Chapter 4 - Ellie
I've changed my outfit four times already, and it's only 8:15 AM.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter to my reflection as I tug off shirt number four – a blouse that suddenly seems too formal for a meeting about teaching children to stop, drop, and roll. "You're not going on a date with People Magazine's Sexiest Firefighter Alive. You're going to work. With actual professional firefighters who will absolutely not notice or care what you're wearing."
Except one firefighter might notice. And I desperately, pathetically want him to notice, which is the whole problem.
I finally settle on a cute blue v-neck tee and my "make my butt look good" jeans – casual enough to seem effortless but strategic enough that I feel like I've done my due diligence in the "look attractive for your hopeless crush" department.
The last few days have been straight out of a teenage rom-com, except I'm 22 with a psychology degree and should absolutely know better. After Grant left Friday night, I spent approximately 11 hours analyzing every microsecond of our interaction. That thumb brushing my cheek? The way his eyes lingered on my lips for 0.3 seconds? The text saying it was good to have me back in Cedar Falls that I've re-read approximately 47 times?
Either I'm delusional, or Grant Walker might actually see me as more than his best friend's annoying daughter. The possibility has kept me awake for three nights straight, during which I've constructed elaborate fantasies where he dramatically confesses his feelings for me while rescuing me from some non-life-threatening but very cinematic emergency.
"Pull yourself together, woman," I command my reflection, applying mascara with perhaps more aggression than necessary. "Professional. Friendly. Not thirsty."
I check my phone. 8:27 AM. If I leave now, I'll be fifteen minutes early, which says "eager but professional" rather than "I've been counting the minutes until I see you again."
Dad's already gone for his shift, but he left a note on the kitchen counter that makes me want to simultaneously hug him and move to another continent:
*Good luck with Grant today. Don't do anything I wouldn't do! – Dad*
"And what exactly does THAT mean?" I demand of the empty kitchen, my cheeks heating up. Does he know about my pathetic crush? Has he noticed Grant acting differently around me? Is my own father actually... encouraging this?
I grab my keys and a travel mug of coffee (caffeine: the official sponsor of my emotional stability) and head out before I can change my outfit for a fifth time or analyze Dad's note any further.
The drive to the fire station takes less than ten minutes, during which I practice casual opening lines like I'm preparing for an audition.
*Hey, Grant! Ready to save some kids from imaginary fires?* Too weird.
*Morning! Hope your weekend was good!* Too generic.
*I've thought about your hands on my face every waking moment since Friday night.* ABSOLUTELY NOT.
I park in the visitor spot and check my reflection one last time. Hair down in what I hope are casual waves, minimal makeup that took 30 minutes to apply, outfit that says "I absolutely did not try this hard for you." Perfect.
Taking a deep breath that does nothing to calm my racing heart, I grab my notebook and head inside. The station is buzzing with morning activity – Lewis checking equipment, Max and Ollis discussing something by the coffee maker. No sign of Dad or Grant yet.
"Ellie!" Max spots me first, his face breaking into a wide grin. "The prodigal daughter returns! Your dad mentioned you were coming in today."
"Hey, Max," I smile, accepting his bear hug. "How's life as a stepdad treating you?"
"Tyler put ketchup in my shoes yesterday, so it's going great," he laughs. "He's starting T-ball next week. You should come watch him strike out repeatedly while we all cheer like he's hit a home run."
"I wouldn't miss it," I say sincerely. "Is, um, Grant around?" I try for casual but miss by approximately a mile.
Max's eyes twinkle with the dangerous look of someone who knows exactly what's going on. "In his office. Second door on the right." He leans in. "He's checked his watch every two minutes for the past half hour and changed his shirt twice this morning."
"He probably just had coffee stains," I say, aiming for dismissive but landing somewhere around "desperately hopeful."
"Uh-huh," Max grins. "Whatever you say, Ellie-bean."
I glare at him with the heat of a thousand suns. "Did my dad put you up to that nickname?"
"What? It's adorable!" He dances away as I swat at his arm. "Almost as adorable as the way you blush whenever someone mentions Grant."
"I hate you," I declare, but I'm smiling as I head toward the hallway. "I'm telling Jennie you're being mean to me."
"She already knows I'm a lost cause!" he calls after me.
With each step toward Grant's office, my pulse accelerates. This is absurd. I'm a grown woman with a literal degree in human behavior. I should be able to control my body's reaction to a man who is probably just being nice to his best friend's daughter.
His door is open, and I can see him at his desk, frowning at his computer screen with the intensity of someone solving world hunger rather than what's probably just an email about fire extinguisher inventory. He's wearing his navy uniform shirt, and his dark hair is slightly damp, as if he showered right before coming in. The sight of him makes my mouth go dry, and my brain cells pack up and leave for vacation.
I knock lightly on the doorframe. "Morning."
Grant looks up, and for a split second, his face transforms – surprise, pleasure, and something else flashing across his features before he schools his expression back to professional neutrality. But I saw it. I definitely saw it.
"Ellie," he says, standing up so quickly he bumps the desk. "You're early."
"Is that a problem? I can go sit in my car and pretend I just arrived if that works better for your schedule," I joke, immediately wanting to kick myself. Why am I like this?
"No, no," he says quickly. "Early is good. Great, actually. Come in."
I step into his office, immediately noticing how meticulously organized everything is – files in perfect stacks, pens aligned by size, everything in its place. The man even color-codes his sticky notes. It's both impressive and slightly concerning.
"I brought coffee," I say, lifting my travel mug. "But I see you already have some."
"Never too much coffee," he replies with a small smile that does illegal things to my internal organs. "Have a seat."
I settle into the chair across from his desk, crossing then uncrossing my legs. Grant sits back down, and I notice him take a deep breath, as if preparing to disarm a bomb rather than discuss fire safety with a recent psychology graduate.
"So," I say brightly, opening my notebook to a fresh page like the organized professional I am definitely pretending to be. "Fire safety demonstrations. Where do we start?"
Grant visibly relaxes at the business-like approach. "Right. I've pulled the materials from last year." He turns his computer screen so I can see it. "We visit four elementary schools, plus the summer camp at Cedar Lake. Basic fire safety for kids ages 5-12."
"Sounds straightforward enough," I say, scribbling notes. "What's my role going to be? Professional hand-puppet operator? Smoke alarm impersonator?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "I thought you could help with the presentations, maybe work with the younger kids especially. Your psychology background would be useful for making the information age-appropriate without scaring them."
I'm pleasantly surprised he's given this serious thought. "I could definitely do that. Maybe develop some interactive elements? Kids learn better when they're engaged and not being lectured about the dangers of matches by terrifying authority figures."
"Good idea," Grant says, looking genuinely impressed. "We have some basic props, but nothing very interactive."
For the next twenty-five minutes, we discuss ideas and logistics, and it's like the awkwardness melts away. I catch glimpses of the confident, thoughtful leader Dad's always described – the real Grant beneath all that stoicism and perfect posture.
"What about a simple song for the younger ones?" I suggest. "Something catchy about stop, drop, and roll that they'll remember when their sleeves catch fire at grandma's birthday candle-blowing ceremony?"
"Can you sing?" Grant asks, looking curious.
"Badly," I admit with a laugh. "But enthusiastically. Which is all you need for kindergarteners. They're not exactly Broadway critics."
His smile widens, and my heart does that stupid flippy thing again. "I'd like to see that."
"Be careful what you wish for," I warn. "Once I start singing, it's hard to get me to stop. Ask my shower head – it's heard my entire Taylor Swift repertoire."
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to crawl under his desk and die. Did I really just make a reference to me in the shower? To Grant Walker? Judging by the pink tinge suddenly visible on his cheeks, he's thinking the same thing.
"I mean," I stammer, "I sing in the shower. Like normal people. Not that you needed to know that. Or picture that. Oh God." I cover my face with my hands. "Can we pretend I didn't just say any of that, and you never have to picture me wet and naked? I MEAN—not wet and naked—just—SHOWERING—normal showering—"
I'm digging myself deeper with every word. But then I hear something rare and wonderful – Grant's full laugh. Not his usual restrained chuckle, but an actual laugh that makes me peek through my fingers.
"Consider it forgotten," he says, eyes crinkling at the corners.
I clear my throat. "So, um, when's the first demonstration? You said 11 th July, right?"
"July 10th at Cedar Elementary," he says, returning to business mode. "We should probably meet a few times before then to prepare materials and practice the presentation."
"Absolutely," I agree with suspicious enthusiasm. "I'm free whenever. Except Wednesday – I have that job interview."
"Right," he nods. "How about Thursday morning? After your interview, so you can let me know how it went."
"Thursday works."
"Good," he says, making a note on his calendar. "And Ellie?"
"Yes?" I look up to find him watching me with an intensity that steals my breath.
"Good luck with the interview. You'll be great."
Such simple words, but the sincerity in his voice makes them feel like poetry. "Thank you," I say softly.
A knock at the door interrupts our moment. Dad pokes his head in, eyebrows shooting up his forehead as he surveys the scene.
"There you are," he says to me with the subtlety of a foghorn. "Thought I heard your voice. How's the planning going?"
"Great," I chirp, probably too enthusiastically. "Grant was just bringing me up to speed on everything. Did you know children can operate fire extinguishers? I didn't know that."
“I see…” Dad's eyes bounce between us like he's watching a particularly interesting tennis match. "Don't let me interrupt," he adds, not budging from the doorway. "Just wanted to make sure you didn't lose track of time. You two seemed... engaged in conversation."
There's something in his tone that makes me want to throw my notebook at his head. Is he implying Grant might lose track of time while talking to me? Or that I would?
"We were just wrapping up," Grant assures him. "Ellie's got some great ideas for the demonstrations."
Dad smiles like he knows exactly what's going on. "I bet she does. My girl's always been creative." He winks at me, and I resist the urge to crawl under Grant's immaculately organized desk. "Staff meeting in 15 minutes. Ellie, you're welcome to stick around if you want to see the place."
I'm about to make up some excuse about helping our neighbor, Mrs. Finley, with her groceries when a burst of courage hits me like a splash of cold water. Why am I running away?
"Actually," I say, surprising myself and possibly everyone in a three-mile radius, "I'd love to stick around. If that's okay?"
Something flickers across Grant's face – surprise, panic, hope? – before he nods. "Of course it's okay."
"Perfect! Grant can show you around until our meeting. Right, Grant?"
Grant looks like someone just asked him to defuse a bomb while blindfolded. "Sure," he says after a brief hesitation. "Happy to."
"Great," Dad says, looking so pleased with himself I want to disown him on the spot. "I'll see you both at the meeting then."
With a final wink at me that has me contemplating witness protection programs, Dad disappears down the hallway, leaving Grant and me alone again.
"You don't have to stay," Grant says immediately. "I'm sure you have better things to do. Like... anything else."
"Do you not want me to?" I challenge, channeling bravery I definitely don't feel.
His eyes widen slightly. "No, that's not—I just meant—" He stops, takes a breath. "I'd like to show you around. If you want."
A warm glow spreads through my chest. "Good. Because I want to see everything. Especially that new shower room Dad mentioned the station got last year."
I'm KIDDING. I don't actually say that last part. What I actually say is: "Great! Lead the way, future chief Walker."
Grant gathers a few files from his desk. "Let me just drop these off first, then we can start the tour."
I follow him out of the office, shamelessly admiring the way his uniform shirt stretches across his shoulders. The station is busier now, with firefighters moving between tasks. Several call out greetings to me, and I wave back, feeling like I've returned home after a long absence.
"This place hasn't changed much," I observe as we walk. "Still smells like testosterone and protein shakes."
Grant's mouth quirks up. "Your dad believes in tradition. Says if something works, there's no need to change it."
"Except the coffee machine," I note, pointing to the sleek new espresso maker that looks like it could launch rockets. "That's definitely new."
"Max's contribution," Grant explains. "Said life's too short for bad coffee. He threatened to go on strike."
"A man with priorities," I nod approvingly.
We drop off the files in the admin office, then Grant leads me toward the main bay where the fire trucks are housed. Even though I've been here countless times growing up, I feel a renewed appreciation for the space – the gleaming red trucks, the neatly arranged equipment, everything in perfect order.
"This is the new engine," Grant explains, stopping beside a massive fire truck. "Arrived last month. Latest technology, faster response time."
I nod, pretending to be interested in the truck when really I'm just really noticing Grant standing close enough that our arms almost touch. He smells amazing – something sweet but subtle that makes me want to bury my face in his neck.
"Want to see inside?" he offers.