The Single Dad Firefighter (Whitetail Falls: Fire Station #2)

Chapter 1 – Gloria

This morning feels different, though. I've been awake since six, watching the season's first snow dust the streets from my apartment window. There's something magical about it, the way it clings to golden leaves not quite ready to surrender to winter, how it softens the edges of the world.

Now in the empty bookstore, sipping coffee from my chipped blue mug as I arrange a display of children's books for the town's winter reading drive, the warm lamplight catches on the gold embossed covers, making them glow like treasures.

"Perfect," I murmur to myself, adjusting Where the Wild Things Are so it stands at just the right angle. The store won't open for another twenty minutes, but I like this quiet time, just me and the books and the soft creaking of this century-old building.

The reading drive was my idea, my first real contribution to Whitetail Falls.

A small thing, maybe, but it matters. Before moving here, I'd lived in six different cities in five years, always drifting, never belonging.

But something about this place, with its lantern-lit streets and the way strangers nod hello, made me want to stay.

A gust of wind rattles the front window, drawing my attention to the street.

The snow is falling faster now, dusting the cobblestones of the Heartwood District.

Early risers hurry past, scarves pulled tight, heading toward their morning coffee.

The scent of fresh pastries from the bakery down the block drifts in every time the door opens.

The brass bell above the door jingles unexpectedly, startling me. I'm not open yet, but small-town shop rules are flexible, especially when someone's escaping the cold.

"Sorry, we're not quite—" The rest of my sentence evaporates when I see who's stepped inside.

He fills the doorway completely. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a navy paramedic uniform with WHITETAIL FALLS FIRE DEPARTMENT embroidered across his chest. Dark hair with threads of silver at the temples, a strong jawline shadowed with stubble, and eyes so deeply blue they remind me of storm skies.

He stomps snow from his boots with precision, each movement controlled and deliberate.

I've seen him around town, but always from a distance.

"Morning," he says, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the floorboards. "Door was unlocked."

"Pre-opening preparations," I explain, suddenly aware I'm still in my fuzzy cardigan with my hair piled messily atop my head. "Can I help you with something?"

He steps further inside, and I notice the exhaustion etched around his eyes. End of shift, I assume.

"I'm here about the reading drive," he says. "Chief Hawkins mentioned your flyer at this morning's briefing."

"Oh! Right." I set my mug down and move toward the counter. "The department wants to participate?"

He nods once. "The crew's collecting books. Thought I'd check what you need and where to drop them."

Something about his presence makes the bookstore feel smaller. He stands perfectly still, but there's a coiled energy to him, like he's perpetually ready to spring into action. Save a life. Put out a fire. Rescue a cat from a tree. Whatever hero stuff these guys do.

"Any children's books in good condition," I say, gesturing to the display. "We're focusing on getting books to kids who might not have them at home. The fire station would be a perfect collection point, actually."

His gaze sweeps over the colorful book display, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Emma, my daughter, she'd live in a place like this if I let her."

I smile, relaxing a fraction.

"She's welcome anytime. We have a young adult section that might—"

The bell jingles again, and a whirlwind of purple coat and flying dark braids bursts through the door, cheeks flushed from cold.

"Dad! You walked too fast again!" the girl exclaims, breathless. She stops abruptly when she sees me, her eyes—the same striking blue as her father's—widening with delight. "Oh! You're open!"

This has to be Emma. She's all energy and motion where her father is stillness and control.

"Not officially," I say, "but I'll make an exception for enthusiastic readers."

Nathan places a gentle hand on his daughter's shoulder. "Emma, this is..."

"Gloria," I supply. "Gloria Sullivan."

"Ms. Sullivan manages the bookstore," Nathan explains to Emma, who's already gravitating toward the display, drawn like a moth to literary flame.

"Just Gloria is fine," I tell them both, but I'm looking at him when I say it. Our eyes lock for a beat too long, and something electric passes between us.

"Is that the new Wilderwood Chronicles?" Emma asks, breaking the moment. She's pointing to a fantasy novel featuring a silver-haired girl riding a dragon across a starlit sky.

I kneel beside her, grateful for the distraction. "It just came in yesterday. You've read the others?"

"Only like a million times," she says with the delightful exaggeration of pre-teens. "Dad reads them with me sometimes, but he does the voices all wrong."

Nathan makes a sound that might be a suppressed chuckle. "Literary critic," he mutters, but there's unmistakable affection in his voice.

"The dragon voices should be rumbly and deep," Emma explains seriously, "but Dad makes them sound like they have hiccups."

I laugh, a real laugh that bubbles up unexpectedly. "That's a very specific critique."

When I glance up, Nathan is watching us, and something has changed in his expression. The weariness is still there, but there's warmth now too, a slight curve to his lips that's not quite a smile but closer than before. It transforms his face, makes him look younger, less burdened.

"She's particular about her dragons," he says, and the fondness in his tone wraps around the room like a blanket.

I stand, suddenly aware of how close we all are in this corner of the store. "Well, as a fellow dragon enthusiast, I respect her standards."

Emma beams at me, then turns pleading eyes to her father. "Can I get it? Please? I finished my history project early."

Nathan hesitates, and I jump in without thinking.

"First customers get a discount," I say conspiratorially. "Store policy."

His eyebrow lifts slightly. "Is that so?"

"Absolutely," I nod, completely serious. "It's in the small-town bookstore handbook. Page forty-two."

There it is, a real smile, small but genuine. It makes my stomach do a ridiculous little flip that I haven't felt since... well, longer than I care to remember.

"Hard to argue with official handbook rules," he concedes, and Emma clutches the book to her chest in victory.

I ring them up at the counter, hyper-aware of Nathan watching me, his presence a gravitational pull I'm trying very hard to resist. Emma chatters about dragons and plot twists, and I match her enthusiasm, recommending other books she might enjoy.

"You really know your stuff," Nathan comments as I hand Emma her purchase in a paper bag stamped with the store's crescent moon logo.

"Occupational requirement," I reply. "Plus, I was Emma's age when I fell down the fantasy rabbit hole. Never really climbed out."

"Thanks for the book. And the information about the drive." He reaches for his wallet, but I wave him off.

"First responder discount," I say. "Also in the handbook."

He looks like he wants to protest, but Emma's already tugging him toward the door, eager to start reading.

"We'll be back," Emma announces with the confidence of youth. "Maybe next time you can recommend something for Dad. He only reads boring books."

Nathan rolls his eyes slightly, but there's no irritation in it. "Emergency medicine journals aren't boring," he tells her, then glances back at me. "But I could probably use something... different."

"I'm good at recommendations," I manage to say. "For all reading preferences."

He nods, holding my gaze for one more heartbeat. "I'll keep that in mind."

After they leave, I stand frozen behind the counter, my heart hammering foolishly. Through the window, I watch them walk down the snowy street. Just before they turn the corner, he glances back at the bookstore.

At me.

I step back quickly, knocking over a stack of bookmarks. "Smooth, Sullivan," I mutter, bending to gather them. "Very smooth."

But as I straighten up, I can't help smiling.

I touch my warm cheeks and shake my head at myself. It's nothing. A pleasant interaction. A handsome man and his book-loving daughter. That's all.