Chapter 3 - Grant
I'm losing my mind.
This is the only logical explanation for what's happening right now—me, sitting at Chief Brock's dinner table, trying desperately not to stare at his daughter while she serves lasagna and smiles and flips her hair out of her eyes in that way that makes my heart race.
The universe is testing me. It must be.
"Grant? More lasagna?"
Ellie's holding the spatula over my plate, looking at me expectantly. There's a small smudge of tomato sauce on her cheek that she missed earlier, and it's taking every ounce of my self-control not to reach across the table and wipe it away with my thumb.
"Sure," I manage to say, like a normal person who isn't having an internal crisis. "It's great."
"Mom's recipe," she says with that smile—the one that lights up her whole face. "I've been perfecting it for years."
"It shows," I say, which sounds stupid even to my own ears, but she beams like I've said something profound.
Brock watches our exchange with an expression I can't quite read. There's something knowing in his eyes that makes me instantly wary. I've been careful, so careful, for two years. There's no way he's picked up on my feelings for Ellie. Is there?
"So," Brock says, refilling my beer without asking, "Ellie was just telling me about this counseling center job. Sounds perfect for her, don't you think, Grant?"
"Absolutely," I agree, keeping my tone even, professional. "Psychology was always a good fit for your skills."
"Because I'm nosy?" Ellie asks with a laugh.
"Because you listen," I correct before I can stop myself. "Really listen. Most people don't."
Something softens in her expression, and for a moment, we're just looking at each other across the table, the conversation suspended. I break eye contact first, focusing on my food.
Dangerous territory, Walker. Back it up.
"I've been thinking about the safety demonstrations," I say, deliberately changing the subject. "If you're serious about helping, we could meet next week to start planning. The first one is scheduled for July 10th at Cedar Elementary."
"Perfect," she says, and there's that smile again. "I'm free whenever. One of the perks of unemployment."
"You're not unemployed, you're in transition," Brock corrects her, sounding every bit the proud father. "And you've got an interview at the counseling center next Wednesday, right?"
"Dad," she groans, "don't jinx it."
"Just stating facts," he says, raising his hands in surrender. "Besides, Grant might need to know your schedule for planning purposes."
I nod, trying to look like this is important professional information and not a detail I'm already filing away. Ellie has an interview on Wednesday. For a job that would keep her in Cedar Falls. Permanently.
The thought sends equal parts thrill and dread through me.
"How about Monday?" I suggest, keeping my voice steady. "We could meet at the station in the morning. I'll show you the materials from last year."
"Monday works," she agrees.
"It's a date," Brock says, immediately adding, "figuratively speaking, of course."
I nearly choke on my beer. Ellie shoots her father a look that could melt steel.
"Dad," she says with forced sweetness, "didn't you say you wanted to show Grant those new fishing lures you bought?"
Brock chuckles. "Subtle, Ellie-bean. Real subtle."
"Ellie-bean?" I repeat before I can stop myself, a smile tugging at my lips.
Her cheeks flush pink. "Childhood nickname. Which was RETIRED approximately ten years ago." She glares at her father, who looks completely unrepentant.
"She used to bounce everywhere as a kid," Brock explains, ignoring his daughter's obvious embarrassment. "Like a jumping bean. Hence, Ellie-bean."
"Dad, I swear to God—"
"There are photos," he continues. "She had these pigtails that would—"
"That's it," Ellie stands abruptly. "I'm getting dessert, and when I come back, we're talking about literally anything else."
She disappears into the kitchen, and I immediately miss her presence, which is pathetic and concerning in equal measure.
Brock leans forward slightly. "She's happy you're here," he says quietly. "Been talking about seeing you since she decided to move back."
"She's always been close to the whole crew," I say.
Brock gives me a look I can't quite interpret. "Sure," is all he says, before straightening as Ellie returns with a chocolate cake.
"Store-bought," she admits, setting it down. "I make a mean lasagna, but my baking skills are still a work in progress."
"Looks great," I say, because apparently I've now lost the ability to speak in sentences longer than three words when she's around.
Dessert passes in a blur of chocolate and casual conversation. Brock dominates the discussion with stories from the station, which I'm grateful for. It gives me a chance to collect myself, to remember who I am and why I'm here. I'm Grant Walker, firefighter at Cedar Falls Fire Department. I'm 42 years old. I'm having dinner with my best friend and his daughter. That's all this is.
Except it isn't. Not to me. Not for a long time now.
After cake, Brock excuses himself to take a call from the station, leaving Ellie and me alone at the table.
"Thanks for coming tonight," she says finally. "It's good to see you."
"You too," I reply, meaning it more than she could possibly know. "Congratulations again on graduating. Psychology's not an easy major."
"Neither is fighting fires," she counters with a smile. "Dad says you're being considered for Chief when he retires."
I shrug uncomfortably. "It's a possibility. Nothing's decided."
"You'd be great at it." There's such genuine belief in her voice that it catches me off guard.
"Thanks," I say, not knowing what else to add.
Another silence falls, but it's not entirely uncomfortable. Ellie fiddles with her napkin, and I take the opportunity to really look at her. She's changed since I last saw her at Christmas. There's a new confidence in the way she holds herself, a maturity in her eyes that wasn't there before. She's always been beautiful, but now there's something more—a self-assurance that's undeniably attractive.
And I need to stop thinking like this immediately.
"I should probably get going," I say, pushing back from the table. "Early shift tomorrow."
"Oh," she says, and I swear there's disappointment in her voice. "Right, of course."
We both stand, and suddenly we're much closer than I expected, just a foot of space between us. I can smell her shampoo—something citrusy and sweet—and see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes. My gaze drops briefly to the smudge of sauce still on her cheek.
"You've got a little..." I gesture vaguely to my own face.
"What?" Her hand flies up, missing the spot entirely. "Where?"
Before I can think better of it, I reach out and gently wipe the sauce from her cheek with my thumb. Her skin is soft and warm beneath my touch, and I pull back quickly as if burned.
"Got it," I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
She's staring at me with wide eyes, her lips slightly parted in surprise. For one insane moment, I wonder what would happen if I leaned down and kissed her right now. The thought is so vivid, so tempting, that I have to step back to break the spell.
"Thanks," she whispers.
"No problem," I reply, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep them to myself. "I'll, uh, see you Monday? Nine o'clock at the station?"
She nods, tucking that same loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll be there."
I should turn and walk away. I should find Brock, thank him for dinner, and leave. I should do anything except stand here, looking at her like she's water and I've been lost in the desert.
"Ellie," I start, not knowing what I'm going to say but feeling like I need to say something.
"Yeah?" There's a hopeful note in her voice that makes this even harder.
I swallow hard. "The lasagna was really good. Best I've ever had."
It's not what I wanted to say. Not even close. But it's safe. And I need to play it safe.
Her smile dims slightly, but she recovers quickly. "Thanks. I'll send you home with leftovers."
Brock returns before I can respond, clapping me on the shoulder. "Everything good with you two?"
"Great," Ellie says brightly, though there's something forced in her cheerfulness now. "Grant was just saying he needs to head out. Early shift tomorrow."
"Right, right," Brock nods. "I'll walk you out, buddy."
I follow him to the door, looking back once to see Ellie collecting plates from the table. She glances up, catches me watching, and gives a small wave that twists something in my chest.
Outside, the evening air is cool against my face. I take a deep breath, trying to clear my head.
"Thanks for dinner," I say to Brock. "Tell Ellie thanks again for the lasagna."
"Will do." He crosses his arms, studying me in the porch light. "You okay? You seem... distracted."
I force a casual shrug. "Just tired. Long day."
He nods slowly, not entirely convinced. "Listen, I'm glad you and Ellie are going to work together on those safety demos. She needs something positive to focus on right now."
"Is everything okay?" I ask, immediately concerned.
"Oh, sure," he waves a hand dismissively. "Just the usual post-graduation anxiety. Figuring out her place in the world. You know how it is."
I nod, though I can't really relate. At 22, I was already in the military, my path clearly defined.
"She's always looked up to you, you know," Brock continues. "Even as a teenager. Always asking about you when I came back and you were still deployed, making sure I sent you those care packages she put together."
This is news to me. "She put those together?"
"Most of them," he confirms with a smile. "Said you needed reminders of home."
I remember those packages—cookies, books, silly drawings and notes that made even the worst days bearable. I'd always assumed they were from Brock, maybe with some input from Ellie. The realization that she was behind them all along does something complicated to my insides.
"I didn't know that," I admit.
"She's got a big heart, my girl," Brock says, a father's pride evident in his voice. "Just like her mother."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Sarah was one of the kindest people I'd ever known, welcoming me into their home like family when I first met Brock in the military. She died when Ellie was sixteen—cancer. It devastated both Brock and Ellie. I'd been deployed at the time but had come back for the funeral. I remember Ellie then—tall and gangly, her face tear-streaked but determined to be strong for her father.
"Well," I say, clearing my throat, "I should get going. Thanks again."
Brock nods and claps me on the shoulder. "See you tomorrow at the station."
I walk to my truck, feeling his eyes on my back. As I slide into the driver's seat, I glance back at the house. Through the window, I can see Ellie in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher. She straightens and looks out, directly at my truck, though I doubt she can see me in the darkness.
I start the engine and pull away before I can do something stupid, like go back inside.
The drive to my apartment is short but gives me just enough time to berate myself thoroughly. I'm attracted to my best friend's daughter. I'm twenty years older than her. I've known her since she was a teenager. There are so many reasons why this is wrong, why I need to get these feelings under control.
And yet, the memory of her smile, the feel of her skin beneath my thumb, the way she looked at me across the dinner table—these things follow me into my apartment, lingering like ghosts I can't exorcise.
I grab a beer from the fridge and drop onto my couch, rubbing a hand over my face. Monday. I'll see her on Monday. The thought both thrills and terrifies me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text message. From her.
*Thanks for coming tonight. It was really great to see you. Looking forward to Monday! -Ellie*
I stare at the message, reading it over and over. It's perfectly innocent. Friendly. Appropriate. So why does it make my heart race like I'm back in that burning warehouse?
I type half a dozen responses, deleting each one before settling on something safe.
*Thanks for dinner. See you Monday.*
I hit send, then immediately regret how curt it sounds. I quickly type another message.
*The lasagna really was incredible.*
Better, but still not quite right. Before I can overthink it further, I add one more text.
*It's good to have you back in Cedar Falls.*
As soon as I send it, I wish I could take it back. It's too personal, too revealing. But it's also true. Despite all the complications, despite knowing this attraction is inappropriate and impossible to act on, I am glad she's back.
And that's the problem.
I set my phone down and take a long pull from my beer. Monday suddenly feels both too near and too far away. Four years of maintaining distance, of seeing her only during holidays and brief visits, and now she's back for good. Working with me. In the same town. Possibly on the same safety project for weeks.
I'm so screwed.
I finish my beer and head to the bathroom, stripping off my clothes for a shower. As the water runs hot over my shoulders, I try to clear my mind, to focus on anything except Ellie. It doesn't work. Her face, her laugh, her voice—they're all there, imprinted on my brain like a brand.
I rest my forehead against the cool tile and let the water cascade down my back. This has to stop. I need to get these feelings under control before I do something I can't take back, something that would hurt Brock and ruin everything.
Monday. I'll see her Monday.
And somehow, I need to figure out how to look at her without wanting what I can never have.