Chapter 7 - Grant
"It's what I'm good at," I say simply. Then, immediately regretting the vulnerability in my voice, I add, "Not sure who I'd be without it, to be honest."
The moment the words leave my mouth; I want to take them back. This isn't a conversation I should be having with Ellie—this raw truth about my identity, my purpose. It's too personal and crosses too many of the boundaries I've set myself.
She looks at me with those perceptive eyes, right eyebrow raised, and head tilted slightly. "What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing," I say quickly, turning to adjust the projector that doesn't need adjusting. "We should get back to the presentation."
"Grant."
Just my name, but the way she says it—soft yet insistent—makes it impossible to dismiss her. Still, I try.
"Forget it, Ellie. It's not important."
I hear her sigh, then the sound of her footsteps crossing the classroom floor. Suddenly, she's right beside me, close enough that I can smell her citrus shampoo, close enough that I have to grip the edge of the desk to keep from reaching for her.
"What did you mean?" she asks again, her voice gentle but determined. "I'm right here, and you can trust me. You know that, right?"
I make the mistake of looking directly at her. Those eyes—warm brown with flecks of gold, wide with genuine concern—are my undoing.
"I know I can trust you," I admit, my voice rougher than intended. "That's part of the problem. I shouldn't."
"Shouldn't what? Trust me?" Her brows furrow in confusion.
"Shouldn't be telling you any of this. Shouldn't be alone with you in an empty classroom. Shouldn't be thinking about you the way I—" I cut myself off abruptly. "We need to focus on the presentation."
She makes a frustrated sound, then does something completely unexpected. She punches me lightly in the chest.
"What the hell?" I step back, more surprised than hurt.
"I am so tired of this!" she exclaims, eyes flashing with sudden anger. "So tired of trying and not understanding why you always push me away. Every time we get closer, every time you start to open up even a little, you slam the door shut. Why?"
The raw emotion in her voice catches me off guard. I've hurt her, I realize. Without meaning to, without wanting to, I've hurt her.
"You're younger than me, Ellie," I say, falling back on the excuse that feels safest. "You're Brock's daughter. My best friend's daughter."
She throws her hands up in exasperation. "Do you have any idea how tired I am of hearing that? Everyone in Cedar Falls treats me like I'm still sixteen. Like I'm still that shy teenager who used to hang around the station after school." She steps closer, her eyes never leaving mine. "I've grown up. I have a degree. I've lived on my own for four years. I want to be seen as a grown woman, as my own person. Not as 'Chief Brock's daughter' or 'that kid Ellie.'"
She's so close now I can see the faint freckles across her nose, count her eyelashes if I wanted to. And I do want to, which is exactly the problem. My hands are clenched at my sides, fingernails digging into my palms to keep from reaching for her.
"I see you," I say quietly, the admission slipping out before I can stop it. "I've always seen you, Ellie."
Something shifts in her expression—surprise, hope, something more dangerous than either. "Then why do you keep pushing me away?"
The question hovers between us, demanding an answer I'm not sure I'm brave enough to give. My chest rises and falls rapidly, my control slipping with every second she stands this close.
"After the military," I start, the words feeling rusty and unused, "I had no idea where to go or what to do with myself. I was good at being a soldier, but I hated... parts of it. The destruction. The harm. I missed helping people but couldn't stomach hurting others anymore." I swallow hard, memories of Afghanistan pressing close. "When your dad said I’d be perfect for firefighting and invited me to join the department, I came running. It gave me purpose again, an identity. After all these years, it's the best job I've ever had. I love it."
She listens intently, her anger fading to understanding. "And you're afraid of losing that? Because of me?"
"I can't lose this job," I confirm. "Can't lose your dad's respect. His friendship."
She scrunches her nose, a gesture so endearing it takes all my willpower not to trace it with my finger. "I don't understand how you can be so brave—running into burning buildings, saving lives—and yet be so afraid of me sometimes."
Her insight cuts straight through my defenses. "There's a reason for that."
"I'm curious to know what it is." She steps even closer, eliminating what little space remains between us.
God, she's beautiful. The sundress hugs her curves in a way that makes my bulge throb, the neckline just low enough to be tantalizing without being inappropriate. Her lips are full and slightly parted, tinted a soft rose color that might be natural or might be makeup—I don't know which, only that I want to taste them more than I've wanted anything in recent memory.
Her eyelashes flutter as she looks up at me, waiting for an answer I can't seem to form into words. There's only one way to tell her, to show her why I'm so afraid, why I've been keeping my distance.
Every shred of common sense, every boundary I've constructed, every promise I've made to myself about professional conduct and respecting Brock's trust—they all evaporate in the heat of this moment, in the warmth of Ellie's eyes looking up at me with such open want.
I surrender.
My hands finally release from their death grip at my sides, one moving to her waist while the other cups her cheek. Her skin is impossibly soft beneath my rugged palm. I feel her sharp intake of breath and see her eyes widen in momentary surprise before she squints them with something that mirrors the hunger I can no longer hide.
"This," I murmur, just before closing the final distance between us. "This is why."
And then I'm kissing her in the middle of an empty high school classroom, all regrets temporarily banished by the feel of her lips against mine.
The kiss starts gentle—a question, a test—but that lasts all of three seconds before Ellie makes a soft sound against my mouth and presses closer. Her hands fist in the front of my shirt, pulling me down to her, and any remnants of restraint I might have vanished like smoke.
I keep kissing her, my hand sliding from her cheek to the nape of her neck, fingers threading through her soft hair. She tastes like coffee and something sweet and kissing her feels like the first clear breath after years of drowning. I'm vaguely aware that I'm holding her too tightly, that this has escalated too quickly, but I can't seem to rein myself in.
Ellie matches my intensity, rising on her tiptoes, her body flush against mine. One of her hands releases my shirt to slide up my chest and around my neck, pulling me closer still, if that's even possible. I walk her backward until she meets the edge of the desk, never breaking the kiss. My hands span her waist, lifting her slightly to sit on the desktop, bringing us more level with each other.
She makes another sound—a soft moan that sends heat rushing through my entire body—and I know I need to stop this now before we cross lines that can't be uncrossed. With tremendous effort, I pull back, breaking the kiss but keeping my hands on her waist, not quite ready to let her go completely.
We're both breathing hard, staring at each other like we can't quite believe what just happened. I know I should apologize, should step back, should reestablish those necessary boundaries. But the sight of Ellie—lips swollen from my kisses, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded with desire—makes it impossible to regret what I've done.
"Well," she says finally, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "That was... informative."
Despite everything—the gravity of what just happened, the potential consequences, the lines crossed—I find myself chuckling. "Informative?"
"Mmm," she nods, her hands still resting lightly on my chest. "Very educational. Though I think I might need a repeat demonstration to fully grasp the concept."
"Ellie," I say, her name half warning, half plea. "We shouldn't have done that."
"And yet we did," she points out reasonably. "And the world didn't end. My dad didn't burst through the door with his fire axe. You're still a firefighter. I'm still a grown woman who knows exactly what she wants."
Her directness leaves me momentarily speechless. "This is complicated," I say finally.
"It doesn't have to be," she counters, her fingers idly playing with the top button of my shirt. "I like you, Grant. I have for a long time. And unless I'm completely misreading the situation—which, based on that kiss, seems unlikely—you like me too."
"Of course I like you," I admit, the understatement of the century. "That's never been the issue."
"Then what is?" she challenges. "My age? Dad? The job? None of those things change how we feel."
I take a deliberate step back, needing physical distance to think clearly. "All of those things matter, Ellie. I'm twenty years older than you. Your father trusts me. The department has rules about fraternization."
"My dad was ten years older than my mom," she argues. "And there's no fraternization because I don't work for the department. I'm a volunteer. As for Dad..." She hesitates. "He cares about both of us being happy. I think he'd understand."
"You don't know that," I counter, though a small part of me wonders about Brock's cryptic comments, his knowing looks, the way he keeps throwing us together.
Ellie slides off the desk, closing the distance I created. "I know that I'm tired of pretending I don't want this. Tired of watching you pull away every time we get close to something real. Tired of being treated like a child when I know exactly what—and who—I want."
The determination in her voice, the clarity in her eyes—it's intoxicating. And terrifying. Because if she's serious, if this is real, then everything changes.
"I could lose everything," I say quietly. "The job, your father's respect, my place here."
"Or," she suggests, her voice softening, "you could gain something new. Something you didn't even know you needed."
She reaches for my hand, twining her fingers with mine. Such a simple touch, yet my legs are shaking. "I'm not asking for promises, Grant. I'm just asking for a chance. For both of us."
I look down at our joined hands—her smaller, softer one fitting perfectly in mine. Everything logical, rational, responsible in me is screaming to pull away, to reestablish boundaries, to protect what I've built here in Cedar Falls.
But there's another voice, one that's been growing steadily louder since Ellie came back to town. One that whispers of possibilities, of connections deeper than friendship or duty, of a future I haven't allowed myself to imagine.
Years of restraint dissolve in an instant. I capture her lips again, but there's nothing slow about this kiss—it's hungry, desperate, unleashed. Her hands are at my shirt buttons, mine sliding up her thighs beneath the sundress.
"Are you sure?" I manage to rasp against her lips.
"I've never been surer of anything," she breathes, her fingers trembling slightly as she pushes my shirt off my shoulders.
Time blurs. Her sundress pools at her feet. My belt clatters to the floor. Every newly revealed inch of her skin is a revelation—thick thighs, soft curves, and warm flesh that I've denied myself for too long. I lift her onto the desk again, worshipping her neck with my lips, trailing downward to the lace edge of her bra.
"Fuck, Grant," she moans, her head falling back, fingers threading through my hair.
I've imagined this moment countless times, always followed by immediate guilt. But reality eclipses fantasy—the soft sounds she makes when I cup her breast through the lace, the way she whispers my name like a prayer, the heat of her skin beneath my palms.
She's bolder than I expected, her hands exploring my chest, my back, dipping to the waistband of my jeans. When she brushes against me through the denim, I groan against her collarbone.
"Too many clothes," she murmurs, reaching behind to unclasp her bra. "Need to feel you."
The sight of her—half-naked, flushed, eyes filled with desire—nearly undoes me. I slide my hands up her bare back, pulling her against my chest, skin to skin at last. The contact pulls a sound from deep in my throat, something between a groan and her name.
"You're so beautiful," I whisper, cupping her face with one hand while the other traces the curve of her waist. "I've wanted this for so long."
"Show me," she challenges, wrapping her legs around my hips and pulling me closer.
My hands find the edge of her underwear, hesitating one final moment. Years of restraint battle with present need. But when Ellie rocks against me, whimpering softly, restraint loses spectacularly.
I slide the lace down her legs, my control fraying with each second. Her hands are at my zipper now, determined and wanting. The classroom fades away—there's only Ellie, warm and willing in my arms, her lips against mine, her hands pulling me closer.
"I want you," she whispers against my mouth. "All of you."
It's reckless, irresponsible, and potentially catastrophic for everything I've built here. But looking into her eyes, feeling her heart race against mine, I can't find it in me to care.
For once in my disciplined life, I choose what I want over what I should do. I choose Ellie.