Chapter 14 Winnie #2
Huh, I echo in my mind.
The silence that follows doesn’t feel comfortable exactly, but something about it is different, as if neither one of us has been entirely honest with ourselves or each other about how we feel and that’s been reflected in our juvenile behavior.
It’s like a coin flipped and now we’re looking at the other side.
His lips tug toward a grin as if he’s tuned to my mental radio dial.
I say, “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Don’t smile. I might just trick myself into liking you.”
Something whispers between us, yet the room is silent.
“Are you holding your breath?” I ask.
He smirks. “You smell so good.”
Suddenly self-conscious, I ask, “Is that a bad thing?”
“No, it’s addicting.”
My mouth falls open ever so slightly because if I didn’t know better, he is being serious. Maybe Grandma was right about the pigtail pulling.
The lock behind us clicks and we both spring in opposite directions.
Austin’s face appears in the doorway. “Dude, sorry! You two okay?”
“Fine,” Patton says quickly, pushing off the desk. “I can’t fathom how you put the door on backward.”
“It works, though, right?” Austin counters.
Moving hastily, I leave them to their arguing. Overheating, I don’t need to put my jacket back on as I head to the municipal building.
That evening, I’m in Grandma Joyce’s kitchen, which has become Ground Zero for the Great Brownie Battle.
After commenting on how I was locked in the office of the old fire house with Patton, Grandma Joyce thrusts a plate at me. “Try this batch. I added a touch of cinnamon.”
“Joyce, you can’t just add things willy-nilly,” Judy Waples protests from her position by the stove. “Brownies have a structure. A foundation.”
“So does a house, Judy, and they still renovate those.”
Speaking of … if these two continue this war, the walls might come tumbling down. I take a bite of Grandma Joyce’s brownie. It’s rich and fudgy, with unexpected spice from the cinnamon and a perfect hint of sea salt.
Judy hands me her version. Traditional and more cake-like, studded with walnuts. Also delicious, in a completely different way.
“Well?” they both demand.
“They’re both amazing,” I say diplomatically. “Really. I think we should have both at the festival. Variety is good.”
They exchange looks that suggest this is not the answer they wanted.
My grandmother says, “Fine. But mine will be labeled ‘delicious,’ and Judy’s will be ‘traditional.’”
Judy retorts, “Mine will be ‘classic,’ and yours will be ‘experimental.’”
“‘Experimental’ sounds like I’m running tests in a lab!”
I’m about to mediate further when the kitchen door opens and Patton walks in, tool belt on his hips, looking like he walked straight out of a home improvement show.
Both grandmas stop mid-argument.
“Patton!” Grandma Joyce actually bats her eyelashes. “What a lovely surprise. Happy Valentine’s Day!”
“I knocked, but I don’t think you could hear me. You said there was a problem with a flickering light.”
“I told you that, but—” I start.
He says, “Your grandmother called about an hour ago.”
“Did I? Oh, yes!” She splays her fingers as if only now recalling what was likely a very intentional phone call after learning we were locked in a room together, today of all days. “You’re such a dear to help.”
Judy Waples smooths her hair. “Patton, would you like a brownie? I have a fresh batch. They’re classic, traditional, some might say, and definitely delicious.”
“So do I,” Grandma Joyce interjects, practically elbowing Judy out of the way.
I watch in horrified fascination as both seventy-something women shamelessly compete for Patton’s attention, offering brownies, asking about his electrical expertise, and generally behaving like teenagers at a sock hop—I think they’re called.
Patton, to his credit, handles it with grace, accepting brownies from both and complimenting them equally. His eyes meet mine over the grandmas’ heads. There’s laughter in them.
He mouths: Help me.
I reply: You’re on your own.
He says: Traitor.
Grandma Joyce spins my way. “Winnie, why don’t you help Patton with the light? You know where the tools are if he also has time to look at the pipes under the sink.”
I most certainly do know where the tools are and we are not on a friendly basis! But it looks like he brought his own, but I recognize when someone is playing matchmaker when I see it.
“When you’re done, I’ll set out some dinner for you. Maybe light a candle if you can’t get it fixed. Could be romantic,” she trills.
Horrified as if this is Halloween and not Valentine’s Day, I hurry down the hall with Patton on my heels.
He says, “I could use an extra set of hands. Winnie, can you hold the flashlight?”
I do so while he tests the wires with a stick thingy that makes different beeping sounds.
“I’m so sorry about this,” I whisper.
“I can’t say no to older women in need of a ‘young, strapping lad.’” I’m about to comment that his confidence tree is overflowing when he says, “Her words, not mine.”
“Sounds about right.” Part of me wants to be upset and disappointed that I didn’t get to these repairs first because I can’t afford this.
He adjusts something and I note how capable he is—the kind of guy who’d win one of those survival reality shows that Grandma likes. I’m close enough that I smell cedar and woodsmoke, close enough to see the concentration on his face.
“Do you accept brownies as a form of payment?”
“Your grandma is a character,” he says quietly.
“That’s one word for it.”
“She loves you.”
“She’s also shameless.”
“What do you mean?”
“This.” I gesture vaguely between us.
“It is Valentine’s Day.” He glances up at me, his face inches from mine in the cramped space in the hall.
My eyebrows bob. So does he agree that she’s playing Cupid, trying to be a matchmaker?
“Does it bother you?” he asks.
“Does what bother me?”
“That they’re trying to set us up.”
My chest short-circuits, and I have a feeling that tool with the beeps and lights won’t detect a current. “Should it?”
“I don’t know.” His voice is rough when he repeats, “Should it?”
We’re staring at each other in the dim light. My thoughts slow down. My breathing too. I have no idea what’s happening, but I also don’t want it to stop.
“Got it,” he says abruptly, leaning back and flicking the switch. “All fixed.”
The light comes on, steady, bright. The moment breaks.
Grandma Joyce and Judy have conveniently disappeared to the living room, their delighted whispers carrying through the house.
“I should go,” Patton says, gathering his tools.
“Right. Thanks for fixing the light. What do I owe you?”
“Not a thing.” He pauses at the door. “But the festival is Saturday. You’re coming to the game, right?”
Is he asking me to go with him?
“I’m from the Parks & Rec department. The Fire & Ice Fest is at the park and it’s a form of recreation. Of course, I’ll be there.”
“Someone needs to watch.” He says goodbye to my grandmother and Judy, then, looking my way, he winks.
Like the repaired light, I brighten, then realize with a strange mixture of trepidation and excitement that it’s not only my family’s restaurant that’s in trouble.
Sometime between the supplier negotiations, being trapped together for twenty minutes in the office, and now, he has stopped being my nemesis.
I’m just not sure what he’s become instead.
But maybe the grouchy firefighter with the cocky smile and the emotionally unavailable heart might not be quite as unreachable as I thought.
And that terrifies me more than anything.
Because the last time I let myself believe someone cared, I ended up feeling like an unpaid assistant in my own relationship. The last time I thought someone saw me, it turned out that he only saw what I could do for him.
I won’t make that mistake again.
Even if Patton Cross knows exactly how I take my coffee.
Even if his rare smiles make my stomach flip.
Even if he is H-O-T and I mean that in every sense.