Page 6 of Falling for the Single Dad Firefighter (Fox Ridge: Fire Station #1)

Samuel's truck smells like him—a clean, woodsy scent with hints of coffee. I sit with my hands folded in my lap. The kiss lingers on my lips, so brief yet somehow more significant than any I've experienced before.

Neither of us speaks. The radio plays softly, some country station with a song about highways and heartbreak.

I should be overthinking this, listing all the reasons why getting into Samuel Lewis's truck was a terrible idea. He's Mia's father. I'm her teacher. There are boundaries for a reason.

But all I can focus on is the warmth spreading through my chest and the subtle anticipation building with each turn of the road.

"You okay?" Samuel asks, his voice low in the darkness of the cab.

"Yes," I answer honestly. "Just... processing."

He nods, understanding in his silence. That's something I'm beginning to appreciate about Samuel—he doesn't fill empty spaces with unnecessary words. His quiet has substance.

We turn onto a tree-lined street of modest homes, each with its own character. Samuel slows the truck in front of a craftsman-style bungalow with a wide front porch. The yard is neat but lived-in—a child's bicycle leaning against the steps, a swing hanging from the branch of a large oak tree.

"Home," he says simply, cutting the engine. He turns to me, his expression serious but gentle. "Rebecca, if you've changed your mind—"

"I haven't," I interrupt softly. "But thank you for checking."

The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile that makes my heart flutter. "Just so we're clear."

We walk to the front door, close but not touching. The porch light casts warm shadows as Samuel unlocks the door, stepping aside to let me enter first. I cross the threshold into his world—a place I hadn't imagined seeing when I woke up this morning.

The living room is cozy and lived-in—a comfortable-looking sofa with a few throw pillows, bookshelves filled with a mix of adult novels and children's books, and photos of Mia at various ages. A wooden fire truck sits on the coffee table next to a half-completed puzzle of dinosaurs.

"It's not much," Samuel says, watching me take it all in. "But it's home."

"It's lovely," I tell him, meaning it. The space feels genuine, warm with the presence of the people who live here.

"Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Beer? Coffee?" He runs a hand through his hair, and I realize he's nervous too. The thought is oddly comforting.

"Wine would be nice," I say. "If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble." He gestures toward the sofa. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back."

As he disappears into what I assume is the kitchen, I take a moment to breathe deeply, grounding myself in the reality of where I am and what I'm doing.

I slip off my shoes and place them neatly by the door before settling on the sofa.

From this angle, I can see more photos on the mantel—Samuel in his firefighter uniform, Mia as a newborn, an older couple who must be his parents.

Samuel returns with two glasses of red wine, handing one to me before sitting beside me, leaving a respectful distance between us. He's removed his jacket, and the soft gray t-shirt he wears reveals the defined muscles of his arms. I take a sip of wine, grateful for something to do with my hands.

"So," he says, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty.

"So," I echo, smiling over the rim of my glass.

"I'm not great at this," he admits, gesturing vaguely between us. "The dating thing. Or whatever this is."

"I'm not sure what this is either," I confess. "But I like it."

His eyes meet mine, dark and intent. "I like it too."

We sip our wine in companionable silence for a moment. Through the window, I can see stars scattered across the clear night sky. The distant sound of a train whistle drifts through the quiet town.

"Tell me something about you," Samuel says suddenly. "Something not related to teaching or kindergarten."

I consider the question, tilting my head. "I collect old typewriters. I have three so far—a 1940s Remington, a Smith-Corona from the sixties, and a really beaten-up Underwood I found at a garage sale."

His eyebrows lift in surprise. "Do you use them?"

"The Remington, sometimes. There's something satisfying about the keys—the physical connection between thought and word." I take another sip of wine, feeling myself relax. "Your turn. Something not related to firefighting or being a dad."

"I build things," he says. "Furniture mostly. That bookshelf—" he points to a sturdy oak piece against the wall, "—and the coffee table. It helps me think, working with my hands."

"They're beautiful," I say, genuinely impressed. "You're talented."

He shrugs, but I can see he's pleased by the compliment. "Just a hobby."

"A good one." I set my wine glass on a coaster, turning more fully toward him. "Samuel, can I ask you something personal?"

He nods, though I see a slight wariness enter his expression.

"You don't have to answer," I clarify. "But I've been wondering about Mia's mother. You mentioned she wasn't in the picture from the start?"

Samuel is quiet for a long moment, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass.

When he speaks, his voice is measured, careful.

"Lisa and I dated for about a year. When she found out she was pregnant, she was clear that she didn't want to be a mother.

We tried to make it work for a few months, but.

.." He shrugs, a gesture that doesn't quite hide the old pain.

"She left during the seventh month. Signed over all parental rights after Mia was born. "

"Do you ever hear from her? Does Mia?"

He's quiet for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "No. She made it clear she wanted a clean break. She moved to California right after Mia was born. Last I heard, she was working for a tech company, married to someone else."

"Does Mia ask about her?"

"Sometimes." His voice softens. "She went through a phase around three where she asked almost every day. Now it's more occasional—usually after mother-focused events at school or when she sees her friends with their moms."

"That must be hard for both of you."

Samuel turns to face me. "The hardest part is not knowing what to tell her. How do you explain to a child that someone chose not to be her mother? That it wasn't anything she did wrong?"

I place my palm against his cheek. "You tell her she's loved. That families come in all different shapes. That sometimes people aren't ready to be parents, but that doesn't mean she isn't perfect exactly as she is."

"You sound like you've done this before," he says with a sad smile.

"I've had a lot of students with complicated family situations." I hesitate before asking, "Are you worried? About me coming into Mia's life and then..."

"Leaving?" He finishes my thought. "The thought has crossed my mind. Not because I don't trust you, but because Mia's already experienced one woman walking away. I don't think she'd understand if it happened again."

"I wouldn't do that to her," I whisper, the promise feeling sacred in the quiet between us. "Or to you."

His arms tighten around me. "I believe you. That's what scares me most."

I nod, understanding better now his fierce protectiveness, his careful approach to relationships. "Thank you for telling me."

"What about you?" he asks. "Any serious relationships in your past?"

"Nothing that lasted," I admit. "Studying and teaching took priority.

I moved around for different positions, focused on building my career.

" I pause, considering how much to reveal.

"There was someone in Chicago, but we wanted different things.

He couldn't understand why I'd want to leave the city for a place like Fox Ridge. "

"His loss," Samuel says simply.

Our eyes meet again, and something shifts in the air between us—the conversation moving beyond polite exchange into something more intimate, more honest. I'm suddenly very aware of his nearness, the way the lamplight catches the angles of his face, the subtle movement of his chest as he breathes.

Samuel sets his glass beside mine on the coffee table, his movements deliberate. When he turns back to me, there's a question in his eyes.

"Rebecca," he says softly, my name like a caress in his voice.

I don't hesitate. I move closer, eliminating the careful space between us. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, warm and slightly calloused against my skin. When our lips meet this time, there's nothing brief about it.

The kiss deepens slowly, as if we're both savoring each moment, each new sensation. His lips are firm but gentle against mine, asking rather than demanding. I slide my hands up to his shoulders, feeling the solid strength of him under my fingertips.

His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open to him willingly, the taste of wine and something uniquely Samuel making me dizzy with want. A soft sound escapes me when his tongue meets mine, and I feel him respond, his hand sliding from my cheek to the nape of my neck.

I shift closer until I'm nearly in his lap, my body acting on instinct and desire. His free arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against him until there's no space left between us.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing heavily. His eyes have darkened, pupils dilated with desire, but there's still a question there, a seeking of permission.

"We can stop," he murmurs, though his hand still cradles the back of my neck. "If you want to."

"I don't want to stop," I whisper back, the honesty of it surprising even me.

Something flares in his eyes—desire, relief, anticipation. He leans in again, and this time the kiss carries more urgency. My hands find their way into his hair, soft between my fingers.

His mouth leaves mine to trace a path along my jaw, down the sensitive column of my throat. When he reaches the pulse point at the base of my neck, he lingers there, lips and tongue working against my skin in a way that draws a gasp from me.