Chapter 23 Winnie
WINNIE
Mayor Barbie continues, “We need everyone to get home safely. Roads are closing. Please collect your belongings and drive carefully!”
The rink and municipal complex empties quickly, but efficiently. Years of mountain living mean everyone knows not to mess around with sudden weather changes.
Within thirty minutes, almost everyone is gone except for three teens sitting in the corner of the community room, checking their phones anxiously.
“Our parents are stuck on Route 50,” one of them explains.
“They’re trying to get here, but it might take a while.”
I exchange a look with Patton.
“We’ll stay,” he says.
“Obviously,” I agree.
So we wait. And wait. The power flickers once, twice.
“That’s not good,” Patton mutters, heading for the electrical room.
I follow him, still wearing the bottom half of the mascot costume because the zipper is stuck and I can’t get it off. Also, it’s keeping me warm.
The backup generator sputters to life, but it sounds like it’s struggling. “Is that normal?”
“Ice in the fuel line, maybe,” Patton diagnoses. “Or snow blocking the ventilation. It’ll keep the emergency systems running, but not the heating.”
As if to punctuate his point, something in the building groans. The HVAC system shuts down with a mechanical wheeze.
“That sounded bad,” I say flatly.
We get the kids settled in the first aid room—the only space that stays warm thanks to its being specially insulated—with blankets and snacks to keep them occupied. Shortly after, headlights cut through the main doors and the kids rush outside.
I say, “Good thing the plows are working.”
Patton shakes his head. “They’re not. It’s not safe out there.”
We go to clean up the first aid room when the electronic doors click behind us.
“Please tell me those didn’t just—”
He winces. “Can’t blame Austin this time. The building’s Smart lock system defaults to secure when the power fluctuates, locking segments of the complex. This place is built differently than the old firehouse.”
“So we’re locked in?”
“We can get outside, but—” He peers through the glass. “Do you really want to?”
He tries his radio. Static. Pulls out his phone. No signal.
The first aid room is small—barely ten by ten—and somewhat warm.
There’s a cot, a first aid kit, and not enough space for two people who are trying very hard to maintain professional boundaries, especially one trapped in the mascot costume, which is now not just uncomfortable but actively torturous as my stress rises.
“I need to get this thing off.” I flail, trying to shed the costume like a snake abandoning its skin.
Patton chuckles.
“This isn’t funny.”
“All things considered, it’s pretty funny.”
Scowling, I mutter, “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” The corner of his lip hitches as he tugs me close to him.
And the scary thing is, he’s right.
The laughter fades as we both realize we’re alone in a tiny room, stuck together for who knows how long.
He examines the zipper on the back of the costume. His fingers lightly slide across my neck and I shiver for reasons that have nothing to do with the temperature.
“Hold still.”
“I am still.”
“You’re fidgeting.”
“I’m sweating. This thing weighs twenty pounds!”
He works the zipper carefully, his breath pleasant against my skin.
Finally, blessedly, it gives. I peel off the costume, feeling free and—Patton’s gaze drifts from my head, to my rumpled clothes, to my toes.
Never mind the chill, I’m now blazing all over.
I smooth my shirt, pull my hair from my neck, fan my face.
Our eyes lock.
The generator hums. Wind howls against the windows. Pipes creak as the building settles from the cold. But all of that is secondary to us.
Patton draws me to the cot we opened for the kids—the only seating …
and sleeping … option. That’s a problem for later.
Right now, we share the emergency supplies, which consist of stale granola bars and lukewarm water from bottles left in the cabinet.
He cracks a pair of handwarmers for me and I tuck them in my shoes.
He stares at the wall over my shoulder. “The dorm with bunks and warm blankets is so close yet so far away.”
“There’s no way to get in there?”
“Not until the power stabilizes and the system resets.” He exhales a long breath as he raps lightly on the wall with his knuckles.
“At least I got a shower, but this isn’t exactly the victory dinner I’d planned.
The mess hall with warm, baked beans and bacon is right there. ” He gestures over his shoulder.
“We could eat leftover brownies right now if we could get into the community room.”
“For the record, your grandmother’s brownies are better.”
“Don’t ever let Judy hear you say that. I think their brownie battle keeps them entertained.”
Silence falls, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just … intimate. Like we’ve crossed some invisible threshold and there’s no going back.
“Can I ask you something?” His voice is quiet in the near darkness.
“Sure.”
“Why did you really come to Huckleberry Hill?”
I could deflect. Make a joke. Keep things light. Instead, I tell him the truth.
“I needed to get away from Reno. My ex had a way of making everything feel like my responsibility. His schedule, his bills, his happiness.”
The veins in Patton’s neck tighten. “Sounds like a loser.”
“And the son of the most successful casino owner in the city, which he was inheriting, taking over. He was passing off his responsibilities to me, but I let him.” Admitting this makes me feel small.
“I kept thinking if I just tried harder, fixed more things, he’d finally see me as—” I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“It does,” Patton says, listening, really hearing me.
As if granted permission to speak freely, the rest flows out of me.
“It was like my only value was in what I could do for him. I tried to be the perfect little girlfriend, and he just kept taking. Eventually, when I pushed back, he made me feel like I was selfish.” I pause.
“We had a lot of friends in common, which made things awkward when our relationship finally ended.”
“You don’t need people like that in your life.”
“But I needed a job. My family needed help. I came here to prove I’m more than just the nice girl who fixes everything. I wanted to be taken seriously.”
He shifts on the cot and our legs touch, sending what feels like static electricity through me. “You are taken seriously. By me. By everyone.”
“Even at first? You thought I was silly. You’d call me the Parks & Rec Princess.”
“I was an idiot with zero emotional literacy or maturity.”
Our legs remain in contact and I can’t help but wonder if he felt the rush that has now settled into warm comfort.
“You were a jerk.”
“That too.” He shifts closer. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. You’re not silly. You’re brilliant. You build things that matter—community, connection, joy. You’re also beautiful, Miss Nevada.”
It’s like a candle flickers between us.
His eyes twinkle with mischief or is that affection?
My pulse taps out an erratic beat in my ears. “Your turn. Why were you so determined to push me away?”
He’s quiet for so long, I think he won’t answer. “After losing my dad, in a way, I lost my mother too.”
“I’m so sorry.” I reach for his hand.
“She fell apart. It took years for her to even function again.” His jaw clenches. “I swore I’d never put someone through that—make them worry about whether I’ll come back.”
Which means he committed to being alone.
“Love isn’t safe.” His voice is low, rough.
Each of the words hangs heavy between us, each of them a weight he’s carried for too long.
I could let it go. Change the subject. Instead, I say, “But love is worth it.”
He’s quiet for a long time.
I squinch closer to him and find his hand. “Patton, you make the world safer just by being in it. You run toward danger when most people flee from it. You’re so brave.” But is he brave enough to have this conversation?
He turns to look at me and the expression in his eyes makes my heart tumble. I shiver.
Without a word, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders. Then he tugs me close, wrapping his arms around me and I nestle against the firm wall of his chest.
Even though he didn’t say a word, his actions tell me that he’s trying. I feel the steady rhythm of his pulse. I’m aware of every point where our bodies touch. The solid warmth of his chest. The way his breath stirs my hair. That he could hold me all night like this and not tire.
We listen to the storm, wrapped in warmth and something neither one of us is brave enough to name until I shift position and gaze up at him. “Patton?”
“Winnie,” he says softly as if finally ready to answer my question.
I adjust my position so we’re facing each other.
The warm amber in his eyes says so much without him having to utter a single word.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
My lips part slightly.
He crooks his finger under my chin.
I lean closer, silence eating up the distance between us.
The smart thing would be to pull back. To remember the bet, the complications, the fact that we work together and no one in this town misses a trick, even if we’re locked in here, alone.
But I stopped being smart around Patton Cross when he brought me coffee. Or maybe even before that. My mind didn’t want to admit what my heart knew.
He frames my face with his hands and lowers his lips to mine. I meet him halfway.
This kiss isn’t like the sweet brush of our lips in the snow after the town council meeting.
This is months of tension and denial and want exploding all at once.
His mouth is firm and sure, tasting cool like peppermint. My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound low in his throat that sends electricity down my spine.
I melt in his arms.
His fingers sweep along my jaw, tilting my face up as he covers my mouth with his again. My heart throbs so hard I’m sure he can feel it. When his lips slide across mine—soft, then demanding—I’m breathless and completely undone.
His hand cups my face, thumb grazing my cheekbone as he kisses me deeper. Everything swoops—my stomach, my thoughts, my grip on reality.
Patton’s raspy breath mingles with mine when we switch positions and find each other again and again.
My fingers slide to the back of his neck, and when he deepens the kiss, everything disappears. The kiss sends me to the heights, to the clouds. It’s just moonlight and stars up here.
My fingers tangle in his hair as we press closer together. In any other circumstance, I’d fight for my breath. Even though I’m engulfed in fire, I don’t need oxygen. I don’t want this to end.
Pulses pounding, he slows and his lips glide against mine with a tenderness at odds with the desperate way we’re holding each other—as if afraid the other is going to disappear.
We break apart just long enough to gasp for air, foreheads pressed together, before diving back in.
This time it’s deeper, slower, like we have all the time in the world and nothing else matters except this moment, this room, this connection we’ve been fighting since the day we met.
When we pause again, we’re both breathing hard, lips swollen, eyes dark.
“Wow,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he agrees roughly.
We’re still tangled together, hearts racing, the air between us charged as our lips meet once more.