Chapter 6 - Ellie
"I still can't believe you're going to spend the morning with Firefighter McHottie while I'm stuck here watching Hallmark movies alone," Tasha's voice whines through my car speakers.
"Good morning to you, too, Tasha. And please never use the word 'McHottie' in the same sentence again."I mutter, turning onto Maple Street and heading toward Cedar Falls High School. Grant's text had surprised me this morning—changing our meeting place from the station to my old high school, where apparently we could use an empty classroom to practice our presentation.
"You didn't deny it," she points out gleefully. "I want full details later. What are you wearing? Please tell me it's not those mom jeans you think make you look professional."
"It's a sundress," I admit reluctantly.
"The daisy one that makes your boobs look amazing? YES!"
"My boobs do not—"
"They absolutely do, and you know it," she interrupts. "That's why you bought it. To torture Hot Firefighter Man with what he can't have."
"Grant," I correct automatically. "His name is Grant. He's my dad's best friend, and I'm not torturing anyone. This is a professional meeting about a children's program."
"Speaking of your dad," Tasha says, her voice shifting to a dreamy quality that makes me cringe, "When am I really meeting him?"
"You're going to flirt with him, aren't you? Or at least, try." I groan, pulling into the high school parking lot.
"I would never!" Tasha protests, then immediately contradicts herself. "His new profile picture on Facebook really brings out his eyes, though."
"He's literally old enough to be your father."
"So is Grant. Besides, he's almost fifty, not ancient," Tasha counters. "And that salt-and-pepper look is working for him."
"I'm hanging up now before I vomit in my car," I announce, spotting Grant's truck already parked near the entrance.
"Fine, abandon me," Tasha sighs dramatically. "But text me details later! I want to know if he stares at your lips again like last time!"
"That was ONE TIME and he was telling me I had sauce on my face!" I protest, but Tasha has already disconnected, her cackle the last thing I hear.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror, grateful I decided on the daisy sundress again. My hair cooperated for once, falling in soft waves, and I kept my makeup simple—just mascara and a tinted lip balm. The effect is casual but put-together, like I absolutely did not spend forty-five minutes getting ready this morning.
Grabbing my tote bag with my notes and materials, I take a deep breath and exit the car. Walking through the doors of Cedar Falls High School sends a wave of nostalgia crashing over me. The hallways look smaller than I remember, the trophy cases shinier.
Ten years ago, I was an awkward freshman roaming these halls, concerned about algebra tests and friend drama. Now I'm back as a college graduate with a psychology degree... and still fretting about a crush. Some things never change.
Following Grant's instructions, I head toward the science wing. Room 216 was my old chemistry lab, which feels oddly fitting —I'm certainly experiencing plenty of chemistry these days, just not the kind that involves beakers and Bunsen burners.
The door is propped open, and I peek inside to see Grant setting up a projector. He's wearing jeans and a dark blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms. Why are forearms so unfairly attractive on certain men? It should be illegal to have forearms like that in an educational setting.
I knock lightly on the doorframe. "Permission to enter the laboratory? I promise not to mix any dangerous chemicals."
Grant looks up, and there it is—that split-second transformation of his face before he schools it back into professional neutrality. But I caught it: surprise, pleasure, and something warmer. Something that gives me hope.
"Ellie," he says, straightening. "You found it okay."
"Well, I did spend four years of my life in this building," I remind him, stepping into the classroom. "Though I'm usually having anxiety dreams about showing up late to finals when I'm back here, not planning fire safety demonstrations."
He smiles slightly, and I count it as a win. "Thanks for being flexible about the location change. The principal called this morning—said we could use the space to practice since they're doing summer renovations anyway."
"It's perfect," I say, setting my bag on one of the student desks. "We can actually plan the presentation like we'll do it with the kids."
I pull out my folder of notes and the children's book on fire safety I found at the library yesterday. "I brought visual aids," I announce proudly, holding up the book. "And I've been working on my fire safety song. Prepare your eardrums."
"I'm braced for impact," Grant says with a hint of sarcasm.
"I brought coffee, too," I say, pulling two travel mugs from my bag. "One toxic-waste-free brew for you, black."
He looks genuinely touched by the gesture. "You didn't have to do that."
"Consider it insurance against you running away when I start singing," I reply with a grin, handing him the mug.
Grant clears his throat, stepping back slightly.
"So," he says, all business again. "I was thinking we could set up the room similar to a classroom at Cedar Elementary. The kindergarteners sit on a reading rug, older kids at desks."
"Perfect," I agree, moving to help him rearrange the furniture. "We can put the rug here, leave space for demonstrations there..."
For the next fifteen minutes, we work together transforming the high school chemistry lab into a mock elementary classroom. It's surprisingly comfortable, this teamwork—moving around each other, anticipating needs, building something together. I catch myself imagining what it would be like to do this in our home someday, arranging furniture and planning spaces...
We haven't even held hands, and I'm mentally decorating our future living room. Insane.
"That should work," Grant says, interrupting my fantasy as he steps back to survey our setup. "What do you think?"
"It's great," I nod, forcing my mind back to the present. "So I was thinking I could start with the younger kids—the song and the book—and then you could take over for the more technical demonstrations."
"Makes sense," he agrees. "You're better with the engagement part. I can handle the safety protocols."
"The perfect team," I say lightly, then immediately worry it sounds too forward. But Grant just nods, seemingly unperturbed.
"Let's hear this song you've been threatening me with," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching.
I feel heat rise to my cheeks. "Just remember you asked for this," I warn, clearing my throat dramatically. "I call it 'Stop, Drop, and Roll to the Beat.' It's, um, inspired by 'Baby Shark,' but with significantly fewer sharks and more fire safety."
Before I can second-guess myself, I launch into the ridiculous song I've been practicing in my shower, complete with hand motions:
"Stop, stop, stop when there's fire!
Drop, drop, drop to the ground!
Roll, roll, roll yourself over!
That's how you stay safe, wow!"
I finish with a flourish, then immediately want to crawl under the nearest desk. Grant is staring at me with an unreadable expression, and the silence stretches for what feels like an eternity.
Then, something amazing happens. Grant Walker—stoic, serious, never-cracks-a-smile Grant Walker—bursts out laughing. Not just a chuckle or a polite smile but actual, full-bodied laughter.
"That was..." he manages between breaths, "the most committed performance I've ever seen."
"Thank you," I say with an exaggerated bow. "I'll be here all week. Try the veal."
"The kids will love it," he says. "Especially with the hand motions."
"Good, because there's three more verses," I warn him. "By the end, they'll be rolling across the floor like little fireball-covered sushi rolls."
"Exactly what every fire department aims for," Grant deadpans, and I'm charmed by this glimpse of dry humor beneath his serious exterior.
We spend the next hour refining our presentation—me with my songs and books, Grant with his demonstrations of fire extinguisher use (minus the actual extinguisher) and evacuation procedures. It's the most animated I've ever seen him, explaining how to check if a door is hot during a fire and demonstrating the proper technique for crawling below smoke.
"You're really good at this," I observe as he runs through an explanation of smoke detector maintenance aimed at older elementary kids. "Breaking it down so it's not scary but still serious."
He looks surprised by the compliment. "You think so?"
"Definitely," I nod. "You'd be a great teacher in another life."
Never really thought about it. Teaching, I mean."
"It's not too late," I point out. "You could teach at the fire academy or something."
He considers this, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe someday. When I'm too old to run into burning buildings."
"Planning to do that for a while, huh?" I try to keep my tone light, but the thought of Grant running into danger makes my stomach clench with anxiety.
"It's what I'm good at," he says simply. Then, with a vulnerability that surprises me: "Not sure who I'd be without it, to be honest."