Page 3 of Falling for the Single Dad Firefighter (Fox Ridge: Fire Station #1)

The classroom feels different after the children leave. Now it's just me, the soft hum of the air conditioning, and the fading afternoon light filtering through the blinds.

I glance at her cubby, where she carefully hung her backpack before leaving with the after-school program coordinator.

The blue star I gave her sits on my desk, forgotten in her rush to join the other children.

She'd been doing well by mid-morning, even volunteering to help pass out crayons during art time.

A resilient little girl, despite her shaky start.

Thunder rumbles in the distance as I sort through a stack of worksheets the children completed today.

A soft knock startles me from my thoughts.

I look up to find Samuel Lewis standing in my doorway, filling the frame with his broad shoulders.

He's changed clothes since this morning—dark jeans and a faded gray t-shirt that hints at the firefighter's physique beneath.

His hair is slightly damp, like he's just showered.

"Mr. Lewis," I say, setting down the papers. "Is everything okay?"

He steps into the classroom, his movements measured and careful, like someone used to navigating tight spaces. "Sorry to interrupt. They called me from the after-school program. Mia's running a fever."

"Oh no." I stand immediately, concern replacing my momentary nervousness. "Is she alright?"

"A little warm and upset. Asking for her dad." A small smile softens his serious expression. "And apparently something about a blue star?"

"Oh!" I reach for the star on my desk. "She left it here after circle time. I was going to return it tomorrow."

I hold it out, and he crosses the room to take it. Our fingers brush briefly during the exchange—a fleeting touch that shouldn't register but somehow does, like a static spark jumping between us.

"Thanks," he says, pocketing the star. "She really connected with this thing."

"It helps ground her," I explain, falling into teacher mode. "Physical objects can be anchors when emotions feel overwhelming, especially for children just starting school."

He nods, his expression thoughtful. "Makes sense. You seem to really understand her."

"That's my job," I say, then add more softly, "And she's a special little girl. Very observant. Creative too—you should see her drawing from today."

I retrieve Mia's family picture from the stack and hold it out. Samuel takes it carefully, his eyes softening as he studies the two stick figures holding hands.

"Just the two of us," he murmurs, almost to himself.

The vulnerability in his voice creates a tightness in my chest. "She's very proud of her dad," I say gently. "She told the class you save people from fires."

He looks up, a faint flush coloring his cheekbones. "Not every day. Mostly we prevent fires, honestly. Less exciting but better for everyone involved."

"Still pretty heroic to a five-year-old," I point out. "Or to anyone, really."

Our eyes meet for a moment too long. I'm the first to look away, busying myself with straightening papers that don't need straightening.

"I'm sorry to keep you after hours," he says. "You've probably had a long enough day."

"It's fine," I assure him. "First days are always a bit chaotic. I like the quiet after everyone leaves—helps me decompress."

Another rumble of thunder, closer this time. The light in the classroom dims as clouds gather outside.

"Storm's coming," Samuel observes, glancing toward the windows. "Forecast said it might be a big one."

"That'll make for an exciting second day," I say with a small laugh. "Nothing like thunder to energize twenty-two kindergarteners."

He smiles—a real smile that transforms his serious face. "Mia loves storms. Watches them from the window like they're the best show on earth."

"A little storm-chaser in the making?"

"God, I hope not." He shakes his head, but his expression remains fond. "Being a firefighter is enough risk in one family."

The word 'family' hangs between us, reminding me of Mia's drawing. Just the two of them. I want to ask about Mia's mother but hesitate, unsure if it's my place.

"It must be challenging," I say instead, "balancing your work with raising her alone."

He shrugs one shoulder, a gesture that somehow understates what must be an enormous challenge. "We make it work. The station is flexible when they can be, and Mia's pretty adaptable."

"She's lucky to have you," I say sincerely.

"I'm the lucky one." His voice drops lower, filled with quiet certainty. "She saved me, honestly. Gave me purpose when I needed it most."

Lightning flashes outside, illuminating his profile for a brief moment. In that flash, I notice details I shouldn't be cataloging—the strong line of his jaw, the slight crease between his eyebrows, the way his dark lashes contrast with his eyes.

"What about you?" he asks suddenly. "What brought you to Fox Ridge? Bit of a change from Chicago, I imagine."

"Everything brought me here," I admit, leaning against my desk. "The pace, the community, the chance to really know my students and their families. In Chicago, I had thirty-two kids in a classroom meant for twenty. Here, I can actually see each child, you know?"

He nods, understanding in his eyes. "Small towns have their challenges, but that connection isn't one of them."

"Exactly." I smile, surprised by how easily he gets it. "Though I'm still adjusting to certain things. Like how everyone knows everyone's business, or how the grocery store cashier already knows my name even though I've only been there twice."

"Mrs. Patel?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Yes! How did you—"

"She's been the Wednesday cashier for twenty years." He chuckles. "Probably knew you were coming before you did."

The storm draws closer, rain beginning to patter against the windows.

"I should probably get back to Mia," Samuel says, though he makes no move toward the door.

"Of course." I nod, equally stationary. "I hope she feels better soon."

Thunder crashes directly overhead, making both of us jump. The lights flicker once, twice, then go out completely, plunging the classroom into gray shadows broken only by occasional flashes of lightning.

"Perfect timing," Samuel murmurs, his voice closer than before.

"The joys of small-town infrastructure," I reply with a nervous laugh. "The emergency lights should come on in the hallway at least."

"Do you need to find a flashlight?" he asks.

"I have one in my desk somewhere," I say, but make no move to search for it.

In the semi-darkness, with rain drumming against the windows, ordinary rules seem suspended. Lightning flashes again, illuminating the classroom in stark white light. Samuel has moved closer, or maybe I have—the distance between us has shrunk to mere feet.

"You've got something—" he begins, lifting his hand toward my face.

His fingers brush my temple, warm and slightly rough against my skin.

He gently tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture achingly tender.

His hand lingers just a moment too long, and in that suspended second, I feel something shift between us—possibility opening like a door neither of us meant to unlock.

I can smell him now—soap and rain—and see the slight stubble along his jaw. His eyes ask a question I'm not ready to answer.

My heart hammers against my ribs as awareness floods through me. This isn't appropriate. He's Mia's father. I'm her teacher. There are boundaries for a reason, lines that shouldn't be crossed, no matter how the storm light softens his features or how gently his fingers brush against my skin.

I step back abruptly, creating necessary distance. "I should check if other teachers are still in the building," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "The power outage protocols..."

The spell breaks. Samuel drops his hand, nodding as he withdraws to a safer distance. "Of course. And I need to get back to Mia."

"Yes, Mia." Her name grounds me, reminds me of my responsibilities. "Don't forget to give her the star."

"I will." He collects the drawing from where he placed it on a nearby desk. "Thank you, Ms. Brown."

"Rebecca," I correct him softly. "The parents usually call me Rebecca."

"Rebecca," he repeats, and something about the way my name sounds in his voice makes my resolve waver. "Goodbye, then,"

"Goodbye, Samuel. I hope Mia feels better soon."

After he's gone, I sink into my chair, hands trembling slightly as I try to gather my scattered thoughts. The classroom feels different now—charged with possibilities I can't afford to consider.

I'm Mia's teacher. He's Mia's father. Whatever just happened—or almost happened—in the darkness of the storm cannot happen again.

I press my fingers to my temple where his touch still lingers, and try to convince myself that the pounding in my chest is just from the thunder, not from the memory of his nearness.

I almost believe it.

Almost.