Chapter 13 Winnie
WINNIE
I stare suspiciously at the coffee cup on my desk like it might be a trap. Poisoned? Evidence that someone was in here, attempting to steal Parks & Rec secrets? Not that we have any.
It’s regular drip coffee with a splash of milk. My normal order. The cup appeared on my desk this morning while I jousted with the copying machine.
Next to it, in a cellophane bag, was a glazed strawberry and cream doughnut hole. Just one. I considered bringing it over to the police department’s evidence locker. No, a crime hasn’t been committed yet. But I have my suspicions.
Wearing a shifty smile, Mindy peeks into my office.
“Do you know anything about this?” I point to the cup.
“It’s Valentine’s Day and you must have a secret admirer. Romance is alive and well in Huckleberry Hill.” She lets out a dreamy sigh.
The space between my eyebrows pinches because that’s a bridge too far. “It’s just coffee.”
“And a special holiday doughnut hole. Everyone knows how much you love them,” Mindy hints. “I saw a smug grouch leave your office earlier.”
I glance at the contents of my desk, wondering if that means Patton left a note or emailed material related to our planning. A booby trap?
Eyes narrowed with suspicion, I say, “He must have the dates mixed up. April Fool’s Day isn’t for another couple of months.”
“Oh, come on. He was being nice.”
“Nothing about Patton Cross is nice.” Though the flutters inside at the thought of him stretching his arms overhead, bringing me dinner, and his gaze lingering on me when I walk past his office, tell another story.
“Half of the county would disagree. Let’s see, there’s his handsome face, those muscles. His confidence, skill, and willingness to rush into danger. What about that isn’t hot?”
I recall my verbal misstep during our Fireman’s Ball planning meeting and fan my face. When did Mindy and I go from discussing the mysterious coffee to the notion of anyone being hot, least of all the man across the hall?
“Whatever are you talking about? I don’t know what you mean,” I say innocently.
She giggles. “Oh, but I think you do.”
My stomach twists. “Mindy, what about Austin? Why are you talking about Patton like that?”
She flicks her wrist. “I’ve moved on. Met a cute guy at karaoke night.”
I resist rolling my eyes. It’ll be a warm day in February here in the mountains when this woman finally finds the one. She whisks out of my office. I sniff the coffee just to be safe and then take a cautious sip. It’s robust, creamy, delicious. I still have a pulse, so I take another sip.
I risk a bite of the doughnut hole and the trio of flavors meld on my tongue.
I’m especially tired today after fielding questions from my brother about finances last night and stopping the leaky faucet that’s been keeping my Grandma awake for the last three nights with its drip, drip, drip—much like the slow leak of my thoughts about a certain firefighter.
Then, sensing eyes on me, I glance up. Through the glass partition, Patton sits at his desk, writing something down. I can’t help but think his posture radiates smug satisfaction.
It’s been a week since the Fireman’s Ball planning meeting, where we’ve managed not to commit a felony against each other. A week since the supplier negotiation miracle. A week of him being … tolerable. Occasionally helpful. Sometimes almost pleasant.
Which is exactly why I’m suspicious about this coffee.
I take another sip. It’s perfect. Hot but not scalding, strong but not bitter. Exactly how I like it.
Through the glass, our eyes meet.
He smirks before returning to his computer.
That settles it. The man is definitely up to something.
I’m not falling for another guy who makes me doubt myself.
If that means I’m single forever, so be it.
Anyway, I don’t plan on being in Huckleberry Hill long and there aren’t that many available bachelors, anyway.
Well, fine. There are a few. Namely, the one who tilts his head in my direction as if he knows I’m thinking about him.
Or just watching to see how long the cyanide takes to act.
Yes, Patton is competent.
Confident.
Yes, he’s kind.
Helpful.
Yes, his forearms in that department-issue polo should probably be illegal.
But he’s also cold, emotionally unavailable, and thinks my entire job is frivolous. I’m here to prove myself professionally, not get distracted by a man who considers smiling and waving a sign of weakness.
Even if he does remember my coffee order.
Even if his rare moments of dry humor catch me completely off guard.
Even if … Why would he bring me a Valentine’s Day doughnut hole?
My traitorous thoughts wander into the ripple of firm abdominal muscles, stray to the fullness of his lips, his powerful stature. Those mercurial hazel eyes.
“Parks & Rec Princess.” Patton appears in my doorway with a casual lean against the frame.
I nearly drop the cup of coffee. Spluttering, I cross and uncross my legs. Smooth a stray piece of hair behind my ear. Wipe my mouth. “Yes?”
“Mayor Barbie is waiting for us.”
My eyes widen. “Oh, right. Mid-month meeting. Conference room.” I glance at the time, having let it get away from me because of coffee … and let’s be real, the man who presumably bought it.
“Five minutes.”
I lift my cup. “Thanks for this.”
He grunts and arches an eyebrow. Does that mean he’s acknowledging it or thinks I’m a delusional imbecile who’d have the hubris to imagine he’d bring me a cup of coffee?
He grunts, then adds, “I take it that it’s better than the motor oil you brew in the break room.”
“I don’t brew motor oil—”
“Could’ve fooled me. Pretty sure it’s flammable. A fire hazard.”
“Then maybe you should cite me for code violations, Lieutenant.”
“Maybe I will.” His eyes are flat, but he’s smirking.
“Also, happy Valentine’s Day?” The words come out of my mouth as a question rather than a statement.
I’ve never received chocolates, flowers, or any sort of gift on this particular holiday.
Holding the cup in my hand and glancing at the empty cellophane bag, I’m not sure what category it falls into.
Chances are, this is an ordinary Monday to Patton. I can’t read into it.
“Coming?” he asks, his kaleidoscope hazel eyes on me.
I’m sitting, but feel like I’m falling, all knees and elbows as I struggle to my feet.
“You alright?”
“Yeah. Guess I really do need this coffee.” Or I’m about to go unconscious as the poisonous treats act on my system. Goodbye, cruel world!
When we get upstairs, the conference room is packed.
Mayor Barbie stands at the head of the table in a power suit, the color of cotton candy, with her blonde hair styled in waves that somehow never move.
She has the kind of relentless enthusiasm that makes me wonder if she’s secretly powered by rainbows and municipal bonds.
“Thank you all for coming on such a special day. It’s Valentine’s Day!” She clasps her hands together romantically under her chin. “But we’re here because I have exciting news about our annual Fire & Ice Fest!”
Patton mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “here we go.” He’s in the reserved seat for specific personnel next to me. His eyes and mouth tighten.
I pull out my notebook, immediately in work mode.
The Fire & Ice Fest is Huckleberry Hill’s biggest winter event—a fun day of activities culminating in a hockey game between the Fire Department and a team of local hockey legends.
Usually, it’s in January. However, because of a polar vortex last month, it had to be postponed.
Mayor Barbie declares, “This year, we’ve secured our very own Rick Welter from the Reno Rebels to be our emcee!”
Thomas whispers, “He can’t be a participant because he was injured during the game against the Knights.”
The room erupts in cheers. He’s basically Nevada hockey royalty.
Patton leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “We’re going to win.”
I mutter, “Someone watered your confidence tree this morning.”
His eyes cut to mine. “Not confidence. Experience. We’ve won the last five years.”
“Past performance doesn’t guarantee future results.”
He slowly unfurls that cocky smirk—the one he wears when he’s not running for Grouch of the Year. “It does when you’re the best.”
Mayor Barbie’s voice rises above our sparring as if to scold us. “Winnie will coordinate festival logistics. Patton is the captain of the recreational team. I expect full cooperation between departments.”
We both nod, chastised, though I notice Patton’s jaw tightens slightly.
Before we move on, I raise my hand. “I’ve been thinking of a new income stream to help offset the costs of events like this. What if we have a gift table with Gus the squirrel-themed merchandise? I’m thinking shirts, hats, keychains, plushies?”
Mayor Barbie perks up. “I love that! Winnie, you’re brilliant.”
Patton looks at me like I’ve just negotiated world peace with a tray of cookies. There’s something in his expression I can’t quite read—surprise, maybe? Grudging respect?
Off to the races with the proposed idea, Mayor Barbie says, “And Gus will be there in costume to introduce his new goods. But can you get on this in time?”
“Absolutely.”
“Just no live squirrels,” Patton says, so only I can hear.
I want nothing more than to elbow him, but I resist, remaining professional for the rest of the meeting. Although when his leg leans absently against mine under the table, sending a jolt, zinging along my skin, I don’t move.
That afternoon, after I scramble and place orders for Gus-branded merchandise, I realize I have to get the signed permits for the firehouse bakery to admin before the end of the day.
Patton isn’t in his office and Reese says he’s at the bakery, so I bundle up and enjoy the sun on my face as I walk over to the old fire house—soon to be Huckleberry Hill’s newest dining establishment—admiring the renovation progress.
The classic red brick has been cleaned, new windows installed, and fresh coats of paint on the trim.
The door is locked, so I lift my hand to knock as it swings open. Patton fills the frame with work gloves on, a coffee in his hand, and a smudge of something that might be paint or drywall dust on his jaw.
Much like this morning, his eyebrow arches.
Does that mean he wasn’t behind the coffee delivery?
Please don’t say it was Hayes. He’s a sweet kid, but a bit young.
Oh no! Or Thomas. How to put this kindly, er, honestly, he’s a bit dorky for me.
I’ll admit that I’m disappointed that the coffee may not have been from Patton after all.
His gaze tracks from mine, to the coffee, to my beauty mark, er, lips, and then lifts to my eyes again.
Voice low, he says, “I see you survived.”
“So you did poison my coffee.”
He sputters and nearly chokes on the sip he’d taken from his cup. “What?”
I shrug. “Murder is a crime, you know.”
“I’m well aware and I didn’t poison your coffee or the doughnut hole.”
“So they were from you?”
Instead of wearing a smug grin, his ears turn the faintest shade of pink. “You’re welcome.”
“I can see your halo glowing from here.”
He snorts.
“By the way, I have good news. The permits are complete. I just need a signature on the amendment form and we can submit.”
He brightens. “That’s great news. Come in.”
I follow him inside and take a slow spin of surprise while ignoring that much of this work was done pre-permit, since it’s literally in my hands, but I guess I can let that slide because the space is incredible.
They’ve kept the original firehouse charm—the brass pole, the high ceilings, the vintage touches—but modernized it with soft lighting, gleaming equipment stations, and a custom bakery counter that will certainly be featured in social media posts.
“Patton, this is amazing—” but my compliments are cut off by the buzz of a saw.
He leans in close and I inhale his manly, cedar and woodsmoke scent. “It’s getting there. Let’s head upstairs to the office.”
I follow him away from the loud tools and into what must have been the old chief’s office, where it’s quiet.
It has a glass window with mutton bars overlooking the main space.
I feel a strange, premature sense of loneliness about the idea of Patton being up here rather than across the hall from me, if he ends up going full-time here at the bakery.
I show him the forms and try to make a joke about the squirrel who besieged me, leaving a Valentine’s Day apology on a sticky note and a pink acorn on my desk.
All business, he signs the documents, giving me the sense he wants to return to work.
Dropping the pen on the desk, he leans back and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “So you’re not holding the squirrel event against Gus, the town’s mascot?”
“Nope. All is forgiven. I have hundreds of pieces of merch on the way as we speak.”
“All is forgiven, huh?”
I tilt my head, wondering what he means.
“Sure. The squirrel was lost. I panicked.”
“Lost. Yeah.” I have the strange sense that he knows the feeling.
“Thanks again for helping me … and for the coffee.” I tell myself that I just want him to admit that he did something nice, but deep down, I cling to the idea that I received a Valentine’s Day gift from a secret admirer … him.
Eyes grazing me as I stand in front of his desk, he says, “Don’t mention it.”
Does he mean don’t mention it, as in do not tell anyone or is this a casual you’re welcome? Am I overthinking things? The heat in my cheeks says yes, very much so. Panicking all over again, this is my cue to exit before I say or do anything stupid.
I turn to leave and try the door handle. It doesn’t budge. “Uh, Patton?”
I expect him to look up, but his gaze is already fixed on me when I turn around. “Yeah?”
My blush may as well fill my throat, because when I speak, my voice is garbled. “I think the door is locked.”