Page 4 of Falling for the Single Dad Firefighter (Fox Ridge: Fire Station #1)

The diner on Main Street glows like a lighthouse against the darkening sky.

The Fable—a Fox Ridge institution since before I was born, with its neon sign buzzing and windows fogged from the heat inside.

After fourteen hours at the station, all I want is coffee strong enough to strip paint and whatever the meal of the day is.

Mia is with my mother tonight, a standing arrangement for my late shifts.

Mom loves these grandmother nights, spoiling Mia with homemade cookies and bedtime stories I'm apparently "not dramatic enough" to tell properly.

It gives me rare hours of solitude that I should be grateful for, but tonight I'm restless, my thoughts circling back to the same place they've been stuck since yesterday evening.

Rebecca Brown.

I've tried to push the memory away—her standing in the dim classroom, lightning illuminating her face, the soft texture of her hair as I tucked it behind her ear.

A gesture too intimate for a parent-teacher interaction.

A moment charged with something I haven't felt in years, something I have no business feeling for Mia's kindergarten teacher.

The bell above the door jingles as I step inside The Fable. The familiar scents of coffee, grilled onions, and apple pie wrap around me like an old blanket—comforting, unchanging. Judy, the night waitress who's worked here since I was in high school, raises her coffee pot in greeting.

"The usual, Sam?" she calls, already reaching for a mug.

"Please," I nod, scanning the half-empty diner for an available booth.

That's when I see her.

Rebecca sits alone in a corner booth, a book propped against the sugar dispenser, fork absently twirling pasta on her plate.

Her curly hair is gathered in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, a few strands escaping to frame her face.

She's changed from her teaching clothes into jeans and a soft-looking sweater the color of autumn leaves.

I should turn around. Find another place. Or take a seat at the counter.

Instead, I find myself walking toward her booth.

She glances up as my shadow falls across her table, surprise registering in her eyes before they warm with recognition.

"Samuel," she says, closing her book. "Hi."

"Rebecca." Her name still feels new on my tongue. "Sorry to interrupt your dinner."

"You're not interrupting," she assures me, gesturing to the empty seat across from her. "Please, join me. If you'd like to, I mean."

I slide into the booth, our knees almost touching underneath.

"How's Mia feeling?" she asks, genuine concern in her voice.

"Better. Just overtired, I think. The excitement of the first day caught up with her." I fiddle with the paper napkin dispenser. "She's with my mother tonight."

"That must be nice," Rebecca says, "having family nearby."

"It is," I agree. "Mom's been a lifesaver since... well, always, but especially since Mia."

Rebecca nods, understanding in her eyes. "And how about you? Recovered from first-day dad nerves?"

"Getting there." I offer a small smile. "Though apparently I didn't pack the right kind of juice box. Major kindergarten faux pas."

She laughs, the sound warming something cold inside me. "The apple versus grape debate is serious business in room twelve."

I find myself wanting to tell her more, to share something I rarely speak about. "You know, I had no idea what I was doing when Mia was born. First night home from the hospital, she wouldn't stop crying. Nothing worked—not feeding, changing, rocking. I was convinced I'd somehow already failed her."

Rebecca's expression softens, her attention completely focused on me.

"I called my mom at three in the morning, probably sounding half-crazy.

She came over in her pajamas, took one look at Mia, and swaddled her in this specific way I couldn't figure out.

Mia was asleep in minutes." I shake my head at the memory.

"I sat on the kitchen floor and cried from exhaustion and relief.

Mom just sat next to me and said, 'Welcome to parenthood, sweetheart. You're doing just fine.'"

"She sounds wonderful," Rebecca says softly.

"She is." I meet Rebecca's eyes. "Sometimes I wonder how different things would have been if Mia had had a mother who stayed. If she's missing something I can't give her, no matter how hard I try."

Rebecca reaches across the table, her fingers brushing mine in a touch that feels bold in this public place. "From what I've seen, that little girl isn't missing anything. She's loved, secure, confident. That's what matters."

Her words unlock something tight in my chest, a validation I didn't know I needed until this moment.

Judy appears at our table, sliding a mug in front of me and filling it with coffee dark enough to stand a spoon in.

"You eating, Sam?" she asks, eyeing Rebecca with poorly disguised curiosity.

"Whatever's the special," I tell her.

"Meatloaf," Judy replies. "Mashed potatoes, green beans."

"Sounds perfect."

As Judy walks away, Rebecca leans forward slightly. "I think we just became the talk of tomorrow's coffee klatch," she says in a mock whisper.

"Probably already texting my mother," I admit, and we both laugh.

It strikes me how easy this is—sitting here with her, the awkwardness of yesterday's moment in the classroom somehow dissolved in the warm light of the diner. Here, we're just two people sharing a meal, not navigating the careful boundaries of teacher and parent.

"So," I ask, taking a sip of scalding coffee, "how was day two with the troops?"

"Slightly less chaotic than day one," she says, her expression brightening. "Though we had a minor crisis when Tyler convinced half the class that the class hamster could talk."

"And can it?"

"Sadly, no. Mr. Whiskers maintains a dignified silence at all times." Her eyes crinkle when she smiles. "But Tyler has quite the imagination. He'd get along well with some of my guys at the station."

"Especially Jax," I find myself saying. "He once convinced a rookie that we had a firehouse ghost that stole left boots."

Rebecca laughs again, and I realize how much I like the sound—warm and genuine, without pretense.

"How long have you been a firefighter?" she asks, taking a sip of her water.

"Twelve years now," I answer. "Started when I was twenty-four, right after college."

"Did you always want to be a firefighter?"

I consider this, stirring my coffee. "Not always. I thought I wanted to be an architect, actually. Studied it for two years before I realized I was more interested in saving buildings than designing them."

She tilts her head, studying me with genuine interest. "That's quite a shift."

"My father was a firefighter," I explain. "I grew up with it, even when I thought I wanted something different. Some things are just in your blood, I guess."

Judy returns with my plate, eyebrows raised as she glances between us before retreating again.

"And you?" I ask, cutting into my meatloaf. "Always wanted to be a teacher?"

Rebecca nods, twirling her pasta again. "Since I was old enough to line up my stuffed animals and give them spelling tests. I was a very exciting child, as you can imagine."

"I can picture it," I say, and I can—a younger Rebecca with the same patient kindness she shows Mia, teaching teddy bears their ABCs.

"My parents wanted me to consider other options," she continues. "Law school, maybe medicine. Something with better pay and hours. But after my first education class, I knew there wasn't anything else for me."

"They've come around?"

"Mostly." A shadow crosses her face. "They worry about me being so far from home. My dad keeps sending me apartment listings in Chicago."

"But you're happy here?"

Her smile returns, softer now. "I am. There's something about Fox Ridge that just feels... right. Like I can breathe here."

I understand that feeling more than she knows. After years away, coming back to Fox Ridge with Mia was like exhaling a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

We eat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the diner's ambient noise wrapping around us—plates clinking, coffee being poured, the low murmur of other conversations. Outside, the last of the daylight fades, turning the windows into dark mirrors reflecting our small bubble of warmth.

"Can I ask you something?" Rebecca says suddenly, setting down her fork.

My guard instinctively rises, but I nod. "Sure."

"Yesterday, in the classroom—" she starts, then pauses, choosing her words carefully. "I know there are boundaries. Professional ones. I just want to make sure things aren't... awkward between us. For Mia's sake."

The mention of Mia grounds me. Everything comes back to her—my daughter, the center of my universe. The reason I can't simply follow where this pull toward Rebecca might lead.

"Nothing's awkward," I assure her, though it's not entirely true. "Yesterday was—" I struggle to find the right words. "It was a moment. The storm, the power outage..."

"A moment," she repeats, nodding slightly. "That's a good way to put it."

But it wasn't just a moment. It was the opening of a door I've kept firmly closed for five years.

A reminder that beneath the layers of father, firefighter, provider, there's still a man who notices the way light catches in a woman's eyes or how her voice softens when she talks about things she loves.

"Mia really likes you," I say, redirecting. "That blue star trick was impressive. Where'd you learn that?"

Rebecca accepts the change of subject with a small smile. "My mentor teacher in Chicago. She had a whole toolkit for helping anxious kids. The physical sensation gives them something to focus on besides their anxiety."

"Smart."

"She was. Is." Rebecca's expression turns wistful. "She retired last year. Forty-two years of teaching kindergarten. I can only hope to be half as good someday."

"You already are," I say, the words honest. "At least, from what I can see with Mia."