Chapter 19 Patton
PATTON
“Wait, run that by me again?” Hayes asks, pulling on his turnout gear. “You bet what?”
“That Maverick can get through the entire Fireman’s Ball planning without arguing with the Parks & Rec Princess,” Austin explains, way too cheerfully for six in the morning.
James mimes a drum roll. “Winner gets vacation pick and music privileges for six months.”
“Losers take all the holiday shifts,” Reese adds.
Scotty remains silent, checking his equipment.
Hayes’s eyes widen. “All of them? Christmas? New Year’s?”
“Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, the works,” Reese confirms.
“And you think he can do it?” Hayes looks at me skeptically. “No offense, Mav, but I’ve heard you two go at it. There was that time you argued about fire extinguisher placement for the ‘Haybale Hoedown,’ and I thought we were going to have to use it to douse the flames between you two.”
The guys laugh.
“That was a legitimate safety concern,” I mutter, adjusting my helmet.
“You called her ‘aggressively concerned about seasonal aesthetics,’” Austin reminds me.
“She wanted to put decorations near an emergency exit!”
Hayes gestures at me. “See? That’s what I’m talking about.”
I lean against my locker, crossing my arms. “I can handle working with anyone. Even her.”
“Especially her,” James sings-songs under his breath.
I shoot him a look that promises retribution during our next training drill.
The truth is, the bet felt simple when I originally agreed to it. Stay professional, don’t argue, collect my win. Easy.
What I didn’t account for was actually getting to know Vincenza Sorrentino.
Learning that her relentless positivity isn’t naivety—it’s genuine.
That her “frivolous” community programs actually build the foundation that keeps this town together.
That she takes her coffee with just a splash of milk and twists her hair when she’s thinking through problems.
The bet was supposed to be straightforward. I’d learn what she likes, anticipate conflicts, and stay one step ahead.
The irony is that strategy requires paying close attention to her.
And the more I pay attention, the more I notice things I shouldn’t.
Things I like, such as how she lights up when someone remembers small details about her.
How she’s been wearing the same rotation of outfits because money is tight and she’s sending it all home to Reno.
She gets a crease between her eyebrows when she’s worried.
The beauty mark above her lip is a tiny punctuation to how flawlessly gorgeous she is.
The bet feels wrong now. But I’m in too deep.
Can’t tell the guys that I may have caught feelings for the woman I’m supposed to just tolerate long enough to win vacation picks.
It could just be a bug, a virus that I’ll soon get over.
Or what if I end the bet, tell them, and it all falls apart, anyway?
While I’ve been thinking, the guys have continued to talk, but I’ve lost the thread.
“What if—?” Austin starts, then stops.
I glance over. “What if what?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“Spit it out, Austin.”
“What if Em meets someone else before I figure out how to tell her?” The words come out in a rush.
I blink. “Tell her what? Wait. Who?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” He slams his locker shut and stalks toward the engine bay.
The alarm sounds before I can push further, and we’re rolling out to a small grass fire on the edge of town. Controlled burn that got a little too enthusiastic.
As we work, I try not to think about tonight.
About the fact that I invited Winnie to my house—my actual house, not the station and not the bakery—for what is definitely, absolutely, without question not a date.
Just like Tacos & Trivia night wasn’t a date.
Same as last night’s takeout wasn’t a date.
I’m making burgers. Serving homemade pickles. Chips. And yet, I cleaned my house for the first time in three months. Aired it out. Cleared an extra spot in the driveway.
I’m warm inside and out because it certainly feels like a date.
My small ranch-style house with room to grow sits on a couple of acres.
It’s fifteen minutes outside town and up a winding road most people don’t bother with.
I bought it five years ago because it was practical—good bones, minimal maintenance, far enough from neighbors that I don’t have to make small talk when I’m dead tired after a forty-eight-hour shift.
Inside, it’s minimalist by default, not by design. Couch, coffee table, TV. Kitchen with the basics. Bedroom with a bed that I make every morning out of habit—military corners because that’s what Dad taught me.
No photos on the walls. No knick-knacks collecting dust. Nothing requiring attention.
The station is my home. This is just where I sleep when I’m not there.
After throwing a few logs in the woodstove, I take out the burger patties and have second thoughts.
Not about dinner in general—I’m up for burgers anytime, anywhere—but what was I thinking, inviting Winnie here?
This place is depressing. James said, given my lack of throw pillows, it appears I have commitment issues.
Austin accused me of being decoratively and emotionally stunted. Possibly all of the above.
But it’s too late now. Her car is already turning into my driveway, headlights cutting through the February twilight.
I force myself to breathe like I’m entering a burning building. Same principles apply—stay calm, stick to the plan, don’t panic.
When I open the door, Winnie stands on my porch holding a huckleberry pie from the diner and looking uncertain, which is unusual for her.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.”
We stand there like awkward teenagers until I remember I’m supposed to invite her inside.
“Come in. I’m making burgers.”
Her gaze darts around as if seeking an escape hatch. Since there isn’t one that doesn’t require her turning around and fleeing, she steps into my living room, peering at her surroundings with barely concealed curiosity.
“Figured we have to eat, anyway.” I take the pie she offers, hyperaware of how our fingers brush during the exchange and how dumb and dismissive my comment sounded.
We have to eat anyway. Really, Cross? Try to make her feel less important, why don’t you?
“Plus, I can’t have you skipping dinner again.”
“I ate lunch!”
“Reheated coffee and a granola bar don’t count.”
Now I sound like a concerned parent. Instead of a pat on the back, a comment like that warrants a kick in the backside.
“How did you—?” she starts.
“Small town.”
The corners of her lips drop.
Nice going. Way to make her feel bad. Pull it together, man.
“Actually, I noticed the wrapper in your trash when I dropped off the wholesale contracts.”
She blinks at me. “You notice my trash?”
“I notice everything.” The words come out more intense than I intended. I clear my throat. “Part of the job is observing details.”
Could I make this any weirder?
“Right. Details.” She’s looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Your house is very … clean.”
And devoid of details. I chuckle. “You can say it like it is. That’s code for empty.”
She rubs her hands together to warm them up from the cold. “I was going to say minimalist, sparse.”
“Also code for empty.”
She chuckles, and some of the tension breaks. “It’s actually kind of nice. Peaceful. My grandmother’s house looks like a craft store exploded.”
“Also, cozy, rustic—”
“Code for cluttered,” she says with an affectionate laugh.
“Possibly a fire hazard.”
Her face squishes up adorably, accompanied by a giggle that fills this empty room, fills me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
“I’ve seen your office. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Sticky notes are a legitimate organizational system!”
“You and your lists.”
“And reminders!”
“They’re chaos with adhesive.”
“Says the man with the color-coded business binder.”
“At least my files don’t multiply and migrate.”
We’re bickering, but it’s different now. Lighter. Fun. Maybe flirty.
I gesture toward the kitchen. “Hungry?”
Winnie follows me, and I’m painfully aware of her in my space. She smells like that Italian perfume, sophisticated and subtle, a contrast to the woodsmoke in my house.
“These look amazing,” she says as I plate the burgers. “And are those homemade pickles?”
“Captain Kendrick’s recipe.”
“You made pickles from scratch?”
“They’re little more than cucumbers, vinegar, and time.”
“Most people would just buy a jar.”
“I guess I’m not most people.”
“No,” she says softly, meeting my eyes. “You’re really not.”
We eat at my card table masquerading as a dining table—the only one I own—and review vendor contracts between bites.
She’s wearing jeans and a soft sweater that reminds me of sugar plums. I have to actively force myself to focus on the line items instead of the way her hair falls over her shoulder, where her sweater slides toward her upper arm, revealing soft skin.
She sets down the burger. “This is delicious. The guys are lucky to have you cook for them.”
“It’s better than Hayes’s boxed macaroni and cheese. Plus, I wanted to impress Captain Kendrick.” Maybe Winnie, too.
“He meant a lot to you, huh?”
“He picked up where my dad left off. Taught me about everything that matters.” Except how to talk to a beautiful woman.
I imagine us curled up in front of my woodstove, where words wouldn’t be required. Instead, I’d drop a kiss onto her shoulder, feather light. She’d turn to me and our …
“We could save money if we consolidate these two orders. Same supplier, better bulk rate.” She twirls her hair and studies the merchant list.
“That’s smart.” I lean over to look at what she’s marked, and suddenly we’re close enough that I can see the flecks of honey in her brown eyes.
She doesn’t move away.
Neither do I.
“Patton,” she says quietly. “When did we stop hating each other?”
“Who says we stopped?”
“The homemade pickles say we stopped.”
“You like them?”
“I do.”
I can’t help it. A laugh breaks free, deep and genuine.
Her whole face lights up like I’ve given her something better than dinner. She joins me and we forget the paperwork and talk as if we’re on a date, with our shared laughter filling my lonely house.
“Knocking the rust off, are you?” she asks when I catch my breath after she tells me about a styling mishap during her pageant days.
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.” She’s grinning now. Like a yawn, it’s contagious. I’m grinning back like an idiot. I’m afraid this is a problem.
I was supposed to stay one step ahead. Be tactical. Win the bet.
Instead, I’m eating dinner with Winnie, making her laugh, and realizing with increasing panic that sometime between vendor negotiations and Valentine’s Day coffee, whatever this is—it’s no longer about winning anything.
It’s about her.