The Rookie Firefighter (Whitetail Falls: Fire Station #5)
Chapter 1 – Michelle
Clay slips through my fingers like cool silk as I center it on the wheel, the familiar pressure against my palms grounding me in the present moment.
The rhythmic hum of the pottery wheel fills my studio as I press my thumbs into the center of the mound, creating the first depression that will eventually become a mug.
Morning light filters through the frosted windows of my converted garage studio, catching dust motes and clay particles that dance in the air. The space smells of earth and minerals, that distinctive clay scent that clings to my clothes, my hair, probably my soul at this point.
I've been at this since five a.m., determined to finish another batch for the kiln before I need to run errands.
I lift my hands, watching the cylinder form rise between my fingers, wet and perfect. A strand of hair falls across my face, and I blow it away, not daring to touch it with my clay-covered hands.
After trimming the excess clay from the base, I set the mug aside on my drying shelf, where dozens of other pieces in various stages of completion wait their turn.
The Winter Artisan Market is my biggest event of the year, and this year I need it to be exceptional. My dream of expanding the studio depends on it. My brother thinks I should just apply for a small business loan, but I want to do this on my own terms. My way.
I wipe my hands on my apron and step back to survey my kingdom: shelves of bisque-fired pieces awaiting glazing, my electric kiln glowing faintly in the corner, string lights draped across exposed beams casting a warm glow over everything.
My industrial kiln hums steadily, currently firing a batch of mugs and small bowls that should be ready by tomorrow. I check the temperature gauge—right on schedule.
I've named the kiln Bertha, partly because she's big and temperamental, but mostly because talking to her makes me feel less alone during the long hours of creating.
"Looking good, Bertha," I say, patting her metal exterior gently. "Keep up the good work."
I glance at my watch and realize I need to head into town if I want to pick up the special glazes I ordered before noon.
I quickly wash my hands, scrubbing under my fingernails to remove the stubborn clay, and change out of my clay-splattered smock.
A quick check in the small mirror by the door reveals a smudge of blue glaze on my cheek.
I rub it away, pull my hair out of my face, and grab my coat.
The winter air hits me like a wake-up call as I lock the studio door behind me. My breath forms clouds in front of my face as I walk the short distance from my cottage to Main Street.
Whitetail Falls in December is straight out of a Hallmark movie—twinkling white lights wrapped around every lamppost, pine garlands draped across storefronts, and the massive town Christmas tree standing proud in the square.
The scent of pine and woodsmoke hangs in the air, mingling with the occasional waft of cinnamon from the coffee shop.
The temperature has dropped since yesterday, and my boots crunch satisfyingly through a thin layer of fresh snow. As I approach the craft store, I decide to make a quick detour for coffee. The glazes can wait five more minutes, and my hands are already missing the warmth of my studio.
The bell above The Enchanted Bean's door jingles merrily as I enter.
Heat and the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans envelop me, along with the sound of laughter.
Logan and Bradley, both firefighters from my brother's station, are at the counter, engaged in what appears to be a heated debate with Ellie, the barista.
"—clearly the best Christmas movie of all time," Logan is saying as I approach.
"Die Hard is not a Christmas movie," Ellie responds, rolling her eyes as she steams milk. "It's an action movie that happens to take place at Christmas."
"Michelle!" Bradley notices me first, his face lighting up. "Perfect timing. Settle this for us."
I unwrap my scarf, smiling at their familiar banter. "I just came in for coffee, not to referee the annual Die Hard debate."
"See?" Ellie points her spoon at me. "Michelle knows it's an annual debate because it's not settled. Because it's not a Christmas movie."
Logan throws his hands up. "Hawkins family betrayal. Your brother agrees with me."
"Paul would agree with anyone who keeps him supplied with those peanut butter cookies you bake," I point out, stepping up to the counter. "Can I get a—"
"Vanilla latte, extra hot, with almond milk," Ellie finishes for me, already reaching for a cup.
The door jingles again, sending a brief chill through the warm café. I glance over my shoulder and my breath catches slightly in my throat.
Austin Rivers stands in the doorway, shaking snow from his dark hair. His WFFD sweatshirt is dusty from what I assume was morning training, his cheeks flushed from the cold. His gaze sweeps the room and lands on me, and a side smirk forms on his lips.
There's something about him that draws attention without demanding it, an easy confidence in the way he moves.
I've overheard Logan teasing Paul about how Austin's become "Whitetail Falls' most eligible bachelor" since joining the department.
It's not hard to see why, though I've never really let myself notice before.
"Hey," he says, moving to stand beside me at the counter.
"Morning," I respond, suddenly aware of how disheveled I must look. "Early drill today?"
Austin nods, running a hand through his hair. "Chief had us running hose drills in the snow. Said we needed to practice in 'real conditions.'" He mimics my brother's serious tone so perfectly that I laugh.
"Your impersonation's getting better," I tell him, grinning despite myself.
"Three demerits last month for 'inappropriate humor during drill,'" Austin admits with a shrug. "Worth it though. Your brother secretly loves it, he just can't let the rookie win."
"Rookie?" I raise an eyebrow. "Hasn't it been, like, almost a year?"
"I'll be 'the rookie' until someone newer comes along," he explains. "Station tradition."
"Your usual, Austin?" Ellie interrupts, already writing on a cup.
"Please," he says, then adds with a playful wink, "Extra hot, like my calendar photo."
Ellie rolls her eyes but can't hide her smile.
"Are you getting ready for the Winter Market? Your brother mentioned you've been working around the clock." He asks after turning back to me.
"Paul has a big mouth," I say, but there's no heat in it. "But yes, final push. You'll be there, right? The department always has a booth."
"We'll be there. Safety demonstrations, calendar sales, the works." He hesitates, then adds, "I heard your booth is always the highlight."
Something about the way he says it makes my cheeks warm. "That's an exaggeration, but I do make a pretty great hot chocolate mug."
Logan coughs dramatically. "If you two are done with whatever this is, some of us have a fire station to get back to."
Austin's ears redden slightly. "Right, coffee and go." He reaches past me to pay for both our drinks, waving off my protest. "Consider it a thank you for the mug you made for the station kitchen. Everyone fights over it."
"That's... thank you." The words feel inadequate, but he seems to understand, nodding as he takes his coffee from Ellie.
"See you at the market if not before," he says, and then he's following Logan and Bradley out the door, leaving me with a vanilla latte and a strange flutter in my stomach that I choose to attribute to caffeine.
Back at the studio, with new glazes unpacked and arranged on my workbench, I lose myself in the rhythm of dipping and brushing.
The afternoon passes in a blur of color and concentration, my hands moving almost independently of my thoughts, which keep drifting back to the café. To Austin's smile. To that moment of connection that felt both new and familiar.
I shake my head, redirecting my focus to the celadon green glaze I'm applying to a set of dessert plates. The color reminds me of pine trees against snow, perfect for the winter theme I've planned for my booth.
I've arranged my display a dozen times in my head—the hanging mugs with their forest motifs, the nesting bowls with their gradient blues, the statement pieces that showcase my most intricate carving work.
Bertha the kiln makes a sound I haven't heard before, a faint clicking followed by a subtle change in her usual hum. I pause, brush mid-air, listening. The clicking stops. Probably nothing, but I make a mental note to check the manual later.
The kiln is only two years old, but I've been pushing it hard this season.
As twilight settles outside my windows, I stand back to survey the day's progress.
Rows of freshly glazed pieces wait to be fired, their surfaces still wet and gleaming under the string lights.
Tomorrow they'll transform in the fire, colors deepening, glazes melting into glassy finishes that will surprise me no matter how many times I witness the process.
I stretch, feeling the pleasant ache of a productive day in my shoulders. The kiln casts an orange glow across the floor, steady and comforting. Old jazz plays softly from my speakers, and outside, the first stars appear in the darkening sky.
Everything feels right in this moment—my hands still carrying the memory of clay, my mind full of possibilities, my heart quietly humming with an unexpected new awareness.
The kiln makes that unfamiliar sound again, a little louder this time, but I'm too caught in the flow of creativity to give it more than a passing thought.
Instead, I sit at my work table, pull my sketchbook close, and begin planning tomorrow's pieces, my pencil moving across the page as Bertha's orange glow bathes everything in warm light.