Chapter 2 - Ellie
I'm elbow-deep in cheese and béchamel sauce when I hear Dad's truck pull into the driveway. I’m nervous. Did he do it? Did he actually invite Grant like I asked? I'd tried to be casual about it this afternoon.
"You should invite Grant for dinner. I mean, if you want. No big deal. Just being neighborly."
Totally smooth. Not obvious at all that I've been planning this "casual" dinner since the moment I decided to come home to Cedar Falls.
I wipe my hands on the dish towel tucked into my waistband and frantically check my reflection in the microwave door. Oh God. I look like I was dragged backward through a hedge. My hair is escaping its messy ponytail in approximately seventeen different directions, there's a smudge of tomato sauce on my cheek, and my old Cedar Falls Wildcats t-shirt has definitely seen better days.
This is NOT how I envisioned looking when I saw Grant Walker for the first time in four months. In my fantasy, I was wearing that cute sundress I bought specifically for my homecoming, with my hair cascading in perfect waves down my back, looking mature and sophisticated and definitely not like Chief Brock's frazzled daughter.
The front door opens, and I hear two sets of footsteps. My pulse skyrockets. Dad's voice, and then another—deeper, more reserved. A voice that stars in approximately 98% of my daydreams.
Grant is here. In my house. And I look like a tornado survivor.
"Ellie?" Dad calls out. "Look who’s here."
"Coming!" I yelp, frantically wiping at the sauce on my face and only succeeding in smearing it further across my cheek. Perfect. Just perfect.
No time to change. No time to fix my hair. This is what I get for trying to be clever and "accidentally" have Grant show up for dinner. I take a deep breath, plaster on what I hope is a casual smile, and turn toward the kitchen doorway just as they walk in.
And there he is.
Grant Walker, six-foot-two of pure firefighter fantasy. His dark hair is shorter than at Christmas, his jaw more defined, and those stormy gray eyes meet mine for a millisecond before darting away. He's wearing a simple black t-shirt that hugs his arms in a way that should be illegal in at least forty-nine states.
"Grant!" I exclaim, my voice coming out an octave higher than normal. "What a surprise!"
Dad gives me a knowing look. "I invited him like you said."
I could murder him. Right here. In front of a witness and everything.
"Did I?" I ask. "I don't recall specifically saying Grant..."
Grant shifts his weight, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "I can go if this isn't a good time—"
"NO!" I practically shout, then immediately want to crawl into the oven with my lasagna. "I mean, no, stay. Please. There's plenty of food. I always make too much. Ask Dad. It's kind of a problem actually. I should probably see someone about it. A food therapist. Is that a thing?" I'm babbling. Why am I babbling?
Dad chuckles.
"I'll grab beers," he says, heading to the fridge and leaving me alone with the human equivalent of a Greek statue.
"How have you been?" I ask, trying to sound like a normal human woman and not a lovesick college graduate who just moved back home. "Dad mentioned you hurt your shoulder in that warehouse fire?"
Grant's eyebrows lift slightly, surprised I know this detail. As if I haven't been pumping Dad for information about him for years.
"It was nothing," he says with that stoic, manly dismissal that makes me want to simultaneously roll my eyes and swoon.
"A two-by-four to the shoulder isn't nothing," Dad corrects, returning and handing Grant a beer. "But he's too stubborn to admit when he's hurting. Always has been."
I watch as something passes between them—that unspoken bond forged in places I've only heard about in Dad's rare, serious moments. For a second, I feel like an outsider, reminded of all the history they share that I'm not part of.
"Dinner will be ready in about forty-five minutes," I say, putting the lasagna into the oven and trying not to bend over too far in these old jeans. "Just need to finish the salad and garlic bread."
"I'll help," Grant offers, taking a step toward me.
My brain short-circuits at the thought of working side by side with him in the kitchen, our arms potentially touching, maybe reaching for the same knife in a cute meet-cute moment except we've already met but still—
"Absolutely not," Dad interrupts my internal spiral. "You two sit. I'll make the salad. My baby girl just graduated college—she deserves a break."
"Dad," I groan, feeling my face heat up. Nothing says "see me as a desirable adult woman" like your father calling you "baby girl" in front of your crush. "I've been home doing nothing for two days. I'm perfectly capable of making salad."
"Humor me," Dad insists with a wink that is NOT subtle. "You and Grant catch up. He tells me you texted him about helping with the summer safety demonstrations?"
My eyes flick to Grant, who suddenly seems very interested in the label on his beer bottle. I'd sent that text immediately after Dad mentioned Grant's new assignment. When he didn't respond, I spent an embarrassing amount of time analyzing what I'd said wrong.
"Just offering an extra pair of hands," I say, aiming for casual and missing by about a mile. "I need something to keep me busy while I figure out my next steps."
Grant finally meets my gaze. "Could definitely use the help," he says, and my internal organs perform a choreographed dance routine.
"Great!" Dad claps his hands together. "It's settled then. You two can work out the details while I handle this." He starts pulling vegetables from the refrigerator.
I roll my eyes at Dad's transparent matchmaking. He's been doing this for years—finding excuses for me to spend time with his crew, especially Grant. I used to think it was just him wanting to keep me close to his firefighter family, but lately I've wondered if he's picked up on my feelings. The thought is mortifying. Am I that obvious?
(Yes. Yes, I am. My college roommate Tasha had a strict "Grant Talk" time limit after I spent an entire weekend analyzing a two-word text from him that just said "Stay safe" during a campus blizzard.)
"Let's go sit," I suggest to Grant, gesturing toward the living room.
He follows me, and it’s hard not to notice his strong presence behind me—his footsteps, the subtle scent of his soap that I catch as he moves past me to take a seat on the couch. I settle into the armchair across from him, tucking my legs beneath me and trying to look casual, sophisticated, and not at all like I'm mentally calculating the exact distance between us (seven feet, four inches, too far).
"So," I start, forcing brightness into my tone. "How have you been, really?"
Grant takes a sip of his beer before answering. "Good. Busy. The usual."
"Four years of psychology training tells me that's a deflection," I tease, channeling my inner confident woman who definitely exists somewhere inside me, probably hiding behind my insecurities and collection of romance novels.
The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smile, but not quite. "Four years of psychology training is dangerous in the wrong hands."
"Are my hands wrong?" The question comes out suggestive enough that I want to dive behind the couch and never emerge. Grant's eyes widen slightly, and I rush to change the subject. "I mean—tell me about these safety demonstrations. What would I be helping with exactly?"
He seems relieved by the pivot. "Basic fire safety for elementary schools. Stop, drop, and roll. How to call 911. Not playing with matches. That sort of thing."
"Sounds thrilling," I say with a smile, imagining us working together, maybe our hands accidentally touching as we pass out safety pamphlets, our eyes meeting over a child's head as we demonstrate the proper way to check if a door is hot...
"It's actually..." He pauses, and I snap back to reality. "It's good. The kids get excited. It feels worthwhile."
The sincerity in his voice makes my heart squeeze. This is the real Grant—the one I fell for underneath all that stoic exterior.
"I'd love to help," I say softly. "Really."
He nods, eyes seemingly searching something on my face and making me wonder if I still have sauce on my face. "When did you get back?"
"Yesterday afternoon. Long drive, but worth it to sleep in my own bed again." And to see you, I don't add.
"And your plans?" He sets his beer down on the coffee table.
"I'm not sure yet. I'm thinking about getting some practical experience first. There's an opening at the counseling center in town for an intake coordinator. Not exactly therapy work, but it would be a foot in the door."
I shrug, trying to look like a woman with options and not someone who pretty much applied for jobs in Cedar Falls to be closer to a man who probably sees me as a little sister.
"You'd be good at that," he says, and the simple confidence in his statement makes me want to tackle him right there on my dad's couch. Thankfully, my self-control prevails.
"Thanks." I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "What about you? Still living in that same apartment downtown?"
"Same place." He nods. "Not much changes with me."
I want to say that's not true—that I've watched him change over the years, opening up incrementally to the crew and finding his place in Cedar Falls. But that would reveal too much about how closely I've been watching him, like a slightly obsessive amateur anthropologist whose research subject happens to be the hottest firefighter in three counties.
"You know," I say instead, deciding to be brave, "I thought you were avoiding me earlier. When you didn't respond to my text."
His eyes dart away, then back to mine. "No. Just busy. End of shift."
It's a plausible excuse, but something doesn't ring true. Has he sensed my attraction? Is that why he keeps his distance? The thought sends a wave of embarrassment through me. Dad always says I wear my heart on my sleeve just like Mom did.
"So, did Dad really exaggerate about your shoulder, or are you in pain right now?" I ask, changing the subject.
Grant rolls his shoulder as if testing it. "It's fine."
"That's not what I asked," I press.
"It aches sometimes," he admits. "Nothing serious."
This small confession feels like winning the lottery. Grant Walker doesn't talk about pain—physical or otherwise.
"I have some arnica gel that might help," I offer, already imagining my hands massaging it into his shoulder, his skin warm beneath my fingers... Focus, Ellie. "I used it all through college when I'd get sore from hiking."
"You hike?" He seems genuinely surprised by this.
"Started sophomore year. There are some beautiful trails near campus." I smile, remembering. "It helped clear my head when classes got overwhelming."
"I didn't know that."
"There's probably a lot you don't know about me," I say, surprised by my own boldness. "It's been four years since I lived here full-time."
Something flashes in his eyes—curiosity maybe? "I suppose that's true."
We're interrupted by Dad calling from the kitchen. "Grant! Come settle a debate. Are the Raptors going to trade Mitchell or what?"
Grant hesitates, his eyes still on mine like he's trying to solve a complicated math problem where X equals "Why is Chief Brock's daughter looking at me like that?"
"Better go," I say with a small smile. "Otherwise, we'll never hear the end of it."
He nods and rises from the couch, and I allow myself one brief, indulgent moment to appreciate the view as he walks away. When he's out of sight, I exhale dramatically and flop back in the chair, pressing my hands against my cheeks, which feel as warm as the sun.
Four years of college, dating guys my own age, trying to get over this impossible crush, and yet here I am—still turning into a human disaster around Grant Walker. I should have a PhD in unrequited love by now.
I hear laughter from the kitchen—Dad's loud guffaw and Grant's lower chuckle—and my heart does that stupid flippy thing again. This was my idea—coming home, orchestrating this dinner—but now I'm second-guessing everything. What am I doing? Grant is twenty years older than me. He's my dad's best friend. He probably still pictures me as the gangly teenager who used to hang around the station after school.
With a sigh, I push myself up from the chair. Time to put on my game face and get through dinner without making a complete fool of myself. Again.
"Just in time," Dad says, nodding toward the oven timer that's started to beep. "Your masterpiece awaits."
I grab the oven mitts, suddenly very conscious of Grant's eyes on me as I bend to remove the bubbling lasagna. When I straighten and turn around, he's looking away, focused intently on helping Dad finish the salad.
But I didn't imagine it. And if I didn't imagine it...
I set the lasagna on the trivet with new determination. Maybe coming home wasn't such a bad idea after all. Maybe this impossible crush isn't so impossible.
Or maybe I'm about to make the biggest fool of myself in Cedar Falls history.
Either way, dinner is going to be interesting, to say the least.