Chapter 5 #2
“You’re such a good girl. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Perhaps, though, you could find someone qualified.”
“Grandma, you grew up in Huckleberry Hill. Surely—” I was about to say that if there’s a plumber, she’d know them, but as I speak, I realize my error. We can’t afford one. Not with her fixed income and me spending all of my money on the restaurant. She means she wants me to ask someone for a favor.
Guilt twists in my chest. I’m not a good girl. I’m a broke girl pretending to have everything under control while secretly hemorrhaging money to keep my family’s failing business afloat.
Video tutorials to the rescue!
“Not to worry. I’ll get it taken care of. I’ll see you tonight.” I infuse my tone with a chipper, can-do certitude.
After we hang up, I pull out my planner and flip to today’s page and the immediate tasks to tackle.
Then I pull the binder for the Fireman’s Ball.
The rough timeline stares back at me, covered in color-coded tabs with still more sticky notes filling in the gaps with ideas that came to me last night when I couldn’t sleep.
Three months to plan one of the biggest events of the year. Three months of working with Patton Cross, who thinks I’m frivolous, annoying, and incapable of differentiating between a budget spreadsheet and a grocery list.
I’ll show him.
I’ll show everyone.
My phone buzzes. It’s my brother again.
Fab: Dad’s asking about money. What should I tell him?
Me: Tell him not to worry. We’ll figure out something.
But will we?
The afternoon creeps by in a blur of emails and phone calls.
I approve a permit for the spring concert series (I’m already praying for clear skies).
Deny a request to build a treehouse in the town square (The Junior Scouts get an A for effort).
Field questions about parking for the farmers market (no, we’re not going to construct a parking garage!).
Normal stuff. Manageable stuff.
At quarter of five, right as I’m finishing up, Patton appears in my doorway.
My breath does a weird thing, as if it doesn’t know whether it’s supposed to be moving out or in.
He looms. There’s no other word for it. Six-foot-two of disapproval filling my doorframe like he’s personally offended by my existence. So why is he here?
“Got a minute?” he asks.
Having realized the folly of my ever-cheerful attempts to win him over, I discard them in exchange for brute honesty. “Not really.”
“I’ll be quick.”
He steps inside without waiting for permission, holding a folder.
I gesture to the chair across from my desk. He sits, taking up all the space and oxygen in the room.
“I need these approved.” He slides the folder, presumably containing the revised permits, across my desk.
I open it and take a quick scan. He’s fixed most of the issues, but there are still a few problems. Minor ones, but still.
“You’re missing the environmental impact assessment,” I say.
“It’s a building renovation, not a strip mine.”
“It’s on parkland. The regulations are clear.”
“The regulations are ridiculous.”
“Take it up with the state. I just enforce them.”
His nostrils flare. “Can you just approve it?”
“Not until it’s complete.” I narrow my eyes.
“You’re being difficult.”
“I’m doing my job.”
We stare at each other across my desk. My ridiculous squirrel plushie—a gift from the mayor to all staff—sits between us, its beady eyes watching the standoff.
Patton glances at it. “Isn’t that thing supposed to be fierce? It looks deranged.”
“Gus is cute and he’s our town mascot, so no, not fierce, but adorably welcoming.”
“He looks like he’s plotting something.”
“Don’t insult him.”
“I’m not insulting—” He stops, rubbing his temples as if unsure how we got so far off track. “Can we just focus on the permits?”
“You were the one who made the squirrel comment. But happily. Fill out the environmental assessment, get it notarized, and resubmit. I’ll have it approved within two business days.”
“Two days?”
“That’s fast-tracked.”
“It’s a nightmare.”
I casually lift my shoulder. “It’s bureaucracy.”
He leans back in the chair, and I notice his knuckles. They’re scraped and bruised, probably from construction work at the old firehouse. He’s doing everything himself instead of asking for help. Stubborn man.
Softening my voice, I say, “I’m not trying to make this difficult. I want to help.”
“Right.” His tone is pure disbelief. “Like you had the internet ‘help’ at trivia night?”
My hand flies to my hip. “Excuse me? You literally had your crew texting you answers!”
Our verbal table tennis game continues and I vow to last until the death!
Gaze unflinching, he says, “Scotty wins at Jeopardy, Wheel of Fortune, and that show with the lifeline. He was just … sharing knowledge.”
“And I was just … looking things up!” I counter.
“On your phone. During a trivia competition.”
“You were getting texts.”
“It’s not the same.”
We’re both standing now, leaning over my desk like we’re about to arm wrestle. Gus the squirrel sits between us, still looking vaguely homicidal. Or is that us? If this keeps up, one of us is going to need a lifeline before long.
Patton takes a breath. “Fine. I’ll get the assessment done.”
“Thank you.”
“But I’m not happy about it.”
“Noted.”
He grabs the folder and heads for the door, then pauses. “Did you get the email from Mayor Barbie?”
My stomach knots because I foresee more of these standoffs happening … starting tomorrow. “About the special awards ceremony for the Fireman’s Ball?”
“Yep.”
I nod.
“Good.” His tone suggests it’s the opposite of good.
“Great.”
“Fantastic.”
I swipe my hand across my forehead, checking for sweat as if I just had the equivalent of a gym workout. “Then we’ll meet again tomorrow.”
His gaze cools. “I’ll be there.”
I flash him the stink eye. “Don’t be late.”
“I’m never late, Parks & Rec Princess.” He leaves without another word.
Rolling my eyes in his wake, I sink back into my chair, suddenly exhausted. Fighting with Patton Cross is like running uphill in the snow. Possible, but deeply unpleasant and extremely tiring.