Page 4 of Reunited with the Hometown Hero
He turns like it's settled. Like I'm not breaking open at the seams while he's barely cracked.
And that pisses me off more than the storm, the broken car, and the fact that I'm not wearing a bra combined.
I retrieve my suitcase and laptop bag from the trunk, reluctantly accepting Noah's help with the larger bag. Our fingers brush during the handoff, and a jolt of awareness shoots up my arm. From his momentary stillness, I suspect he felt it, too.
The interior of his department SUV smells of pine, coffee, and something uniquely Noah—a scent that catapults me back to stolen moments in his pickup truck when his hands were sure and eager; more so that a boy of seventeen should be.
I buckle my seatbelt with more focus than necessary, desperate to organize my scrambled thoughts.
"So, Fire Chief," I say as he slides behind the wheel, attempting a casual tone. "That's impressive."
"Just doing my job." He navigates the wet road with easy confidence, his strong profile outlined against the stormybackdrop. "And you? Making waves in Chicago journalism, from what I hear."
My pulse quickens. Has he been keeping tabs on me?
"I do feature pieces for Horizon Magazine. This article on Angel's Peak could be a big opportunity."
"Hmm." His noncommittal response hangs between us, cool and sharp as the mountain air. "Interesting that you waited ten years to find your hometown noteworthy."
The barb lands, sinking deeper than I want to admit. I turn toward the window, watching raindrops chase each other down the glass.
"It's not personal. It's an assignment."
"Right." He downshifts as we round a sharp curve, knuckles tight on the wheel. "Nothing personal about it. Just figured you were too busy running as far and fast from this place as you could."
The silence between us stretches—taut and tangled in everything we're not saying. Everything we never said.
As we descend into the valley, Angel's Peak comes into view. The town has always been picturesque—that's what draws the tourists—but I'm surprised by the changes. The main street buildings sport fresh paint in cheerful colors, and new shops have replaced some of the businesses I remember. The old mill has been converted into what looks like an artisan marketplace, and string lights criss-cross the street, ready to illuminate the evening.
"It's... different," I murmur, taking mental notes for my article.
"We had to adapt after the resort corporation threatened to pull out five years ago." Noah's voice softens slightly. "The community came together. Found our niche as an authentic mountain experience rather than just another ski destination."
I glance at him, noting the pride in his profile. "That sounds like a good story."
"It is."
We lapse into silence as Noah navigates the familiar streets. I'm hyperaware of his presence beside me—the width of his shoulders beneath the uniform shirt, the capable hands on the steering wheel, the subtle scent of his aftershave. My body remembers him even as my mind catalogs the differences between the boy I left and the man he's become.
He's filled out in all the right places, lean teenage muscle maturing into the solid frame of a man who regularly carries people out of burning buildings. Laugh lines crinkle at the corners of his eyes, suggesting a life that hasn't been all duty and responsibility. He moves with a quiet confidence that makes my pulse quicken despite my best intentions.
We turn onto Elm Street, where Mabel's Guest House stands in all its Victorian glory—a faded blue "painted lady" with gingerbread trim and a wraparound porch. But something's different. Colorful banners hang from the railings, and at least thirty people mill about on the lawn despite the rain, moving under a hastily erected tent.
"What's going on?" I ask as Noah parks at the curb.
"Community fundraiser." He cuts the engine and turns to face me, his proximity suddenly overwhelming in the confined space. "Mabel needs to update some things to meet new county codes. The whole town's pitching in."
My journalistic instincts perk up. "Community rallying to save a historic landmark? That's exactly the kind of angle I need."
Something in Noah's expression shifts, hardens slightly. "Always looking for the story, huh?"
"It's my job," I reply, more defensively than intended.
"Some things never change." He reaches past me to grab an umbrella from the back seat, his arm brushing mine. Even that brief contact sends warmth cascading through me. "Let's get you inside before you catch pneumonia."
Before I can respond, he's out of the vehicle and coming around to my door with the umbrella. Always the gentleman—another thing that hasn't changed. I step out into his shelter, acutely aware of how close we must stand to both remain protected from the rain.
The crowd on Mabel's lawn notices our arrival immediately. Conversations pause, heads turn, and I feel the weight of collective curiosity like a physical thing. Noah seems oblivious—or accustomed—to the attention as he retrieves my bags.
