Chapter 25 Patton
PATTON
In the station, I’m running on fumes and the memory of Winnie’s lips on mine. My thoughts are clouded, my mind dazed by her—eyes, hands, soft laugh.
The crew waits in the common room, and given how suddenly the chatter goes quiet, I know I’m in for it the second I walk through the entry.
Austin leans against the counter, nodding slowly. “You and Parks & Rec Princess got snowed in together.”
I head straight for the coffee pot. “We kept the kids safe until their parents arrived.”
Reese lounges on the couch. “And?”
“And what?”
James wags his finger at me. “And you occupied a very small room … together … and survived to tell the tale.”
I take a too-hot sip of coffee so I can calculate what to say. “The generator was temperamental, but I’m pleased to report all the safety mechanisms worked as designed.”
“But you and Winnie were stranded. Did she need you to keep her warm?” Hayes asks.
I level him with a glare.
Scotty, silent as usual, raises one eyebrow at me from where he’s inspecting his Halligan bar. The man says more with facial expressions than most people do with words.
“We were fine,” I mutter, focusing very hard on my coffee. The more caffeine I can mainline, the sharper my thoughts will become, which is necessary right now because Winnie’s perfumed scent lingers on my clothes. Her touch on my skin. Lips on mine.
Austin chuckles. “You were fine. With Winnie. Alone. All night. And the building remained standing.”
“We were operating in a professional capacity.” I cough.
The guys exchange looks that say they’re not buying an ounce of what I’m selling.
I refill my coffee and head for my locker.
Austin follows. “You kissed her, didn’t you?”
I don’t answer, which is answer enough.
“About that bet—” he starts.
My hand freezes on the locker door. Somehow, last night hid the reality of the stupid bet.
Austin sees my face and winces. “Seriously? You forgot.”
“I was focused on the event.”
“And a certain woman in a squirrel costume.”
“I need to focus on the bakery. The Ball. Work.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Running scared?”
I slam the locker harder than necessary. “I run into fires. Not away from them.”
“Except when it comes to women, relationships, love.” He warbles the last one.
Love.
The notion erodes the walls in my chest. I lean against the lockers, suddenly exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with lack of sleep.
“What if it was just the situation?” The question comes out quiet. “The storm. The adrenaline. What if she realizes it was a mistake?”
“Did it feel like a mistake?”
I close my eyes and I’m back in the first aid room.
The way she sees past the barriers I’ve built and navigates a way through.
She said loving a firefighter means loving someone brave.
No one has ever called me brave for anything other than running into burning buildings … because I never gave them a reason to.
I shake my head slowly. “It didn’t feel like a mistake.”
“Then why are you hiding in the locker room?”
“Because—” I stop. Start again. “I can’t put Winnie through—”
He knows the end of that sentence … what my mother experienced. “So you’re just going to push her away? Pretend nothing happened?”
I imagine my father and Captain Kendrick hauling me out into a snowbank.
Austin sighs. “For what it’s worth? I think she’d choose you, anyway. Even knowing the risks.”
“That’s what terrifies me.”
He claps me on the shoulder and leaves me alone with my thoughts, which is the last thing I need.
In the coming days, I throw myself into work at the old firehouse, soon to be a bakery and café.
Physical labor makes for a great and practical distraction.
Sanding floors, fixing the plumbing, installing the new ovens—it all requires focus and leaves no room for thinking about mocha brown eyes and messy hair and the way Winnie says my name.
Except I keep seeing her, anyway.
Laughing at Austin’s jokes while he passes out the latest Crush Cakes test recipes. Suggesting we name one after Captain Kendrick. Standing in the middle of the hallway outside my office while talking with staff, like she can see the future taking shape.
She fits here. In this town of mine—ours, the crew’s—she belongs.
My phone buzzes.
Winnie: Hey, about the other night …
When I don’t answer, my phone beeps again.
Winnie: Can we talk?
I should respond immediately. Suggest a time and place. Invite her over to check on progress. Be an adult about this. Instead, I set the phone down and pick up a hammer.
I tell myself I need time to think. To figure out what to say.
Really, I’m terrified. Because talking about it makes it real.
Hours later, I’m back at the station working in the office—preparing a menu, timeline, and taking stock of dry goods needed for the grand opening.
My desk is a disaster. Paperwork, mail, and various documents stack up.
I second-guess my second job. The bakery is a side hustle.
The rest of the guys are in on it, too, each with their own roles.
But do I delegate? Captain Kendrick would remind me that a real leader identifies people’s strengths and helps develop them, so they can be the best in their role.
I think of Winnie and me eating burgers at my house. My minimalist space is like a sudden craving … or is it her I so desperately want? I organize the contents on the top of my desk as my thoughts zip around like rogue pinballs.
Once more, I think about her in my house and how she warmed up the place just by being in it.
How empty it felt after she left.
How I feel right now.
But I have work to do. Can’t get distracted. Can’t be drawn into something that will only fall apart. I pull out my phone and scroll through the photos I took at the bakery. Candid shots of the crew working, testing recipes, arguing over paint colors.
But my focus zeroes in on Winnie in the background with her long hair drifting down her back, the swell of her curves, and her beauty mark above her bright smile.
Huffing a breath, I get to my feet and dig into the boxes filled with photos. My mother is a professional photographer, so my parents had photos everywhere. I remember my mom’s favorite—her and Dad on their wedding day, both of them grinning like they couldn’t believe their luck.
They were so in love.
After he died, she put them all away. Said it hurt too much to look at them. I was twelve, but I understood that loving someone meant risking that kind of pain. I’ve built my entire life around avoiding it.
So what does it mean that I want to fill an entire wall with old photos of Huckleberry Hill over the years, including—especially—of our heroes in uniform? That I want to gaze at the ones containing Winnie?
A single word spills into my thoughts like water putting out a nasty fire.
Healing.
When I close my eyes, I see her face. Feel her in my arms. Hear her voice saying that being brave means running toward danger to save others.
Am I brave enough for this? For love?
The question sits like a granite boulder on my chest.
I check the time. After eight. Winnie usually works late, especially with all the Fireman’s Ball prep.
Maybe I should go talk to her. Figure this out like adults. The decision feels monumental and terrifying, but I’m a firefighter. I can do this.
I lock up the old firehouse, soon-to-be bakery and head down the street to the municipal complex.
The hallway is quiet, fluorescent lights humming. Through the glass walls, I can see into the Parks & Rec department.
Winnie’s office is dark.
Empty.
I stand there like an idiot, staring at her vacant desk with its explosion of sticky notes. The plant on the windowsill. The silly squirrel plushie.
She’s not here.
For the first time since I’ve known her, Winnie isn’t working late.
And while I should be glad she’s keeping normal hours, the fear of losing her consumes me.
My phone is in my hand before I consciously decide to call her. It rings once. Twice.
Goes to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s me. I—” I stop. Start again. “You’re right, we should talk. About … everything. Call me back?”
I hang up and immediately feel like an idiot.
We should talk? That’s the best I could do?
I walk toward the east wing that houses the fire department, my head swimming, treading water, dropping below the surface.
Austin restocks the medical supply cabinet and hollers, “She left early. Saw her about an hour ago. Said she needed to clear her head.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
Never mind that he knew I was looking for her.
“No. But Maverick?” He pauses. “Whatever you’re going to do? Do it soon. Before you overthink yourself out of the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
He stumps off, leaving me alone with the sinking feeling that I’m screwing this up.
The bet. The kiss. The morning after.
I need to tell her about the wager before someone else does. Before she hears it wrong and thinks the worst.
First, I need to find her.
I pull out my phone and stare at her last message. Can we talk? I type a hasty response that I fear is too little. Too late.
Me: Where are you?
I spend the rest of the night waiting for a response that I fear might not come.