Chapter 12 #2
We kiss as the fire crackles beside us and snow falls outside. Somewhere in the distance, jingle bells ring. Maybe it’s part of the décor here at the inn. Perhaps it’s something more special.
But does it matter? I’ve found my star. She’s found her home. And we’ve found each other right here in this place that I hope to return to year after year.
The star on the tree shines down on us. I think about Noella’s story—about guiding weary travelers home, about hope in the darkness, about finding your way when you thought you were lost.
We were both lost in our own ways. Me, spending Christmas alone. Her, running from a life that didn’t fit anymore.
But we found each other. And in finding each other, we found ourselves.
Outside, the snow continues to fall, blanketing Huckleberry Hill in white. Tomorrow, the roads will be clear. Life will resume. Reality will set in.
But tonight, we have this. This fire, this moment, this promise.
Glad I didn’t get a lump of coal. This is the best Christmas gift I could ask for.
Pookie snores softly between us, and Rebecca’s hand finds mine, our fingers wrapped together like they were made to fit.
Rebecca, voice full of wonder, says, “This is what home feels like.”
“Yeah,” I say, pulling her closer. “This is exactly what home feels like.”
And as the fire burns low and the star shines bright above us, I know with absolute certainty that this is just the beginning of our merrily ever after.
Are you interested in visiting Huckleberry Hill and meeting the rest of the firefighters who serve, protect, and bake? Read the description of Sparks & Recreation, Patton and Winnie’s enemies to love, workplace, romcom. Then, keep scrolling to read chapter 1!
The smuggest and grouchiest firefighter in Huckleberry Hill hates exactly one person: me.
Our offices face each other across the hall, which means I get a front-row seat to Patton Cross pretending I don’t exist.
He scowls. I sparkle. We’re a disaster waiting to happen—and now we’re stuck planning the Fireman’s Ball together.
Suddenly, he’s remembering my coffee order. Saying please. Getting close enough that I can smell woodsmoke—and trouble.
Then a blizzard hits and we’re snowed in. The tension we’ve been fighting ignites into something that could melt ice.
But we’re both hiding something. And when the truth comes out, I’m left wondering if the man who finally made me feel seen was fighting the flames … or just playing with fire.
A clean, closed-door, small-town romcom full of banter, butterflies, and the smuggest and grumpiest firefighter you’ll ever fall for by USA Today bestselling author Ellie Hall. Read your next small-town obsession—and a swoon-worthy happily ever after.
Tropes you'll
·Enemies to Lovers
·Sweetheart who's starting over
·Smug grouch
·Small Town Romance
·Firefighters who bake
·Workplace
·Slow Burn
·Closed door
·Found family
·Station Dalmatian
·Band of brothers
·Hockey
·Forced Proximity
·Flirty eye tag!
Chapter 1: Winnie
I’m living a happy-for-now life, but I’d really like a happily ever after.
Doubtful I’ll find it here in Huckleberry Hill, especially not among the men in this town.
Case in point: the guy occupying the office directly across from mine scowls instead of smiles when our eyes meet through the glass walls of the Sierra Nevada Spur Safety Complex.
Rude.
I wave anyway. I’m a hope-aholic, a martyr for manners, a sucker for civility.
Patton Cross does what he always does. Holds my gaze for a beat, smirks in that smug way of his, then turns back to his computer screen like I’m a particularly annoying pop-up ad he can’t quite close.
Fine. His loss. For now.
I refocus on the mountain of paperwork covering my desk—permits for the spring concert series, grant applications for new playground equipment, and a stack of sticky notes that have somehow multiplied and migrated from my planner to every available surface in my office.
My organizational system is what Grandma calls “creative chaos.” I prefer to think of it as color-coded brilliance, even if I can’t currently locate the purple note with the vendor contact information I desperately need.
A random Tuesday afternoon in January means most of the municipal complex is winding down early, but I’m still here, finalizing details for the Valentine’s Day decorations to display in the building’s common areas.
Lacy doily hearts, felt garlands, cupids, and the whole romance-apalooza, aka, half-price chocolate day eve for those of us in the lonely hearts club.
I’m mentally calculating whether my budget can handle the name-brand chocolate for the community appreciation baskets when movement across the hall catches my eye.
Patton stands, stretching his arms overhead. His navy blue fire department polo lifts ever so slightly, exposing a chiseled waistline. I definitely don’t notice. I’m a consummate professional.
Also, I’m a liar.
The man is built like he walks out of a rugged outdoorsman catalog every morning—broad shoulders, powerful muscles, and quiet intensity.
Brown hair, perpetual stubble, and hazel eyes that shift between green and whiskey depending on the light.
Today, they’re like amber glass, probably from the late afternoon sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows that make this building resemble a modern ski lodge rather than a government office.
The only problem is he’s both cocky and grouchy. The kind of smug guy who revs his car at a red light and flashes a brilliant, pearly white smile—to be fair, he does have great teeth. But Patton is despicable. Incorrigible. Intolerable.
He catches me looking.
I don’t shift my gaze fast enough.
His lips lift with a smirk while his eyebrows flatten into an expression I’ve come to recognize over the past four months—the one that says he’d rather be literally anywhere else than making accidental eye contact with Vincenza Sorrentino.
He insists on calling me by my given name even though everyone else uses Winnie.
I try for a bright smile, but fear it comes out strained, tired. Like gas station coffee that’s been sitting too long on the burner.
Speaking of which, I ought to clean out the break room pot so it’s ready for Monday.
Patton disappears from view, probably heading into the depths of the fire department. A moment later, voices carry from the hallway along with male laughter. The distinctive sound of the station Dalmatian’s collar jingling.
My office door is open—always is because I try to be approachable—so when Patton and two of his crew members walk past carrying a cardboard bakery box, I smell them before I see them.
Cedar, woodsmoke, and something sweet that makes my traitorous stomach rumble.
“Crush Cakes test batch,” Austin James announces to no one in particular. He’s tall like his lieutenant, but charming and always smiling—the opposite of Mr. Smuglepuss.
They pause right outside my door.
The box opens, revealing what look like cupcakes but distinctly smooshed, like the bottoms gave way, leaving only the tops, each one slathered with thick frosting and covered in colorful bits and bites. My mouth waters.
“Want a Crush Cake, Mindy?” Austin offers one to my coworker with a twinkle in his smile.
“Yes!” She practically sprints from her desk, all but sliding into home base like during our Parks & Rec versus Admin softball game last summer. Though she repeatedly missed fly balls when she was gazing at the game between the fire department and the police at a nearby field.
You and me both, Mindy. You and me both.
Lured by the sweet scent of sugar and vanilla, I stand, smoothing my skirt, and step into the doorway. “Those look amazing. What are Crush Cakes?”
Austin lights up. “Crush Cakes is our new bakery concept. They’re like muffin tops—the good part, but cupcake-style.”
“Like in that Seinfeld episode about how muffin tops are really the only part that matters?”
He winks. “Exactly. Crush Cakes. Patton pending like a patent, get it?”
Everyone chuckles except the man with the same name, as if he’s generously offering us the gift of laughter by virtue of his name sort of sounding like the word patent. Puh-lease.
Austin adds, “We’re renovating the old fire station down the street. Should be open by spring.”
“That’s the building on the parkland easement,” I say.
The permit request came as a surprise from the zoning board. After the new municipal complex was constructed, the land beneath the old fire hall was incorporated into the park area since a stream runs behind it.
I start, “You’ll need to—”
“We know.” Patton’s tone is clipped. “We’ve already started the paperwork.”
“Alrighty then.” I wait for him to apologize or elaborate. He doesn’t.
The silence is long, like the icicles forming under the eaves of Grandma’s cottage.
Austin clears his throat and extends the box toward me. “Want to try one? The recipe still needs work, but—”
Patton cuts across him. “Actually, these are for people who actually help rather than hinder our paperwork. People like Nancy in the Clerk’s office.”
Austin and the other member of the fire team—a tall guy named Reese—exchange knowing looks.
Turning to me, Patton adds, “Oops. Guess there won’t be enough.”
My smile is carved from ice, ready to crack. “No problem! I’ll just have to wait until you open the bakery. I’m sure they’re delicious.”
“They are,” Patton says, self-satisfied.
“Maybe you can make a special Valentine’s Day flavor,” I suggest.
“I hate Valentine’s Day.”
“Of course you do.” Just like you hate puppies, long walks on the beach, and me. Mustering a pageant-worthy smile, I say, “In that case, you’re going to despise the décor I have planned for my favorite holiday. I love Valentine’s Day.” That’s not true, but this man brings out the contrarian in me.
It’s not that I want him to like me necessarily—though I wouldn’t be opposed—I just can’t tolerate how he thinks he’s oh-so-superior for no good reason.