Returning to the Ex-Military Firefighter (Bloomfield: Fire Station #6)

Chapter 1 — Tess

The building is exactly what I expected, brick and concrete, functional rather than charming, with bay doors open to the June morning and the chrome gleam of fire engines visible from the street.

I've conducted dozens of station assessments in the past seven years. This is just another one.

Except it's not, and I know it, and the fact that I'm sitting in my car giving myself a pep talk instead of walking through those doors proves it.

James Callahan is the captain here. I've known that since the assignment email arrived Monday morning.

I've had three days to prepare myself, to build the professional armor I wear when I need it most, to convince myself that fourteen years is long enough that seeing him again won't feel like anything.

I was wrong.

I grab my bag, step out of the car, and the heat hits immediately. The thick, restless warmth of early summer that makes everything feel slower and closer than it should. The smell of cut grass drifts from somewhere nearby, mixing with asphalt and the faint mechanical tang of the station itself.

I'm wearing black pants that fit well, a grey blouse that's professional without being stiff, and shoes I can actually walk in. My hair is in a low ponytail because anything else is a liability on a station tour. I look competent. I look like someone who knows exactly what she's doing.

I look nothing like the twenty-year-old girl who spent eight weeks falling for a man who was too old for her and too guarded to stay.

The thought makes me straighten my shoulders and cross the parking lot before I can second-guess myself.

The bay is loud with the particular echo that comes from high ceilings and concrete floors. Two engines, a ladder truck, equipment I'll need to inspect later.

A man in navy station-wear is checking something on the pumper, his back to me. Dark blond hair, broad shoulders. Not James.

"Can I help you?"

I turn. The voice belongs to a younger guy, mid-thirties maybe, with an easy smile and the kind of energy that fills a room before he's finished walking into it. His name tape says Murphy.

"Tess Holt," I say, keeping my voice level. "County fire investigator. I'm here to see Captain Callahan."

"Right, the assessment." Murphy's smile doesn't fade. "He's expecting you. I'll grab him."

He disappears through a doorway, and I'm left standing in the bay with the summer heat pouring through the open doors and my pulse doing something it absolutely should not be doing.

I count to ten. Then twenty.

Then I hear footsteps, and I turn, and there he is.

James Callahan at thirty-four was attractive in a way that made my twenty-year-old brain short-circuit. Solid and steady and entirely sure of himself, with dark eyes that paid attention and hands that knew what they were doing.

James Callahan at forty-eight is something else entirely.

The dark hair has gone silver at the temples and through the beard he's keeping trimmed close. There are lines at his eyes that weren't there before, a weathering that makes him look less like someone trying to hold it together and more like someone who already has.

He's still broad through the shoulders, still built like someone who's spent decades doing work that matters, but he's settled into it now. Comfortable in his own skin in a way he wasn't back then.

He's also looking at me like I just walked out of a memory he wasn't prepared to revisit.

For three full seconds, neither of us says anything.

"Tess." My name in his voice does something to my chest I'm not ready to examine. "It's been a while."

A while. Fourteen years is a while the way the Grand Canyon is a ditch.

"Captain Callahan." I'm impressed by how steady I sound. "Thanks for accommodating the assessment on short notice."

His mouth does something that's not quite a smile. "It's James. And the county doesn't really do requests, so."

"No," I agree. "We don't."

There's another beat of silence, and I'm suddenly, acutely aware that Murphy is standing in the doorway watching this interaction with poorly concealed interest, and that I'm supposed to be professional, and that the way James is looking at me is not helping.

"Should we start with the tour?" I ask, because someone needs to move this forward and it's clearly going to be me.

"Yeah. Of course." James shifts, gestures toward the bay. "We'll start here, then I'll show you the rest of the station."

Murphy disappears back through the doorway, and James moves just close enough that I catch the scent of him, familiar in a way that makes my stomach tighten.

These are going to be two very long days…

"We'll start here," James says, gesturing to the gleaming red engine closest to us. "This is Engine 7, our primary response vehicle. Two thousand gallon per minute pump, fifteen hundred gallon tank."

He moves to the side of the truck and I follow, pulling out my tablet to take notes. His hand rests on the chrome panel, and I notice the scars across his knuckles that weren't there fourteen years ago.

"When was the last pump test?" I ask, keeping my voice level.

"April. Full flow test, all parameters within spec." He glances at me. "I can pull the documentation."

"I'll need to see it."

He nods and moves around to the other side of the engine, and I trail after him, trying not to notice the way he moves. The same economical precision I remember, nothing wasted. He opens a compartment and starts pointing out equipment.

"High-rise packs here, ground ladders on top, hand tools in the lower compartments. Everything's secured to NFPA standards."

I make notes on my tablet, but I'm acutely aware that we're standing in a relatively narrow space between the engine and the wall. If I shifted six inches to the left, I'd brush against him.

I don't shift.

"Maintenance schedule?" I ask.

"Weekly apparatus checks, monthly pump service, annual ladder testing." His voice is even, professional. "All logged digitally. I can show you the system."

"That would be helpful."

He moves past me toward the ladder truck, and I catch the scent of him—soap and coffee and something underneath that's just him. Familiar in a way that makes my stomach tight.

The ladder truck is massive, taking up most of the second bay. James runs his hand along the side as he walks, like he's done this a thousand times.

"One hundred foot aerial, five hundred gallon tank. We did a full refurb two years ago—new hydraulics, updated controls." He stops and looks back at me. "You want to see the aerial mechanism?"

"Yes."

He moves to the operator's panel and starts explaining the controls. I stand beside him, close enough to see the silver threaded through his beard, the small scar above his left eyebrow that I don't remember.

"Stabilizers deploy here," he says, pointing. "Safety interlocks prevent operation unless the truck is level. We test the system monthly."

I'm writing this down, or trying to, but my hands aren't entirely steady. Being this close to him is doing things to my concentration that are absolutely unprofessional.

"Can you demonstrate the stabilizers?" I ask.

"Not safely inside the bay. But I can show you the test logs."

"That works."

We move back through the bay, past the rescue vehicle, toward the door that leads to the rest of the station. James holds it open for me, and I walk through, hyperaware of the six inches of space between us as I pass.

The hallway is narrow. Our shoulders almost brush.

"Kitchen and common room are through here," he says, leading the way. "Crew quarters upstairs, my office down the hall."

The kitchen is exactly what I expected—long counter, commercial stove, refrigerator covered in schedules and notes, a table that seats eight. The common room connects to it in one open space, with a worn sofa and mismatched chairs and a TV mounted on the wall.

The windows are open. Afternoon light falls across the table in slanted bars.

"You maintain food service records?" I ask, because I need to say something professional.

"All logged. Health inspection was last month, came back clean."

I make a note, even though I already knew that. It was in the preliminary file.

We move through to the hallway again, and James shows me the workout room. Then the crew quarters upstairs, six bunks with partial dividers, the particular lived-in quality of a space that's actually used.

"Sleeping arrangements rotate based on shift," he explains. "Everyone has a designated bunk, but it's flexible depending on who's on rotation."

I'm looking around the room, taking in the details, when I realize he's watching me.

"What?" I ask.

"Nothing. Just—" He stops. "This must feel routine for you. You've done this how many times?"

"Forty-three stations. This is forty-four."

"And they all look the same after a while?"

"Most of them."

But not this one. This one has him in it, and that makes it different from every other station I've assessed.

We head back downstairs, and he shows me his office. It's small, glassed in on one side so he can see the bay. His desk is covered in papers and files and a coffee mug that says "World's Okayest Dad" that must be from Maya.

The thought of his daughter makes something in my chest shift. He has a whole life I'm not part of. A daughter who's nineteen now. A decade in this town. A crew that depends on him.

I'm just here to do a job.

"Records are organized by quarter," he says, moving behind the desk. "Training logs are in the blue binders, incident reports in the red. Maintenance documentation is digital, I can pull it up if you need it."

"I'll need all of it."

He nods and starts pulling files from a drawer, and I watch his hands move. The same hands that used to touch me. The same hands that know exactly what they're doing.

I look away.

"This should cover the basics," he says, setting a stack of binders on the desk. "Anything specific you want to see first?"

"I'll work through it systematically. Training records, then incident reports, then maintenance logs."

"Whatever you need."