent to pick something up—a screwdriver maybe— but the way his shoulders moved, the stretch of his tank over his chest, hit me like a freight train.
"Okay," I muttered under my breath. "Just paint."
I angled the canvas toward the door, adjusting my stool so I could see him better through that sliver of space without being too obvious about it. The idea came out of nowhere, sharp and undeniable. Sketch him. Paint him. Capture that .
My brush dipped into the deep charcoal gray I'd mixed earlier. I started with loose strokes, quick outlines of his form, letting the shapes build naturally. Wide shoulders. The curve of his bicep. The dip at the small of his back where his tank had ridden up slightly. My cheeks burned, but my hand didn’t stop.
Each movement felt electric, alive. There was no hesitating, no second-guessing. The lines on the canvas sharpened, gaining depth, gaining weight. I switched colors—burnt umber for shadows, sienna for warmth. It wasn’t just about capturing how he looked. It was how he felt in this moment. Strong. Steady. Entirely too distracting.
I swallowed hard, pulling back to assess what was taking shape. It wasn’t just him standing there fixing my door anymore. It was… more. The angle of his body, the tension in those muscles—it dripped with something intimate, almost primal. My stomach twisted, half excitement, half embarrassment, but I kept going.
The next sweep of the brush curved along the line of his arm. I bit my lip, trying to ignore the flush spreading up my neck. His arms were ridiculous. Too defined, too perfect. The kind that didn’t just come from gym hours but from real work. Work that left calluses and strength behind.
"Maisy, get a grip," I whispered, shaking my head, but I couldn’t stop.
I layered in the color carefully, building the tones until the figure on the canvas practically radiated heat. My fingers tightened around the brush as I leaned closer, adding detail to the flex of his forearm. The way his hand gripped the edge of the doorframe made something low in my belly coil tight.
This was crazy. Absolutely insane. But I couldn’t stop.
I stepped back finally, staring at the piece taking shape. Raw. Sensual. Completely unlike anything I’d ever painted before. My pulse pounded in my ears as I took it all in. The broad expanse of his back, the ripple of muscle through his shoulders, one arm raised as if mid-motion. And the light—no, not sunlight—just the glow I’d imagined highlighting every inch of him.
"Jesus," I whispered, dragging a hand across my forehead. My palm came away damp.
I should’ve stopped there. Walked away. Done literally anything else. But I stayed rooted in place, staring at the image I’d created. A part of me wanted to cover it up, shove it behind one of my other canvases before anyone could ever see it. Another part? That part wanted to keep looking. To memorize every stroke of paint, every implied detail.
Heat pooled low in my belly again, spreading slowly, irresistibly. My chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as I let the brush drop onto the easel tray. What the hell was wrong with me? This wasn’t just painting. This was something else entirely—a fire I couldn’t quite contain.
I closed my eyes, inhaling sharply, trying to steady the rush spiraling through me. But when I opened them, the painting was still there, staring back at me, unapologetic and unrelenting.
I bit my lip, glancing towards the door. The sounds of Brett working drifted through, muffled but present. My hand trembled as I reached down, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my leggings.
"This is so wrong," I muttered, even as I pushed past the elastic of my panties.
The first brush of my fingers sent a jolt through me. I was already slick, aching. Shame and desire warred as I started to rub slow circles. My other hand gripped the easel, steadying myself as my knees went weak.
"Fuck," I hissed, increasing the pressure. Heat built rapidly, coiling tighter with each stroke. I shouldn't be doing this. Not here, not now, not with him just outside. But I couldn't stop.
I was so close, teetering on the edge. My fingers dipped lower, ready to—
A loud crash echoed from outside. I jerked my hand away, stumbling back.
"Shit! Brett!"
I yanked my hand from my pants, face burning as I grabbed a rag to wipe my fingers. Heart pounding, I rushed to the door, nearly tripping over my own feet.
I flung it open just as Brett did the same from his side. We collided with a thud, and I felt myself falling backward. Strong arms wrapped around my waist, steadying me.
"Whoa there," Brett said, his voice low and close. "You okay?"
My palms pressed against his chest, and I felt the heat of his skin through the thin fabric. Paint smeared across his tank, but I barely noticed. We were frozen, eyes locked, breaths mingling. The scent of sawdust and sweat filled my senses.
"I'm so sorry," I mumbled, voice barely above a whisper. "I heard a crash and—"
"It's fine," Brett murmured, his hands still on my waist. "Just dropped a plank. No harm done."
I should've stepped back. Should've broken this moment before it became something more. But I couldn't move, couldn't look away from those hazel eyes.
"Maisy," he breathed, and the way he said my name sent shivers down my spine.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was crazy. This was everything I'd dreamed of for years. This was absolutely terrifying.
"Brett, I—"
Words failed me. Instead, I tilted my chin up, closing that last inch between us. Our lips met, and holy shit, it was electric. Warmth flooded through me, melting away every doubt, every fear.
Brett's grip tightened, pulling me closer as he deepened the kiss. A soft groan escaped him, and I felt it vibrate through my entire body.
For one perfect moment, nothing else mattered. Not my dad's expectations. Not the complications. Just this.
My fingers curled into Brett's shirt, desperate to hold onto this feeling forever. But a tiny voice in the back of my head whispered that this couldn't last.
What the hell were we doing?
Suddenly, Brett jerked away. His eyes were wide, shocked. "I—sorry," he rasped, stumbling back.
My heart plummeted. The warmth of his kiss turned to ice in my veins.
"Brett, wait—" I started, but he was already shaking his head.
"This was a mistake," he muttered, voice trembling. He lifted a hand, as if to ward me off. I noticed the smear of blue paint across his palm. "We shouldn't have . . . I shouldn't have done that."
I stood there, frozen. Words caught in my throat. What could I even say?
Brett turned, grabbing his toolbox. "I'll finish the door another time," he said, not meeting my eyes. "I'm sorry, Maisy. This can't happen."
Before I could form a response, he was gone. The front door slammed shut, leaving me alone in the sudden silence.
My fingers drifted to my lips, still tingling from his kiss. Paint-stained and breathless, I sank against the wall. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst from my chest.
"Shit," I whispered to the empty room.
That kiss. That fucking perfect kiss. And now . . . what? We pretend it never happened? Go back to awkward small talk at the station?
I closed my eyes, remembering the feel of his hands on my waist, the taste of coffee on his lips. God, I wanted more. But Brett clearly didn't. Or couldn't.
My dad's face flashed through my mind. If he knew . . . Christ, this was a mess.
But as I pushed off the wall, a thought hit me. The kiss hadn’t been a mistake. It had been exactly what I needed. And I wanted it—no, needed it—to happen again.