My Grumpy Fire Chief Next Door

1. Kate

Chapter one

Kate

M y son, Parker, is humming to himself in the passenger seat like we’re on some kind of road trip adventure, and I’m over here trying not to cry into the steering wheel. If I don’t get this job, we’ll be unpacking our lives in the backseat of my car.

Still, better that, than crawling back to my father with nothing but swallowed pride and a preschooler.

I’ll be explaining to my five-year-old why we’re sleeping under the stars tonight… and why we’re never, ever going back to Grandpa’s.

The minute I cut the engine in front of the shingled schoolhouse, my palms are slick with sweat.

Not from the late-summer heat, though the sun in Porthaven doesn’t believe in personal space, but because this is it. My one shot. No, my last shot .

The school is small but charming, with a picket fence kind of welcome and flowerbeds lining the walkway that give the appearance that they’re actually tended to. Parker hums in the seat beside me, legs swinging, face sticky from the gas station popsicle I bribed him with before the drive.

The quiet lot smells like hot pavement and fresh-cut grass. The cicadas hum a lazy chorus from the trees lining the playground fence.

Beside me, Parker’s feet continue to dangle off the passenger seat, swinging like he’s on some kind of vacation joyride instead of sitting beside his single, half-panicked mother, praying she can land a job on day one.

I exhale, trying to smooth my skirt and my nerves at the same time.

“You gonna be okay?” I ask, brushing my hands down my wrinkled skirt for the hundredth time.

He shrugs, seemingly indifferent. “Can I stay in the car and play with my dinosaur?”

I shake my head, squeezing his knee. “You can bring it inside, come on.”

The interview, while not long, stretches in my head like taffy. My voice wobbled through the first few questions. My resume felt like it belonged to a stranger, someone who should have taken the path laid out for her and never had doubts.

An Art History degree from Vanderbilt doesn’t exactly scream small-town elementary school teacher , but here I am, wearing shoes and clothes that I won’t be able to afford any longer.

Hoping no one scrutinizes too closely at the gap between the girl I was supposed to be…

and the one sitting here praying for a second chance.

But Lillian Monroe, the head of the school, smiled through every answer, her face warm and open in a way that made me forget, just for a second, how badly I needed this.

When it’s over, she asks me to wait while she talks to the board member across the hall.

Now I’m just… waiting. Waiting on the bench outside her office like a nervous teenager, praying her name doesn’t end up on the rejection list.

Inside, I can hear the faint clack of a keyboard, a phone buzzing once and being silenced. I resist the urge to poke my head through the open office door to see what’s happening. Instead, I bounce my heel anxiously against the wood floor and glance at Parker.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the bench, playing with his plastic dinosaur and humming to himself. His curls are damp from the heat, and his big brown eyes blink up at me like I’m the one acting strange. He catches my eye and grins.

“Why you bein’ all squirmy, Mama?” he asks. “You’re the best artist ever. They’d be dumb not to pick you.”

That little southern drawl of his softens every sharp edge in my heart.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Thanks, sweetie, but sometimes people don’t see what you can do from a short conversation.”

He frowns. “But you showed ’em your pictures, right? Like the fish you painted for my bedroom and the one with the lady with all the colors on her dress?”

“I did,” I say, brushing his hair off his forehead. “But this is different. It’s not only about art. They need someone who can manage a class, help kids, work with teachers…”

“You already do all that. You helped me learn how to color inside the lines without even yellin’ once.”

My heart pinches, full and aching. “That’s true.”

Parker nods, completely certain in the way only five-year-olds can be. “You’re already the best teacher. They just don’t know it yet.”

God. How did I get lucky enough to have him?

Before I can answer, the office door creaks open behind us.

“Katherine Montgomery?” The name sounds unfamiliar; it should be Katherine Sinclar, but it doesn’t matter.

I turn, nearly knocking Parker’s dinosaur out of his hand in the process.

Lillian steps out, all soft curls and pastel florals, the kind of woman who smells like warm vanilla and childhood memories. She smiles wide enough that my breath catches before she even speaks.

“You got the job.”

For a second, I think I misheard.

But then I blink, and Lillian is nodding, her expression kind and hopeful, and the words sink in.

I sigh in relief and smile back at her. I'm bursting with relief, but I contain my excitement, the way I was raised to contain all my feelings and stand to shake her hand.

"I promise I won't let you down," I tell her.

"I have no doubt you will be just what we need here," she responds kindly.

I scoop Parker off the bench, squeezing him until he squeals in delight.

“I told you, Mommy,” he giggles against my shoulder. “I told you!”

This.. this feeling right here…is what I’ve been chasing for months. Not just the job. Not just a way to keep the roof over our heads. But the sign. The sign that maybe Porthaven is where everything gets to start over.

Where I can finally stop running. Where I get to be enough.

Lillian smiles at us like she sees it too, like she knows she just gave us more than a paycheck.

“Orientation’s on Monday, but if you want to stop by the art room this week to make it yours, the key’s yours.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, hugging Parker again. “Thank you so much.”

As she heads back inside, I let myself sit on the bench again, holding Parker close, feeling the press of his small shoulder against mine.

The breeze smells like sea salt and chalk dust and something new on the horizon.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m faking it.

I feel like I’m truly starting over.

“Let’s go see our new home, sweetie.”

I don’t have to say it twice; Parker skips ahead of me down the steps of the school like he’s floating, dancing along with his dinosaur.

I follow, one hand clutched tight around the crumpled paper with our new address that I half-heartedly scribbled out before our arrival, the other wiping at my damp blouse where his hug left a cherry-red print from his earlier popsicle.

In truth, I wasn’t going to see the house if I wasn’t given the job; there would have been no way to pay for it. Now, I’m glad to have a place to call ours .

The school door clicks shut behind us, and I pause at the bottom of the steps for a moment.

The air is warm, thick with sun and the low hum of summer, and I let it settle over me like a soft-weighted blanket.

There’s laughter coming from the playground down the hill, and the wind carries the smell of sunscreen, honeysuckle, and fresh-cut grass. Life doesn’t feel so depressing anymore.

Parker’s already at the car, yanking the door handle with both hands, the dinosaur clenched between his teeth.

“You’re smiling,” he says as I slide behind the wheel. “That means you’re not scared anymore.”

I glance at him, that wild brown hair and those hopeful eyes staring right at me.

“I’m still a little scared,” I admit, turning the key. “But also kind of excited.”

He grins like that’s the best answer I could’ve given.

“Well, duh. We’re going to see our new house now!” I match up with his excitement.

The engine rumbles to life beneath us. I pull out of the school’s lot with the windows down and my Parker’s sticky fingers reaching for the wind.

As we follow the road out of town toward whatever waits on the other side, I hum along with his own version of “Wheels on the Bus.”

“And the people on the bus go shush, shush, shuuuush,” he whispers dramatically, giggling. I eye him in the rearview mirror and smile.

The gravel crunches beneath the tires as we follow the last curve in the drive. The directions said, “Keep going past the sycamore until you see the white gate; can’t miss it.” And there it is. Worn paint. Slightly leaning. A patch of wildflowers pushing up stubbornly from its base.

When we turn in, the trees open, and I see it.

My breath catches.

The cottage is nestled behind a row of sea-blown pines that makes it feel like it’s been keeping secrets. Whitewood faded to soft gray, roof sloped and weathered like it’s been dozing under the sun for decades.

Marsh hibiscus spill over from a cracked stone planter, their extensive pink petals tilted toward the breeze. I eye a porch, roomy enough for a chair or two, and a string of seashells dangles from the eaves, chiming in the wind like they’re whispering a welcome.

“Whoa,” Parker says, his voice small now. He presses his sticky fingers to the glass, eyes wide. “Is that our house?”

The way he says ‘our’ makes my chest pinch.

“I think it is,” I whisper.

I put the car in park, but my hands stayed on the wheel for a second. My heart’s still racing, like it hasn’t caught up to the quiet yet.

Ahead, the narrow gravel drive curves around a sizable farmhouse I hadn’t expected, perched higher on the land, like it’s been watching this place for years. It’s handsome in that rugged, coastal way. Weathered wood, clean lines, a large front porch that dares the ocean air to knock it down.

But it’s the little cottage tucked into the trees that draws me in.

That’s the one from the photos. That’s the one that made me press send on the inquiry, even though I wasn’t sure I’d have the job, or the money, or the courage to try again.

The cottage feels quieter. Like it’s been waiting for someone.

For us.

We step out, and the salt in the air hits me right away, briny and clean, tinged with something earthy and green.

I swear I can hear the sound of water nearby, lapping steadily against a dock out of view.

A distant gull cries overhead. The ground is soft with pine needles, and the air tastes like summer and second chances.

I open my door to the sound of cicadas buzzing overhead and the crunch of gravel under my sandals. Parker hops out behind me, dragging his little backpack and eyeing the cottage like it’s some kind of magical hideout.

“Mom, a swing! Mom! Look, there’s a swing!” He runs ahead, his feet kicking up dust.

I follow him, slower, my feet unsure, like the earth might shift if I move too fast. I trail my fingers along the wooden railing, flaking under my touch.

The cottage is even cuter up close, with whitewashed clapboard siding, sun-bleached shutters, and a wild mess of marsh hibiscus blooming in shades of blush and cream around the porch railings. The salty breeze mixes with the faint scent of honeysuckle clinging to the trellis.

This is ours.

I unlock the door, and the hinges creak like they’re welcoming us in. The air smells faintly of old wood, lemon polish, and something else; maybe the sea itself, clinging to the walls like a whisper. The floors creak beneath my feet, groaning in protest like they haven’t been walked on in a while.

It’s small, a little worn, but warm in a way that makes my chest loosen. Parker darts from room to room like he’s on a treasure hunt, calling dibs on the one with the window that affords a view over the trees.

I follow, soaking it all in, the scuffed baseboards, the sunlight spilling across faded hardwood, and the faint tick of an old clock on the kitchen wall.

Eventually, we get to work.

We make trip after trip from the car, the air thick and salty as we haul in the essentials: structured canvas totes, soft leather duffels with worn handles, and sleek packing cubes that slot into place like a puzzle. Everything’s clean, tidy, and labeled.

Parker insists on carrying the “important stuff” himself, his T. rex tucked under one arm, a cloth-bound stack of picture books clutched to his chest, and his favorite cereal tucked in a reusable bag that rustles with each bouncing step.

By the time I reach for the last bag, an oversized weekender made of navy waxed canvas with buttery leather straps, the sun’s high in the sky, and I’m drenched. .

Thank god I'm nearly done.

Before I think about getting settled I'm going to get myself a shower and fix us some lunch.

I sling the heavy bag over one shoulder, but the weight shifts awkwardly, tugging against me.