Chapter 4
PATTON
Ten minutes later, I’m standing inside the bay of the old firehouse with the contractor, a building inspector, and a couple of our town’s more eccentric characters who seem to be everywhere all the time and have opinions no one asked for.
“It’s not haunted,” I say flatly.
“The spirits don’t require your belief, young man.”
Lucky Donahoo—former card dealer, current gas station owner who hopes to be the one who provides the next lotto winner with their ticket, and perpetual pain in my neck—adjusts his dealer’s visor. “You should name a Crush Cake after me. The Lucky Strike. Has a nice ring to it, eh?”
“Probably not,” I mutter.
“Your loss.”
The building inspector points at the cement floor in the main bay while the dog sniffs every corner as if he’s never been here before. “You have cracks here. And that beam needs reinforcement before you can open.”
More delays. More costs. More permits.
“How long is all of this going to take?” I ask vaguely, fully expecting that the contractor won’t have an answer on the spot.
The inspector pipes up. “Depends on Parks & Rec approval. They control the timeline for anything touching parkland.”
Not what I want to hear. This means I need the help of none other than my Tacos & Trivia night partner.
With a sarcastic bite, I murmur, “Cue the thrills.”
Sam leans in conspiratorially. “Perhaps an offering to the spirits would expedite matters.”
I’m quite sure he’s had a few too many “spirits” of the liquid variety.
Lucky says, “Or you could just be nicer to that sweet Parks & Rec gal. I saw what happened at trivia. You were pretty rough on her.”
“I wasn’t rough. I was honest.”
“And equally at fault.”
I take no blame. Have no shame. “I was merely involving a friend in the game since, uh, he wasn’t there with us.” And I didn’t want to be on a team with Vincenza.
“About as likely as the ghosts Sam is talking about being real.” Lucky’s chin dips with a nod and I can’t be sure whose side he’s on.
I leave before I say something I’ll regret. Oreo waits by the truck, and we drive back to the municipal complex as the sun disappears behind the mountains. Amid the dead winter grass and the bare trees, the glass walls of the Parks & Rec office glow from within like a beacon.
Time to finalize this pointless permitting process. I grab the rejected documents and head inside.
With any luck, Vincenza is gone. Maybe I can just leave them on her desk with a note.
But she’s here.
Through the glass wall, she sits at her desk, head down, blonde hair falling forward. She’s not moving. For a second, I think she fell asleep, but then she sits up, rubbing her eyes.
She looks exhausted. Not her usual bright, annoyingly cheerful self. Just … tired.
I hesitate because it’s after hours. This isn’t the right time. I should come back tomorrow.
She spots me. Like the human equivalent of a motion-activated porch light, she waves at me like we’re friends. Definitely not after Tuesday night’s disaster.
“Hi, Patton.”
“Vincenza.” It’s either that or Parks & Rec Princess. Using Winnie would suggest we’re on friendly terms, which we’re not.
She lets out a breath. “It’s Winnie. Everyone calls me Winnie.”
Two feet of hallway and a thousand miles of rocky, mountainous mutual annoyance stretch between us. I’ve lost count of how many times she’s corrected me about her name.
“Okay, Vincenza.” It’s childish, but the teasing words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Her expression quickly shifts from surprise to salty. “Is this the hill you want to die on?”
I grunt and a nearby door opening and closing reminds us where we are. Work.
Her guard goes up and a professional mask slides into place. She gets to her feet, tosses something in the trash, and then crosses her arms. My gaze tracks her every move from the slopes of her figure to the silky strands of her hair.
She impatiently taps her fingers by her elbow. “Did you need something?”
I hold up the permit paperwork. “These were rejected.”
“Because they were incomplete.”
“They were good enough.”
“They’re missing signatures, proper zoning documentation, and the environmental impact assessment.”
“We’re renovating a building, not clear-cutting a forest.”
“It sits on parkland. There are regulations.”
“There are always regulations with you people.” I slap the folder on her desk.
Her eyes flash. “You people? You mean the department that’s legally required to protect community resources?”
“I mean the department that’s making this impossible.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“So am I. It’s literally my life’s work to protect this community and the surrounding environment. I’d wager I know a lot more about it than these pieces of paper do.”
We’re closer now. I don’t remember shifting, but somehow the distance between us has shrunk.
I can smell her perfume—it’s sophisticated, European, not that I’d know—the notion of romance languages comes to mind.
It’s completely at odds with the sharp bite of her tongue as she defends slowing down progress on the bakery.
The tongue that licks her lower lip before she nibbles it with her teeth, popping it back into place.
I swallow thickly.
Cheeks the faintest shade of pink, she huffs. “Look, I can tell that you’re frustrated. But these rules exist for a reason. I can help you with the resubmission if you—”
“I don’t need your help.” The words make me feel stark, like I’m standing in the wind. Yet I’m closer to her than I’ve ever been.
“Clearly you do need help, since you can’t seem to fill out a form correctly.” Her breath smells sweet, reminding me of the Crush Cake I refused to share.
Standing my ground, she meets me, toe to toe. Vincenza is a little fiery and a bit bossy. I tell myself that I don’t like it.
Voice suddenly husky, I say, “Maybe if the forms weren’t written in bureaucratic legalese—”
“Or you could ask for clarification instead of assuming you know everything—” She abandons the roll of her eyes as she looks up at me, lips parted.
“I don’t assume. I do know.”
She slants her head. “Right. Because you’re Patton Cross, and you play or work or whatever alone, and you don’t need anyone.”
The way she throws back my comment from trivia night in such a cutting way makes me feel naked, like she sees right through me.
We’re so close, I see the strata in her mocha eyes.
“Speaking of working together …” Mayor Barbie peers into the office, wearing a hot pink two-piece suit.
As she dangles that teaser, it’s like Vincenza and I are on opposite ends of a fuse, burning toward the center. But all at once, we burst apart.
“Congratulations, Lieutenant Cross. You’ve been selected to plan the Fireman’s Ball.”
Anticipating what’s coming because there are always two people who share the responsibility each year, I run my hand down my face. “With whom?”
“With the Parks & Rec director.” Mayor Barbie makes a cheering sound.
Vincenza’s face falls before she quickly slides a smile back into place. “That would be me.”
“You.” My pulse accelerates.
Her chest heaves. “Me.”
“You and me.”
“Is there an echo in here?” She tilts her head.
Nope. I got the message loud and clear. I’m on duty with the one woman in this building who loves to hate me. She’s all smiles, but they’re just for show. However, given Mayor Barbie’s hopeful expression, maybe we should clear the air before we blow this place to bits.
Vincenza turns to the mayor. “Well, isn’t that—”
“Wonderful news!” Mayor Barbie finishes. “You two are the perfect pair. Winnie, with your dedication to community events and our lieutenant’s proximity to the inner workings of what makes our fire department so special, I have no doubt you’ll create a celebration to remember.”
“Of course,” Vincenza says, infusing her voice with false cheer.
I close my eyes briefly because I already have enough on my plate and the Parks & Rec director is a handful, especially with the way her skirt clings to her hips.
Mayor Barbie’s phone jingles and she excuses herself, leaving Vincenza and me alone again.
Last year, she and I only met one time before I left for my summer assignment. She’d just started and immediately took charge instead of reading the room, taking the pulse of how things work around here.
Last I checked, everyone had their place and we didn’t need a winsome, go-getter charging in and declaring herself queen.
While giving a presentation about interdepartmental collaboration, all sugary smiles and color-coded handouts, someone mentioned she had been Miss Nevada, representing our state in a beauty pageant.
I made a crack about “The Parks & Rec Princess” wanting to plan trust falls for firefighters.
When I came back in September, the temperature dropped twenty degrees every time she saw me.
“Look, about last June, we got off on the wrong foot—”
Vincenza locks eyes with me and then lightly kicks my boot with the toe of her shoe.
I shuffle back. Did she really just kick me?
Nostrils flaring, she says, “You got off on the wrong foot. I was perfectly pleasant.”
“You were aggressively pleasant.”
“You mean when you called me ‘The Parks & Rec Princess’ to your entire crew?” Her smile is jagged. “Don’t worry, I received the message loud and clear that day.”
My jaw tightens. “It was a joke … one I didn’t intend for you to overhear.”
“It was dismissive and undermining. You took one look at me, found out about the Miss Nevada pageant thing, and decided I was too cheerful and superficial to take seriously.”
“You were talking about ‘departmental synergy’ like we were at a corporate team-building retreat.”
“I was trying to be professional and collaborative. You were trying to be cool in front of your team.” She crosses her arms again and starts pacing. “But sure, let’s work together now. Should be great. Wonderful even.” She presses her fingers to her temple. “What was Mayor Barbie thinking?”
The cheery veneer has finally cracked, revealing how she really feels.
Eyebrow arched, this has just gotten interesting. “So I was right, you do hate me.”
“For the record, I don’t hate you.” She tilts her head. “Much.”
“You wave, then give me death glares from your office across the hall. What gives?”
“No, that’s your reflection.” She pauses. “Admit that you think I smile too much.”
“I said that one time and I was having a bad day.”
“You’re always having a bad day, Patton. That’s not an excuse.”
Fair point.
Straightening, she says, “We’ll have our first meeting on Wednesday.
I’ll send the agenda. If anything comes up before then, Mayor Barbie gave me your number.
Here’s mine.” She passes me a sticky note with her name in elegant script along with her digits.
Crumbling it would be the smart thing to do.
My eyes drift to the beauty mark above her lip and hold there a beat.
She shudders a breath. “I’ll text you so you have my number in your phone in case you lose that.” She tips her head to the square pink piece of paper in my hand as if reading my mind.
I grunt. “I didn’t agree to this.”
“Neither did I. But here we are.”
My radio crackles from dispatch. “Engine Seven, we have a reported structure fire at thirty-nine Pinecrest Drive.”
It’s probably a false alarm. Mrs. Weaver burns dinner every other week and she can’t reach the fire alarm off button with the end of her broom, which is how most people fix the problem.
“We’ll discuss this later.” I back toward the exit.
“There’s nothing to discuss. It’s an assignment, not a negotiation.”
I’m halfway down the hall when I notice the pink and red hearts, sparkly garlands, and lacy doilies. Dangling from the ceiling as if mid-flight, Cupids with creepy smiling faces aim their arrows directly at me.
It’s a couple of days away from February and Vincenza has already put up Valentine’s decorations.
She was right. I do hate them.
I glance back. She’s standing in her doorway, arms still crossed, watching me leave. For a second, I see that same exhausted vulnerability from earlier. Then it’s gone and her shoulders are thrust back. Chin lifted as if daring me to defy her perfectly positive perma-smile.
Oreo waits by the truck, tail wagging.
“Good to see you too, boy,” I say.
He licks my hand.
In the command truck, we head past the Timber’s Edge Inn and Resort toward the false alarm, and my phone buzzes with a notification.
It’ll have to wait. But it buzzes and buzzes.
Just like Vincenza’s voice in my ear. Her smile in my mind.
The woman whose perfume I can still smell.
The woman who makes me feel things I’ve spent twenty-four years learning to deny.
It’s my job to manage fires, but she might be too hot to handle.
After I make sure Mrs. Weaver’s home is safe and secure, I check my email. It’s from Mayor Barbie, confirming that I’m heading up the Fireman’s Ball planning committee, along with some details.
This is going to be nothing short of a disaster.