Chapter 16 Patton
PATTON
Before I can talk myself out of it, I start to give Winnie the truth about my past. “But Captain Kendrick—” I study the paintbrush, unsure of how much to reveal. I mean, I don’t care what Winnie thinks of me, do I? “I was always at the front of the line. Someone needed to be.”
“You’re the least reckless guy here, so where did the nickname ‘Maverick’ come from?”
“My father gave it to me. Because I would be brave like him someday. I was. Used to take a lot of risks.” The day that stole everything guts me all over again.
“But that changed when you lost Captain Kendrick.” Something in her voice makes me look up. Her gaze is open, welcoming and safe. I don’t detect judgment. Just two people talking about our lives and what could’ve taken mine.
“I was on a particularly tough fire up north. We lost one of our men. When I got back to base camp, I got the call that Captain Kendrick had passed away. The last thing he told me was that my mother needed me to be around for a long time.”
She shakes her head slowly, but I don’t register pity in her expression. “I’m sorry. That sounds like a lot on a normal day, but both at once seems nearly unbearable. Is that why the bakery matters so much?”
I should deflect. Change the subject. Make a joke.
Instead, I set down the brush. “He said I needed something that wasn’t just emergencies and loss. Something to balance everything else.” I gesture around the space. “He knew I needed roots, I guess. Something that lasts.”
Winnie watches me with her deep brown eyes that are the color of coffee with the smallest splash of milk.
“Captain Kendrick became the father figure I needed. He believed in me when I was just an angry kid trying to prove something.”
“You’re still trying to prove something,” she says softly.
“Maybe.” I stare at her, unsettled by how clearly she sees through me. Needing to shift focus, I say, “Your turn. You said the restaurant is struggling.”
Her expression closes slightly, a generic, neutral smile sliding into place. “Just the usual challenges. Food service is tough.”
“Winnie.” I make a lazy circle with my hand at our general surroundings, reminding her that I’m embarking on a food service endeavor.
Something about the way I say her name—not Vincenza, not Parks & Rec Princess, just Winnie—makes her pause.
“Right. You’ll do great. But for Sorrentino’s, it’s bad. Worse than my parents are admitting. I’m trying to help financially, but …” She shrugs, taking a swing at casual and missing. “I’m one person with a Parks & Rec salary.”
“That’s why you live with your grandmother.”
“Part of it. Also, because she needs help with the house, even if she won’t admit it.” She sets down the papers.
“I wonder where all that wonderful stubbornness comes from?” I tease.
She balls up a piece of paper and tosses it at me. “Everyone needs help, but nobody wants to ask for it. It’s exhausting.”
I chuckle at the irony. “You don’t have to fix everything alone.”
“Don’t I, though?”
The words are an exact echo of what I’ve thought a hundred times, what I’ve lived by since I was twelve years old.
We lock eyes and I see myself reflected in her—carrying everything, the fear that asking for help means weakness.
“That’s a lonely way to live,” I say.
“Says the man who does everything himself.”
“Exactly. I know what I’m talking about. I’m a professional. An expert.”
She laughs, surprised, and the tension trickles into something warmer, more elastic.
“We’re a mess,” she says.
“Speak for yourself. I’m very well-adjusted,” my voice lifts because that’s only true some days.
“You just spent an hour sanding the same six-foot section of wood.”
I look down at the bar top. She’s right. I’ve been working in the same spot, distracted. “It needs to be smooth.”
“It’s been smooth for forty-five minutes.” She stands, walks over, and runs her hand across the wood. “See? Perfect.”
Her hand is small against the wide plank, fingers delicate but capable. I imagine those hands rolling lumpy meatballs, trying to fix leaky pipes, typing permit forms after hours, and holding up the weight of her family’s dreams.
“Come here. Let me show you something.”
I lead her around the space, pointing out the original firehouse features we’ve preserved—the brass pole (polished and functional), the vintage gear hooks, the old bell that still works.
I stop in front of a wall and gesture. “We’re going to cover it with photos of firefighters over the years. A history of the station.”
“Sort of like the memorial wall?”
“But all candid shots.”
“You guys are such hot shots, not to be confused with ground crews managing fires.”
He chuckles. “You might say that.”
We’ve stopped near the windows. Dusky light streams through the glass panes. Dust motes dance in the air between us, and I notice sawdust caught in Winnie’s hair, glinting like tiny stars.
“You’ve got—” I reach out without thinking, sweeping it away.
My fingers graze her temple, and she goes still.
The touch lingers longer than necessary. I should drop my hand. Step back. Remember every reason I’ve kept my distance from day one.
But her perfume reaches me with its delightfully dizzying, rose scent, and she’s looking up at me with those coffee-colored eyes, lips slightly parted. I forget why I was supposed to stay away.
“Patton,” she breathes.
I’m going to kiss her. Right here in this dusty, half-finished bakery. I’m going to kiss Vincenza Sorrentino and probably ruin everything. But do I care?
“Patton Cross!” The voice booms from outside like a foghorn blown through a megaphone.
We jump apart, flustered, awkward, and not at all looking innocent.
Through the front window, Silver Sam—the town’s oldest resident and most enthusiastic local historian—stands on the sidewalk, waving his walking stick like a conductor’s baton.
“Is that—?” Winnie starts.
He pushes through the door without knocking, his long gray beard practically crackling with excitement. “Patton, my boy, that old ghost is getting restless. Wants you to hurry things along.”
“There’s no ghost, Sam.”
“The ghost of Captain Finnegan!” He wavers slightly on his feet. “Perished in the great fire of 1929! Still walks these halls, looking for his—”
“Lost axe,” I finish flatly. Having heard this story at last a half dozen times, I gaze at the ceiling, summoning patience.
Sam’s eyes are wild with conviction. “His voice is as clear as day, moaning about—”
“Municipal codes. I know.”
“Code violations. Safety first!”
Winnie presses her lips together, fighting laughter.
“That was probably the pipes. This building is over a hundred years old.”
“Mark my words, young Maverick!” Sam shakes his walking stick at me. “The captain don’t rest easy! He’ll be wanting a proper tribute. Maybe a plaque? Or some sourdough bread—he loved sourdough!”
Trying to keep a straight face, I say, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You mock me now, but when your pastries start floating across the room—” Sam pauses dramatically, “—don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
He departs as suddenly as he arrived, the door swinging shut behind him.
We’re both silent for a long beat, then Winnie dissolves into gasping laughter as she presses her hand to her chest. “Floating pastries,” she manages between giggles.
I find myself joining in, clutching my stomach. “Welcome to Huckleberry Hill. Where every building is possibly haunted and the town historian thinks he’s a prospector from the 1800s while ranting about a fire chief from the last century. It’s safe to say, the man’s wires are crossed.”
“He’s a character, that’s for sure. Every town needs one.”
“We have multiple.”
This interrupted what was about to be the greatest decision I’ve ever made or the worst mistake.
“Huckleberry Hill is wonderful,” she says, wiping her eyes. “Completely ridiculous, but wonderful.”
The almost-kiss moment is gone, replaced by laughter, which is definitely a step up from our usual grudge matches. Winnie remains close, cheeks flushed from laughing, and I think that if I’d kissed her, I would’ve wanted to keep kissing her.
She’d never let me live it down.
Unless she liked it.
I’m not sure I’m ready for what it would mean if we did, though, because what if something worse is happening? When we’re together, I feel like I’m free-falling. When I’m thinking about her, I feel suspended in midair.
When I land, will I be Maverick, able to take a daring risk as I used to?