Page 4 of Kissing the Beach Town Fire Chief
Miss you, girl. Let's catch up soon.
I smile at her message.
For sure. After I sleep for a decade.
I reply and turn off my phone, snuggling deeper into the covers.
***
The siren wails are the first to pierce the salty morning air, shattering the fragile illusion of serenity. I fling myself upright in bed, the tangled sheets protesting my sudden movement. My heart hammers a frantic tattoo against my ribs, mimicking the erratic rhythm of the approaching fire truck.
Here we go again, Seabrook's annual summer nightmare noises.
Scrambling out of bed, I yank on a pair of shorts and a faded Seabrook Whales t-shirt.
It's a relic from my childhood featuring a cartoon whale with a ridiculously optimistic grin.
It is not exactly beach-chic, but it is comfortable enough for a day spent dodging tourists and rescuing wayward flip-flops from the tide.
As I traipse to the window, the firetruck roars past. Its red blur starkly contrasts with the pastel-painted beach houses lining the street.
Seabrook is a picturesque coastal village that seems to have leaped straight out of a storybook. It’s nestled between rolling hills and the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.
The main street is lined with cottages and quirky storefronts.
But the heart of the town is the bustling marina, where fishing boats and yachts bob lazily in the sapphire-blue water. The docks are already alive with activity, with fishermen unloading their morning’s catch and children chasing seagulls.
The boardwalk, with its worn wooden planks and whimsical lampposts, stretches along the shoreline that is dotted with rocky outcrops and tidal pools teeming with marine life, inviting exploration.
Quaint shops and cafes are scattered throughout the town. The old lighthouse, standing tall on a rocky cliff, offers a panoramic view of the entire town and the vast ocean beyond. The tourists come for the serene environment here.
And then my eyes land on the house next door to the left.
Ethan 'Smoke' Campbell's house, and right now, it's undoubtedly not a sight to behold.
A plume of black smoke billows from his backyard, punctuated by the occasional fiery whoosh.
A smile tugs at my lips despite the situation. Classic Ethan.
The man could extinguish a five-alarm inferno with a single raised eyebrow, yet here he is, defeated by a malfunctioning grill. There is a certain satisfaction in seeing the usually unflappable Smoke flustered, primarily because it’s from something so ordinary.
The urge to grab my phone and capture this glorious moment for posterity wars with a competing one - the urge to help.
Seeing him struggle, smoke billowing from his backyard like a scene from a bad reality show, evokes a flicker of sympathy… along with a crazy laugh I cannot control.
Chuckling, I grab a fire extinguisher from the kitchen. It’s there as a precaution after an Aunt Maggie toaster incident the last time I was here.
The salty scent of the ocean mingles with the acrid tang of burning charcoal as I cross through the bushes to his yard. Smoke himself is frantically waving a dish towel at the offending grill, his face smudged with soot, and his usually perfect blonde hair a disaster zone.
He looks up as I approach, his expression a mixture of surprise and irritation.
“Well, well,” he drawls, his voice surprisingly hoarse. “Looks like the cavalry has arrived.”
I saunter up, trying not to laugh at Ethan's looks. “Nice barbecue you got going on, Smoke. Hosting a bonfire for the whole neighborhood, or just me?”
Ethan rolls his eyes with a smudge of soot stretching across his cheek.
"Hilarious, Ami. Did you come to help or just to gloat?"
