Chapter 11 Patton
PATTON
I’m halfway through equipment inventory when I remember my jacket is still at Parks & Rec.
More specifically, with Vincenza.
Who I rescued from a squirrel yesterday. Who I couldn’t stop thinking about last night, despite my best efforts. Who I’m supposed to meet with this morning to plan the Fireman’s Ball.
I exit the east wing to the hall and she’s at her desk, peering at her computer with a crease between her eyebrows like she’s concentrating.
Not that I’ve noticed her particular facial expressions before … or the beauty mark above her lip … or the sparkle in her eyes.
“Morning,” I say from her doorway.
She looks up and her gaze softens, then brightens, then settles into neutral, professional. “Good morning! Come in. I have your jacket.”
She pulls it from behind her desk, folded neatly. When she hands it to me, our fingers brush and a trickle of low-wattage energy flows through my hand, building in intensity as it buzzes toward my chest.
“I didn’t put mud in the pockets or anything.”
I blink once, twice, confused. “Why would you do that?”
She wrings her hands. “I don’t know why I said that.”
I narrow my eyes because I recognize guilt when I see it. I overtly check the pockets. They’re empty. “Thanks. I think?” I start toward the door.
“You’re welcome … and Patton?”
I turn. “Yes?”
She takes a deep breath and lengthens her spine. “You make me feel eight years old sometimes. Twelve at others. Also, sixteen. Like you just can’t help but pull my pigtails.”
I take a generous sweep of her appearance—a pink sweater today with dark pants and high heels. A single pearl dots each delicate earlobe. “Your pigtails?”
“Metaphorically speaking.”
“That’s …” I don’t know how to finish the sentence.
“Weird? Immature? Accurate? All the above!” Flustered, she picks up a small bakery box from her desk.
I eye it warily as if it might contain a ticking bomb.
“These are for you. Well, for everyone at the station. Doughnut holes. As a thank you for yesterday’s rescue.”
“I was just doing my job.”
“Your job is squirrel wrangling?”
“My job is handling emergencies. You called 911.” I scratch my temple.
“The squirrel was aggressive!”
I chuckle. “It was six inches tall.”
“Eight. Maybe ten. It had sharp teeth and acorns!”
My lips twist. “Meeting at nine?”
“Ready when you are.”
With a crisp nod, I head back to the station.
Austin immediately appears like he’s been watching through the glass. “You almost smiled.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You did. I saw it. Your face did a thing.” With his finger, he draws a crescent shape in front of his mouth.
“My face doesn’t do things.”
“It tried to smile. It’s like watching paint dry or a glacier melt. Slow, but undeniable.”
I ignore him and get to work before the meeting with Vincenza. Shortly before nine, I head across the hall. The entire Parks & Rec staff stands in the hallway like they’re seeing us off on an Arctic expedition.
“Is Winnie waiting for a group hug send-off before the meeting?” I grouse.
“A historic meeting,” Thomas says solemnly.
“It’s the first official collaboration between departments,” Mindy adds.
“Finally.” Pauline pumps the air.
Vincenza clutches her color-coded folders. “Ignore them. They’re being dramatic.”
“We’re marking this monumental moment,” Mindy says.
Vincenza wears an apologetic smile. “The main conference rooms are occupied by assessors and some Lake Conservation Committee members. I wasn’t able to book one on short notice. I’d offer my office or ask to use yours, but we need a bit more room.” She jiggles her folder.
“We can use the Fire Department meeting room.”
We walk back to my side of the building, where the entire crew drops whatever they’re doing and gathers around us.
My forehead furrows. “Back to work, guys.”
“I beg to differ. Looks to me like a truce has been called, an alliance formed,” Austin says.
“There is nothing to see here.” I extend my arm to let Vincenza pass them like I’m a bouncer at a club.
“Morning, Winnie!” Hayes waves.
“Good morning!” She waves back, which makes the probie beam like he just won the lottery.
I glare at him. He’s twenty-four. She’s thirty-two. Also, she’s—off-limits?
What am I thinking? I have no claim on her. This meeting is strictly professional. So are the thoughts I have about her when I’m off the clock … except they’re not. Tipping my head from side to side, I crack my neck so I can focus. Vincenza watches me with curiosity or disdain. It’s hard to tell.
Before I close the door to the conference room, Oreo follows us in and immediately plants himself at Vincenza’s feet.
“Turncoat,” I mutter.
She gently scratches behind his ears,
“Let’s get this over with.”
Vincenza straightens. “Don’t sound so enthusiastic.”
I grunt.
She spreads out her materials and slides several pieces of paper toward me. As I reach for them, our hands nearly collide. We both pull back like we touched a hot burner on the stove.
Manning the helm, I say, “You’ve taken this task seriously. Let’s start with the budget.”
She slides over a spreadsheet. “Budget breakdown. Hall rental, catering, decorations, and entertainment.” She points to a circled number at the top to indicate how much money we have to work with.
I study it and when I look up, the crease between her eyebrows deepens. Is she waiting for my approval or preparing to argue?
“What do you think?” she asks.
“This is thorough.”
“I try to be. You should see my Pinterest boards. I have one for—”
“Let’s get to the point.” Or else the small talk might turn into something more and I can’t afford that.
“I have some ideas for the theme and atmosphere.” Fingers wide, she moves them through the air in a jazzy half circle. “The aesthetic.”
Without hesitating, I blurt, “Let’s keep it simple.”
She huffs. “I haven’t even told you my ideas yet!”
“I know how this goes. You’re going to suggest something extravagant—”
“Just hear me out. Winter wonderland. Ice sculptures, twinkling lights, signature beverages—” This time she spreads her hands like a magician performing a trick.
“See?”
“What’s wrong with winter wonderland?”
“The event isn’t until the spring. Ice sculptures are expensive and quickly turn into costly puddles at the right temperature. Twinkling lights are a fire hazard. And we’re not providing an open bar.”
She crosses her arms. “But the notion of ice, given that it’s a Fireman’s Ball and you’re hot—” She claps her hand over her mouth.
My eyebrow rises … along with some color to the tips of my ears. I should ignore her comment. Pretend it didn’t happen.
“I mean, the contrast. Like hot and cold. Fire and ice.” Her throat bobs on a thick swallow. “Like you guys handle hot things. I didn’t mean that—”
I grunt, eager to dismiss the notion and what it could mean. “Yeah, I get it. Plus, the Fire & Ice Fest is coming soon and there will be ice skating and a bonfire, so that would be redundant.” I snarl, intending to keep the distance between us.
She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Okay, Admiral Grouch. What do you suggest?”
“As I said, we keep it simple. There doesn’t need to be a theme. Chairs and tables. Food and music. Done.”
“I can see you’ve really put some thought into this. Are we serving plain crackers and water?” Sarcasm accompanies each word.
I nod because, despite her intention, she’s on to something. “Cheese and crackers.”
She leans forward with disbelief. “Oh, how generous.”
“Chips and dip, too.”
She shakes her head. “This is the Fireman’s Ball. Guests expect something special.”
“You’ve been spending too much time on Pinterest.”
“People want to support the fire department and have a decent meal.”
“What about grinders—we could get a bulk discount. Fifty percent off fifty footlongs.”
“We can have ice sculptures shaped like firefighters—cookies too with frosting and cardboard cutouts so we can play pin the tail on the—”
Eyes wide, I stare at her. She can’t be serious. “That’s …”
“Amazing? Brilliant? Social media-worthy?” She waggles her eyebrows.
“Dangerous when they melt.” Just like I might do when around this woman if I’m not careful.
“They won’t melt if we—” She stops. “Wait, did you just say ‘when’ they melt, implying you’re at least considering them?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m not considering them.”
“You said ‘when,’ not ‘if.’ There is a distinction.”
“Slip of the tongue.”
“I’ll win you over yet.”
“You won’t. I’m being realistic about ice in a heated venue in the springtime.”
We continue going back and forth. We’ve been arguing for almost ten minutes about hypothetical firefighter-shaped items, to which I raise reasonable objections. “You want to play pin the tail on the firefighter?”
“It’s a classic game.”
“Are you calling us donkeys?”
“Just you.”
When did this become amusing? I only relent when she grins, her beauty mark emphasizing her full lips.
Leaning back in my chair, feet planted on the ground, I cradle my head in my hands. “Maybe we can compromise.”
She perks up. “Okay. What if we do some practical elements and some special touches? Not huge ice sculptures, but maybe LED luminaries? Cheaper, safer, still pretty.”
My thoughts wander to the bed of my pickup truck, the two of us reclining on a cool night, gazing up at the heavens. Out here, away from the city lights, it’s so dark and so peaceful, it’s like swimming in the sky. Inspired, I suggest, “A starry night theme.”
Vincenza leaps out of her seat, launching herself at me before stopping abruptly. “I just, um, that’s a great idea. I knew you had it in you.”
She taps my arm playfully and I reflexively draw back, breaking the moment. Worried that her touch could burn me in a way that would leave a mark.
“Sorry. I, uh, am just excited.”
And I can’t let myself be, not after imagining taking Winnie stargazing.
Hold on. When did Vincenza become Winnie? Being in this room with her is like managing a controlled burn. The heat is tolerable until it isn’t.
Sitting up, I refocus. “LED strands for the twinkle lights will work. They’re cool to the touch, low fire risk, energy efficient.”
She blinks. “Yes!” Then she does a double-take. “Who are you and what have you done with Patton Cross?”
“Don’t push it.”
We dive into the details from the seating arrangements to supplier contracts to the timeline.
She opens her laptop and shows me samples and photos.
I cross-reference budget line items, and before either of us realizes it, we’re actually cooperating instead of bickering, working together like two mature adults.
She points to her laminated seating chart. “What do you think about Silver Sam and Lucky Donahoo at the same table?”
“Absolutely not. They’ll spend the whole night trying to one-up each other with prospector tales and card tricks.”
“But that could be entertaining.”
“It’ll be disastrous.”
“But fun. Could add some excitement.”
I shake my head. “I think we cause enough of that.”
Her gaze flicks to mine. If I’m not mistaken, I see the Milky Way in her eyes.
Giving my head a shake, I backpedal. “Think of them like that uncle that everyone has in their family, but everyone avoids because they’ll talk incessantly about Bigfoot or some old scandal or conspiracy.
However, in this case, there are two of those uncles. ”
She taps her pen against her lips and then assigns them different tables. We keep working … together.
She suggests live music. I counter with a playlist. We compromise on a local pianist for the cocktail hour and a playlist for dancing.
She wants fancy centerpieces. I show her the fire code restrictions. She pivots to simpler designs that still look elegant.
I notice things I shouldn’t notice. The pearl earrings she’s wearing. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking. Her intoxicating perfume and what it would be like to nuzzle into her neck and inhale.
She points to a list. “Any preferences on caterers?”
Clearing my throat, I scan it. “The Skillet and Skewer is reliable. We use them for station events.”
“Barbecue can be messy for something like this. I’d offer Sorrentino’s, my family’s restaurant, but it’s too far away.”
I look up. “Your family’s restaurant?”
She shifts slightly. “They do catering. And—” She stops.
“And what?”
“And they need the business, but they really are good and I’m not just saying that because I’m biased.” She tries to hide the desperation in her voice.
“Sorrentino’s is in Reno, right? I didn’t make the connection until now.”
“Yeah. Just off the main strip.” She fidgets with her pen. “They do authentic Italian. My dad’s side is from Sicily. Mom’s side is from here—Grandma’s family has been in Huckleberry Hill forever.”
“That’s the grandmother whose house you’re fixing up.”
“How did you know that?”
Because I pay attention to things about Winnie that I shouldn’t. “Small town.”
“Right. Back to the drawing board.”
My gaze lingers on her and I wonder if she’s trying to hide something—she’s always working late. Lives with her grandmother instead of having her own place. Is she helping them financially?