Chapter 20 Winnie #2
I present the logo and then swipe through some other mockup designs that are professional but warm in a fire engine red and cream color scheme. On one, I included the tagline, When Life Crushes You, Make Cake, printed in various fonts.
“I also created a social media strategy,” I continue, pulling up more documents.
“And ideas for cross-promotion with Parks & Rec events. Plus, merchandise concepts—t-shirts, mugs, tote bags. All proceeds could benefit the fire department programs. The company that’s doing the squirrel stuff gave me discount codes, so I thought I’d pass some of the savings off to you. ”
He stares at me, speechless? Impressed? Annoyed that I deviated from his strict business plan?
“This must have taken hours,” he finally says.
“Only a few late nights. I enjoy the creative challenge of marketing, branding, and bringing visions to life.” Also, ignoring the increasingly desperate situation of a restaurant that’s struck an iceberg and is slowly sinking.
I point to my favorite logo option. “This one incorporates a subtle flame design in the letter C. See?”
He stares at the tablet, then at me, and back again.
“You don’t like them? I just thought it was another way to honor your captain, your dad, and all the hard work you’ve been doing. If you already made something or hired someone else, it’s no big deal. I just—”
Patton rocks his head from side to side.
My stomach sinks.
Finally, he says, “These are amazing. Not to mention this was item number fifty-three on my to-do list. I’m still on number eight, so this is a huge help. Thank you.”
“Oh. So it’s okay?”
“It’s great. Seriously. There is so much to work with. The guys are going to be impressed.” The corner of his mouth twists. “The hard part is going to be selecting one.”
We spend the next hour going through details as we settle on two designs, and I refine them.
He asks questions, offers input, and gets especially excited about the t-shirt idea.
It’s collaborative—neither of us leading or following—as we work together like two normal people rather than a pair of stubborn goats perpetually at loggerheads.
At one point, our hands brush while reaching for the same mockup and a warm shiver rushes through me.
I think of his hand wrapped around mine as he helped me to stand after lunch at the firehouse the other day.
All of the brief touches we’ve had light up like little dots to connect, revealing the shape of a heart.
“I can’t pay you for all this work,” he says quietly.
“I don’t want payment. I want, um, harmony?”
His eyebrow arches. “Harmony between us?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, we’ve been getting along better, so that’s a start, but more like in an ongoing fashion.”
“You want me to be nice to you? That’s very Parks & Rec.”
I grumble, frustrated. “I want us to stop bickering at every meeting.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He leans back, tucking his thumbs through the loops in his pants.
“The fun is in actually getting things done.”
“We get things done. We just sometimes argue while doing it.” His mouth curves.
“It’s called collaboration, Patton.”
He shifts closer to me, voice low. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Yes. Us working together. Crazy concept, I know.”
“Radical.”
“Revolutionary, even.”
Our gazes tangle together for a brief moment. But maybe this is for the best. After all, I’m in a bet with my coworkers. I pull myself away with the reminder that professional isn’t spelled C-R-U-S-H. But I can’t shake the craving for cake.
At the end of the week, I’m reviewing my schedule and upcoming tasks before heading home.
The office across the hall is empty, dark.
Turning back to my notebook, in my own handwriting, I look over the emoji-like codes I doodled with a tick mark system I devised, designating my interactions with Patton since my colleagues issued the bet:
Talk: ||| Laugh: || Smile: Still zero on the last one while in the workplace.
An unpleasant, vacuous feeling hollows me out inside, emptying my lungs, knotting my stomach, leaving me boneless, without a spine. This is calculating, cold. Like I’m collecting data rather than building a relationship. Turns out Patton isn’t a robot after all.
In a way, my ex kept track of my reactions, manipulated situations, and used information to get what he wanted. Am I any better?
I care about Patton, but I also have an ulterior motive.
What if he finds out? Actually, if there’s any hope of us not decimating this brand new building, never mind doing things like not-dates together, I must end the bet, never mind the money, because he has to know the truth.
But how do I tell him? I can already see it going wildly wrong and we’ll be right back where we started, hating each other.
Before I go home, I swing by the old library to find some decorations for the Fire & Ice Fest that are in storage. Peony is behind the information desk, typing rapidly on the computer. Except for the clicking of the keyboard, the building is quiet, a bit creepy.
After we exchange greetings and I offer an explanation for my visit, other than to say hello, I ask, “Do you get nervous in here alone?”
She looks around. “Because of all the book thieves running roughshod around town?”
“More like ghosts.”
She laughs and rolls her eyes. “Don’t go listening to Silver Sam. Plus, I think it’s kind of romantic in here.”
“Does James agree?”
She doesn’t answer and leads me to the storage room downstairs, flipping on overhead tube lights as we walk along a narrow hall.
“Silver Sam says the old firehouse is haunted,” I mention, shifting away from discussion of her relationship.
She laughs as she opens a creaky door. “Silver Sam is full of his special cider.”
“Probably. But this room does feel spooky.”
Peony starts opening boxes. “Nonsense. Fire & Ice decorations should be somewhere in here.”
We poke around, pulling out various items—red and blue tablecloths, silver stars, and fake icicles.
When we find the library’s recently used Valentine’s décor, Peony says, “You and Patton seem friendly lately.”
“We’re planning an event together. We have to be civil.”
“Civil. Right. Is that what we’re calling it these days?”
I stop digging through boxes. “Peony—” I start.
She cuts me off. “Winnie, you have a look.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Maybe you have a teeny-tiny crush.” She pinches her fingers together. “Or maybe a Crush Cakes-sized crush?”
Despite the ridiculous comment, I laugh. “That’s terrible.”
“But accurate.”
I come to a box labeled Old Fire House. Inside are photos, newspaper clippings, and memorabilia. “I should give this to Patton,” I whisper.
“Only if you admit you might have a crush.”
Angling my head, I’m about to defend myself again, but it’s no use. “Fine, I might have a crush.”
Peony squeals and bounces on her toes. “I knew it.”
“Shh. Keep it down.”
“You sound like Geraldine.”
I wrinkle my nose and then let out a tiny squeal of admission.
We jump up and down, trembling with laughter as we hold it in so the head librarian doesn’t lodge a noise complaint all the way from home.
When I get home, I show my grandmother the contents of the box. She takes a trip down memory lane to when she and Grandpa moved into this cottage—their little hideaway on the lake.
She smiles as if she’s still in love, still has a crush on her late husband. “Your grandfather and my relationship started with a bet.”
I squawk, not sure what’s more surprising—her comment or the possibility that she knows about what my coworkers proposed. Did my grandmother contribute to the pool of funds?
“My friends bet I couldn’t get the grumpy mechanic to take me dancing. He never went to dances, never socialized, just worked on cars all day.” She smiles at the memory.
“Grandpa was grumpy?”
“Stoic is a more accurate description, but I took that bet and ran all the way to the altar.”
“Does Mom know?”
“Some of the story. I showed up at his garage every day for a week. Brought him lunch, asked about his projects, wore my prettiest dresses.” She giggles. “I was shameless.”
This confirms her sneaky reasons for asking for Patton’s help with the light on Valentine’s Day, but is it also why she sent me to the old firehouse with lunch and brownies?
“So what happened?” I ask.
“As we got to know each other, I fell in love with him. For real. Not because of the bet, but because of who he was.” She reaches across the table, taking my hand. “So I told him about the bet before our first dance. Confessed everything.”
“And?”
“He laughed. Said he’d made a bet with himself that he wouldn’t fall in love.” Her eyes are damp. “He lost that bet spectacularly. We both did.”
“So you were both betting?”
“We were both falling in love. The bet didn’t matter once our hearts were involved.” She squeezes my hand. “What matters is being honest with yourself and then with him.”
She has a point.
“You know what’s scary? Losing someone because you’re not brave enough to tell the truth.” She stands, moving to the oven. “These brownies smell done. Let’s see if I can win a bet against Judy that my baked goods are better.”
If only ending the war between Patton and me were that easy, then again, we seem to have entered a demilitarized zone. Let’s just hope we can keep the peace and harmony.