Chapter 12 Patton
PATTON
Winnie and I work for another hour on Fireman’s Ball details. The antagonism has shifted from fifth gear into something else. Banter, maybe. Or partnership.
I scoff at the notion. Aside from my firefighting crew, I’m a solo operator.
At one point, Austin sticks his head in. “You two still alive?”
“Barely,” Winnie says. “Patton is trying to convince me that balloon arches are frivolous.”
“They are frivolous,” I say with a chuckle.
“They’re festive!”
“They’re an egress hazard.”
Austin backs out slowly. “I’ll leave you to it.”
When we finally finish, we have a complete timeline, vendor list, and seating chart. On paper, we’re actually pulling this off.
“Not bad,” I say, standing and stretching my arms over my head.
Winnie’s gaze strays to my midsection—the one that I routinely work out in the gym. The guys and I compete over who has the most trim abs. Color rises to her cheeks.
Flustered, her smile falters and her eyes turn fuzzy. “Not bad,” she repeats, then, regaining her composure, she mock salutes me. “High praise from Lieutenant Cross. Same time next week?”
“Works for me.”
I walk her toward the hallway, where the fire department joins the rest of the building. We’re passing the memorial wall when she stops.
Photos of fallen firefighters line one section. My dad’s formal picture is there along with some candids in a collage—younger than I am now, wearing his smoke jumper gear, grinning like he had no idea that smile would be one of his last.
Next to it is Captain Kendrick. Older, smoke-swept, and with eyes that saw too much yet stayed kind, anyway.
“Is this your father?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah.”
“He looks like you. Same smile.” She snorts a laugh through her nose. “I know, I know. You don’t smile. But you almost did earlier when we were arguing about balloon bouquets.”
I don’t confirm or deny as she continues to study the photographs, when usually people who come here just breeze past them.
She meets my eyes. “Patton, I’m sorry about your dad and Captain Kendrick. They seemed like really honorable men.”
“They sure were.”
She slowly scans the images on the wall. “Doesn’t make it easier.”
When I was attacking my first live fire, my instincts told me to get out, find safety.
But I was trained to run into danger and right now this feels much the same.
But I have zero training in how to smother the feelings building inside, especially not when she looks at me with those big brown eyes, where, instead of pity, there is respect.
Nodding slowly, she adds, “I see the endgame with the bakery. You have a retirement plan because you intend to be here for a long time.”
My throat tightens as she draws the contrast between the men I lost and maybe why I hung up the title Maverick without wholly realizing it. “Something like that.”
“That’s beautiful, Patton.”
I need to move. Get back to work. Add another layer of bricks and mortar to the wall between us. “I should—”
She touches my arm. “Thank you for today. For being … less, um, more agreeable.”
“You mean less hostile?”
“We were both a little antagonistic.”
“Maybe a bit.”
She laughs. “So this is progress.”
I walk her to the main entrance. We suddenly occupy that awkward space between professional and what someone might call friendly when Hayes appears.
“Winnie, are you leaving already? I was hoping you’d stay for lunch.”
“Oh, that’s sweet, but I have work to—”
“Maybe another time?” Hayes is practically vibrating with puppy-dog enthusiasm.
“Um …”
“Great! It’s a date. I mean, not a date-date. Just a lunch date. Which is also a date. But casual—”
I interrupt. “Handsome, gear check. Now.”
“But I just—” Hayes starts.
“Now.”
He scurries off. Winnie presses her lips together, trying not to laugh.
“He’s twenty-four,” I say.
“So …?” Her gaze dances over me.
“So …” But I stop. What am I doing?
“So I’m thirty-two. Is there an age limit on lunch I’m not aware of? Or a rule about Parks & Rec staff spending time with more than one person from the fire department? A protocol, perhaps?”
I shift from foot to foot. “He’s a rookie.”
“And I’m a grown woman who can share a meal with whoever she wants.”
She’s right. It’s none of my business. So why does my gut feel like it’s full of concrete?
Wiggling her fingers with a wave, she says, “See you soon, Lieutenant.”
Picking my ego up off the floor, I watch her go, hips swaying, curves setting me on fire.
Oreo sits next to me, making a sound that might be judgment.
“Don’t you dare.”
Hours later, night has fallen and I’m back in my office doing paperwork for the bakery. The building is mostly empty. Through the glass and across the hall, a small light in Winnie’s office glows. I glance at the time. It’s seven and dinner has come and gone.
My phone rings with a call from the dairy company I’ve been trying to negotiate with for two weeks. The woman on the line apologizes for the late call with a comment on being behind—seems like a theme. “Mr. Cross, as I’ve explained, our prices are firm—”
“I understand that, but for a startup business, your minimum order requirements are a little excessive. Surely there’s another plan or some flexibility—”
“Take it or leave it.”
I’m getting nowhere. Again. It’s not like we need fifty gallons of milk and a metric ton of butter each month. At least not yet.
Winnie looks up. She can probably hear my frustration rattling the glass as I continue to negotiate.
She stands, walks over, and makes a “give me the phone” gesture.
I stare at her and shake my head. “I can handle this,” I hiss.
She makes the gesture again, inclining her head, more insistent.
Looking down at the myriad pieces of paper on my desk, demanding my attention, I ask myself, What do I have to lose? I hand her my phone.
“Hi there, this is Winnie Sorrentino and—” Her tone is warm and charming before she goes silent as if she were interrupted.
I lean in, concerned about where this is going. I hold a position of authority and am used to people listening to me. Stella from Dimato’s Family Dairy didn’t get the memo.
“Yes, Sorrentino. That’s right. My family runs Sorrentino’s Restaurant in Reno.
” A pause. “I agree. My father does make the best stuffed shells. Then again, you guys provide the milk for the homemade ricotta. Papa always says that the best chef in the world can’t make a five-star meal with poor ingredients. ” She speaks with a trill.
Laughter echoes through the phone.
“Oh, well, I guess I could.” She switches to what must be Italian. Rapid, flowing Italian that sounds like music.
Leaning in, I just stare, having no idea what is going on. Winnie laughs as she nudges me out of the way, sits down in my office chair, pulls up the wholesale supplier spreadsheet on my computer, and starts what sounds like negotiating.
In Italian.
The knot in my gut slowly unravels and I drop into the chair opposite my desk.
Five minutes later, she hands me the phone with a triumphant smile.
“What just happened?”
“You now have a twenty percent discount, better payment terms, and they’re throwing in free delivery for the first three months.”
“How?”
“Sorrentino family connections. We’ve used them for years.
The woman on the phone is a tough cookie, but the owner is from northern Italy—he and my father once got together and made fresh mozzarella, burrata, and other soft cheeses.
They made a weekend of it. Small town. Small world.
She put him on the phone and we caught up. ” She shrugs.
“Why would you do this?”
Her hand flies to her hip as if I’m about to argue with her about helping me. To be fair, I was. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Reluctantly holding my hands up in surrender because I’m thankful even though my pride suffered a first-degree burn, I say, “I’m impressed.”
“My mom always said you catch more flies with honey.”
“Italian honey?”
“Everyone speaks Italian when it comes to good food.” She’s looking at my screen now. “Let me see your whole supplier list. I probably know half these people.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Too late. I’m already invested.” She scrolls.
“Don’t go with these guys for linens. With the amount you’ll use, just buy a new washer and dryer for the old fire house.
Also, Hamler’s products are reliably fresher than Millen’s from Carson City.
Trust me. And—wait, you’re paying retail for an espresso machine? ”
“Is that bad?”
She looks at me like I’ve personally offended her ancestors. “Patton. Sweet, na?ve Patton. You can’t pay retail, well, except for the washer and dryer. That’s fair.”
“I’ve never been called sweet or na?ve before.”
“First time for everything. Give me twenty minutes.”
She makes calls. She charms people in English and Italian. She name-drops her family, mentions the restaurant, and laughs at jokes I can’t hear.
She’s not the bubbly activities coordinator I dismissed. She’s a competent businesswoman who knows her way around salespeople and negotiations.
I grow increasingly impressed and increasingly aware that I was very, very wrong about her.
An hour later, I review the spreadsheet and ask, “You just saved me three grand.”
“Plus, five hundred a month if you continue past the initial agreement periods.”
I swipe my hand across my forehead. “I still don’t understand why you went through the trouble—”
She lifts one shoulder and lowers it. “Because you need help and I like the vision you have for the bakery. This town will benefit from it.”
“This has taken me weeks to wrap my head around, never mind actually making contacts, and you settled nearly everything in a matter of an hour. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
Her smile is different from her usual bright, professional morning greeting. It’s real, a little demure, and very, very cute. Her gaze darts to the office across the hall, her office, and she pops out of my chair. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to occupy your throne.”
“Be my guest, Parks & Rec Princess.”
Mouth pinched, she cocks her head.
“Mostly, that was a joke. But really, thank you.” I back each word with sincerity.
She nudges me with her elbow. “You’re welcome, partner.”
“Partner?”
“Someone has to keep you from paying retail like a sucker.” Her stomach growls.
“When did you last eat?”
She bites her lip. “Lunch?”
“The woman whose family runs a restaurant and who charmed the pennies out of those salespeople hasn’t eaten in nearly eight hours?”
“Time got away from me. I’ll grab something later.” She waves her hand dismissively and starts toward the door. “I should head home, anyway. Grandma will worry.”
Winnie will go home and deal with whatever project the house needs.
Unfortunately, the Huckleberry Hill gossip mill reaches my ears whether I want it to or not.
She’ll probably send money to her family and fall asleep without eating.
It’s just a guess, but with the way everyone in this town flaps their lips, I’d wager that I’m right over the target, which gives me an idea.
“Thanks again,” I say, getting to my feet as well. Five minutes later, holding a container, I rap lightly on the doorframe of her office, where she is back behind her desk.
She looks up, surprised. “Long time no see.”
“I brought leftovers from the station. We always make extra.”
“But it’s for the guys.”
“I insist.”
She opens the container and breathes in. “This smells amazing.”
“I know.”
She rolls her eyes.
“It’s nothing special.”
She takes a bite and her eyes close. “Patton, this is really good, and if you didn’t gather, I’m rather particular and a bit biased when it comes to good food.”
“It’s just cowboy stew.”
“It’s not ‘just’ anything. This is restaurant level.”
“Wait until you try my day-old spaghetti.”
The spoon hovers in front of her mouth. “No way you could beat my father’s recipe.”
I rock back on my heels and chuckle. “I have no doubt your father’s is authentic, but when I make it, there are never leftovers.”
She takes another bite. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Here and there.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“My mom worked a lot after Dad died. I learned.”
Her expression softens. “You were twelve.”
“Someone had to feed us.”
She’s quiet, and I realize I’ve said too much. Shown too much.
But she doesn’t pity me. She just says, “Thank you. For this. For everything today.”
I nod and back toward the door.
“Patton?”
I turn.
“We make a good team after all.”
“I suppose we do.”
Lifting her chin and smiling, she adds, “Working with you isn’t so bad. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.”
And the strange thing is, I am too.
Later that night, I stride through the big bay in the station when Austin slides into step next to me.
“So, about that bet,” he says casually.
“What bet?”
His grin is pure trouble. “The guys think you can’t get through Fireman’s Ball planning without arguing with Winnie. I said you could. Loser takes all the holiday shifts.”
My competitive nature flares. Today proved that she and I could be in the same room without fighting like cats and dogs, but they don’t know that. “I never lose.”
“That’s the spirit.” Austin claps my shoulder, counting on me to cover the holidays.
Tone dry, I add, “Especially to geniuses like you.”
“We shall see.” He walks off whistling, and I’m left standing there, realizing what I’ve agreed to.
Don’t argue with Winnie. Work together. Be civil. Maybe even friendly.
I never lose.
Except that’s not true, is it? I lost my dad. Lost Captain Kendrick. Lost the part of myself who used to be called Maverick when I woke up one day after a firestorm, when we lost one of our men. I should’ve done something different. Should have been able to save him.
But I won’t lose to Winnie in our undeclared war of egos, especially if I don’t let myself like her more than I should.
Spending time with her, seeing her charming vendors, solving problems, and eating my food is the real danger and should come with a fire hazard label.