Sparks and Recreation (Love Ablaze #1)

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.

Fire Lieutenant 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 particular 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 and 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 tomorrow.

Patton disappears from view, probably heading into the depths of the fire department. A few minutes later, voices carry from the hallway, followed by male laughter and the distinct 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. Slathered with thick frosting, colorful bits and bites cover each one. 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?” I ask, referencing my working knowledge of the popular nineties sitcom, with thanks to Grandma’s regular viewing of the syndicated show.

He winks. “Exactly. Crush Cakes. Patton pending, like 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 house down the street and converting it into a bakery. 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. Of course, 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 are helping with the paperwork. People like Nancy in the Clerk’s office.”

Is he implying that I’m hindering the process? I’m just doing my job!

Austin and the other members of the fire team—a tall guy named Reese—offer apologetic looks.

Turning to me, Patton adds, “Oops. Guess there won’t be enough.”

My smile holds, but it’s 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,” I mutter. Just like you probably 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 strictly 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.

The first time we met, he took one good look at me—eyes scanning me from top to bottom like a judge at a beauty competition—must have decided that he didn’t like what he saw, all but audibly jeered, and the rest is history.

The guys continue down the hall, leaving me standing in my doorway, doing my best not to feel small after being snubbed by a six-foot-two firefighter with a personality that could best be described as pleasant as a January frost.

I return to my desk and pull out my phone, firing off a quick text to my younger brother Fabrizio.

Me: Remind me why I’m trying to be nice to everyone in this town?

Fab: Because you’re a people pleaser? A victim of your own cheerfulness? Shall I go on?

Me: That’s harsh.

Fab: But accurate. How’s the family fund coming? The parents are stress cases. I found Ma with a spoon in the cannoli filling last night.

My stomach tightens. I switch to my banking app—a habit I’ve developed over the past six months—and check the balance.

There is still enough to send money home this month, but it’s getting tight.

Sorrentino’s Restaurant in Reno is bleeding cash, and nobody except my brother knows how bad it’s gotten.

Mom and Dad think I’m living my dream life in the mountains with the perfect job.

Even though Grandma feeds me well, they don’t know that I’m shaving corners to the bare bones to cover expenses at the restaurant.

Me: It’s fine. I’ll handle it.

Another fib. I’m full of them today.

“Winnie!” Mindy pokes her head into my office, still working on her Crush Cake. “You’ll never guess what happened?”

I tap my chin. “Hmm. You tripped over a unicorn and fell into Austin’s arms?”

She bounces on her toes. “Close. I asked him to Tacos & Trivia night.”

My eyes widen. She’s been talking about him nonstop for nine days, which, for one of Mindy’s infatuations, is a long time. She hops from one guy to another like a snowshoe hare before setting her sights on the next guy.

Mindy chatters excitedly about the town’s weekly tradition at Huck’s Lake View Diner. How it’ll also be great for me to network, make more connections, and get to know people outside of work.

I blink slowly, possibly having missed something she said. “I wasn’t planning to go out tonight—”

“Well, Austin said he’ll bring a friend, so I told him I will too. You, of course. After he gave me a Crush Cake, I said I’d love to be on a team with him tonight. He said yes, and the rest is happily ever after.” Hands in little balls under her chin, she shakes her arms and bounces.

Sounds like someone is getting ahead of her skis. “Mindy, is this a double date?”

“What? No! Well,” she pauses. “I mean, it’s not officially a date. I’d like it to be. But it’s very casual!”

“I already have plans?” The sentence ends like a question rather than the declarative form of speech I’d intended.

“Plans like sitting on the couch next to your grandmother while she quilts and you ask her for crossword puzzle clues from the last century?”

I like our routine. “It’s Tuesday.”

“Taco Tuesday.”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t do it.”

“Winnie,” she says with a plea in her voice.

“I’m focusing on work right now.” And helping my family.

“I don’t have time for dating.” Even if I do want romance.

Even if I lie awake at night in Grandma’s guest room, imagining what it would be like to find someone who sees me as more than just the helpful, capable girl who solves everyone else’s problems.

“It’s tacos and trivia,” Mindy says as if that sweetens the deal. When I don’t agree, she adds, “It’s not a marriage proposal or even anything endorsed by the super-secret society of true love matches.”

“Is that a thing?”

“No, but we should start it! Anyway, I wouldn’t mind something serious with Austin—”

“What about Josh?”

“That was ages ago.”

“Ten days.”

She pouts. “Come on. When’s the last time you did something fun?”

I open my mouth to argue, but she says, “See you there,” before hurrying down the hall.