Chapter 18 Winnie
WINNIE
Lucky peers over my shoulder. “Is that him? What’s he say?”
“Privacy!” I clutch the phone to my chest. “What happened to privacy in this town?”
Everyone watches me with knowing smiles.
“You’re all terrible,” I announce, but there’s no malice in it. Just an observation.
“Terrible at keeping secrets,” Lucky agrees cheerfully.
“But excellent at spotting romance!” Peggy supplies.
The text will have to wait until later, when I’m alone. Can’t risk a game of “telephone” where something inevitably gets lost in translation. That’s how rumors start.
Later that day, I’m at the library using their copier because ours is perpetually broken despite Thomas’s repeated “fixes,” and the repair service can’t get out here until next week.
Peony helps me navigate the ancient machine while I find myself confessing more than I intend.
It could be because she’s heard three different stories about Patton and me at the old firehouse, with no thanks to the entire population of Huckleberry Hill, but especially the diner’s customers.
I have to clear this up and get the facts straight.
As the copier prints flyers, I say, “So hypothetically, if someone was maybe possibly developing feelings for a person they previously couldn’t stand—?”
Peony’s smile is gentle, but knowing. “Hypothetically?”
“Yes, very theoretical.”
“I’d say that’s how the best love stories start.” She’s not wearing her wedding ring again.
“Hmm. Love, that’s quite a leap.”
“Are you asking for a friend?”
“Yes. No. I’m, um, doing scientific research.”
She sees right through me.
“Patton is a good man, Winnie. He just has walls.”
“Walls made of concrete and stubbornness.”
“Built for good reasons.”
“Reasons having to do with losing his father?”
“And what that did to his mother. I think he believes relationships mean signing up for inevitable heartbreak.”
My chest tightens. “That’s awful.”
“It’s why he pushes people away. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much and maybe he’s afraid of what that might mean, what could happen.”
I think about the way he opened up about Captain Kendrick, about the rawness in his voice when he indicated his captain wanted him to have something a little sweet in his life.
“What if I’m setting myself up to be hurt again? My ex made me feel like a doormat. What if I’m just falling into the same pattern?”
Before she can answer, the library door opens and in walks Patton—the man of the hour, the talk of the town, he who has taken up residence in my mind—hefting what looks like firefighting equipment.
Peony says, “Hi! So glad you’re here for the fire safety demo for the kids’ reading program.”
He nods and mutters an affirmative, while our eyes slowly drift together like two ships caught in a converging current while out at sea.
The corner of his mouth lifts, and my stomach releases a flare. Good thing he has a fire extinguisher.
“Hypothetically speaking,” Peony murmurs beside me, “I think your feelings might not be one-sided.”
He approaches, looking unfairly good in his uniform. Crisp lines, utility, and well-earned confidence. “Winnie.”
“Winnie?” Peony echoes.
“It’s new,” I murmur.
“So he stopped calling you Parks & Rec Princess? Interesting.”
“Did you get my text?” he asks.
“He’s texting you now?” Peony stage whispers.
I’m about ready to shush her—library rules and all.
However, Geraldine Thorndike, the head librarian, dings her infamous brass bell. “This is a public library!” she announces in what might be a British accent or theatrical affect. No one knows for sure. “Not a place for romantic dalliances!”
“We’re not—” I start.
“Save it for the fire station!” She shoos us apart with her cardigan-clad arms. “I’m watching you two!”
Patton and I lock gazes once more and stare at each other.
My breath gets trapped in my chest with his heavy, hooded eyes on me. Suddenly feeling a little lost, I give my head a shake to come back to reality.
“Did she just—?” My cheeks turn pink.
“Assume we’re having a romantic dalliance?” He looks amused.
I press my hand to my forehead. “Everyone in this town has lost their minds.”
“Or maybe they see something you’re trying not to admit,” Peony wisely suggests as she pushes the re-shelving cart past.
My heart thunders and I try to remind it this is a library! “What do we have to admit?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but a herd of children descends for the fire safety demo, and the moment dissolves with the pitter-patter of their feet as they creep past Geraldine Thorndike.
As I gather my photocopies, I catch sight of a book on top of Peony’s cart titled “How to Fall in Love with Your Enemy.”
The world is mocking me.
But as I watch Patton patiently explain fire extinguishers to a group of enraptured kids who follow up with questions, I have one of my own, or three.
What if the person everyone thinks is impossible to please just hasn’t met the right person yet?
What if I’m that person?
What if we both are?
That evening, I’m working late at my desk, trying to focus on grant applications and failing miserably because Patton is also working late across the hall.
Everyone else has gone home. It’s just us in the municipal complex, separated by glass and stubbornness.
My stomach growls. Loudly.
Through the window, Patton looks up.
A moment later, my phone buzzes and I recall he’d texted me earlier. I scroll back and see that he asked if I wanted a Crush Cake. Apparently, they were fresh out of the oven. I read the first one he sent.
Patton: Hungry?
Me: Focused.
Patton: I ordered takeout.
In a last-ditch effort to maintain space between us, I revert to our standard bickering.
Me: How nice for you.
Patton. For us. My treat. Call it a business dinner.
Me: And get everyone speculating all over again?
Patton: You won’t be able to resist the fried rice and egg rolls.
Me: Watch me.
Twenty minutes later, Patton is indeed watching me—devour the most delicious takeout I’ve had in a while. Like a little cat coaxed by a can of tuna, he lured me into his office with an assortment of Chinese food favorites.
“For the bakery, do you have uniforms? Will there be aprons?” I waggle my eyebrows, thinking about him in the former earlier today at the library and in the latter, given his washboard abs.
“Aprons are non-negotiable. Can’t have the crew covered in flour and frosting. Want to see the business plan?”
“Seriously? Sure.”
“I knew that would be like catnip to your well-organized, efficient, and task-oriented mind.”
“Har har,” I say, stopping short of flicking a lo-mein noodle at him, then licking my paw to smooth my whiskers.
He pulls out a binder containing revenue projections, staffing schedules, and menu development phases. It’s so organized that it makes my sticky notes look pathetic in comparison.
“This is impressive. Solid,” I admit, flipping through pages.
“Captain Kendrick taught me not to hate preparation.”
“Wise man. Did you ever imagine yourself becoming a baker?”
“Nope.” He steals a piece of orange chicken from my container. “Firefighter was the goal for as long as I can remember. This is the side hustle. The retirement plan.”
“You’re planning your retirement already?”
“Captain Kendrick made me promise.”
That Patton live long enough to retire? My heart craters for the kid who had to grow up too fast, who learned early that nothing lasts forever.
“What about you? What’s your big dream? Besides color-coding the entire municipal budget?”
I laugh, but the question lodges somewhere deep. “Going back to Reno. Taking over the restaurant eventually. Living near family.”
“But … that’s not your dream …” he says as if sensing my uncertainty.
I stab at my kung pao chicken, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t know anymore. This town … the people, the community, the—”
“The grouchy firefighters?”
“The one cocky firefighter,” I correct, looking up.
His smug pretenses disappear for a fraction of a moment and in their place, I see a glimpse of boyishness.
“Sometimes this place feels like it could be home.”
“And …?” he asks, once more detecting that I have more to say.
“That maybe a certain firefighter isn’t as cocky or grouchy as I initially thought.”
“And perhaps,” he says slowly, “the Parks & Rec director isn’t as frivolous as I initially believed either.”
“Wow. High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
He digs in his white cardboard takeout container for a minute, and I take this as our cue to return to our regular scheduled banter. However, he then adds, “But she’s as pretty as she was when I first laid eyes on her. When something stirred inside and I told myself to steer clear.”
My chin lowers a fraction. “Is that so?”
He nods and resumes eating, leaving me to wonder what to make of that. Patton Cross thinks I’m pretty and he basically had to warn himself away by manipulating me into hating him? I open and close my mouth a few times, about to say something, to ask the obvious questions, but the words don’t come.
We finish the meal in loaded silence. I realize I’ve memorized details about him that I shouldn’t have.
For example, he takes his coffee black. That he’s left-handed when writing but does everything else right-handed.
The scar on his right forearm gets red in the cold.
That he smiles ever so slightly from the corner of his mouth when something amuses him, like now.
“What?” he asks, catching me staring.
“Nothing.”
His eyebrows rise.
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
About how a month ago, I would’ve said you were impossible. But now I can’t imagine leaving this town. About how terrified I am of falling for someone who might not catch me.
Clearing my throat, I say, “About the Fireman’s Ball. Do you think you’ll actually enjoy it?”
He narrows his eyes. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Because you look like you’d rather face a five-alarm fire than dance at a social event.”
“Dancing isn’t my thing.”
“What is your thing?”
He considers this, looking at me with his hazel eyes. “I’m still figuring that out. But—” he pauses, “—lately, I’ve liked …”
My breath catches.
He squints as if staring into the sun. “I’m not good at feelings, relationships, any of it.
” He stares at his hands. “I’ve been accused of pushing people away because, in my mind, it’s safer.
Because everyone I’ve ever loved has either left or died, and I can’t—” He stops, jaw ticking.
“I don’t know how to do this without screwing it up. ”
“Do what?”
Takeout containers forgotten, facing each other, we lean over his desk. The air crackles.
He draws a breath. “Winnie, will you save me a dance at the Fireman’s Ball?”
My heart hammers so hard I’m afraid he can hear it. “Just one?”
“Let’s start with one and see if I survive it.”
“Deal.”
His phone buzzes, breaking the moment. He glances at it and sighs. “Station needs me. Possible gas leak on Cedar Street.”
“Go save the day. That’s kind of your thing.”
He stands, gathering his gear, but pauses at the door. “We never did look over those contracts. So maybe tomorrow night, I’ll make dinner.”
“Sure. I can bring—”
“Just come over. It’s not a date.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with cold Chinese food and a heart with a hole burned through it.
I’m supposed to make him smile at the Fireman’s Ball and get him to let loose, so I win the challenge. But now it feels more wrong because he’s already told me he’s trying. Because whatever is happening between us might be real and not a game.
And because I’m terrified that when he finds out about the bet, he’ll think the worst.
I look at his empty chair and make a decision.
I’ll tell him and back out of the bet before the Ball. Before things go too far.
I’ll be honest and hope he understands.
But first, I have a not-date tomorrow night.
And if I’m being honest with myself, I can’t wait.