Chapter 27 Winnie
WINNIE
The meeting is interminable. Budget discussions and permit approvals and Mayor Barbie’s thoughts on decorative bunting. All I can think about is Patton and the kiss and my family and the bet and how everything is out of control.
When it finally ends, I head straight for my car.
My phone rings the second I close the door. Fab’s name flashes on the screen.
Palms instantly sweaty, I answer. “Any update?”
“The landlord gave us until the end of the month. That’s it. If we don’t have the money—” He exhales shakily. “Either way, we have to leave.”
“There has to be—”
“I caught Mom in the walk-in eating cannoli filling with a spoon again. Dad is cooking like we have a line out the door. They don’t know I told you.”
They’re in denial.
I say, “Don’t let them do anything rash. I’ll figure something out.”
“How? Where are you going to get that kind of money?”
“I don’t know!” The words come out sharper than I intend. “I’m sorry, Fab. I just—I need time to think.”
We hang up. I sit in my car during my lunch break and let myself fall apart.
Just for a minute.
I press my palms against my eyes and try not to cry. I’m so tired of being the one who fixes everything. So tired of holding it all together.
My phone rings again. This time it’s Grandma Joyce.
I take a breath and answer in my most cheerful voice. “Hey, Grandma!”
“Hi sweetheart, quick question about the Fireman’s Ball. Do you need help with catering? Judy and I were thinking—”
We talk for ten minutes about appetizers and dessert tables and whether the chickaree merchandise will include fridge magnets. I make interested sounds and pretend my world isn’t a chemical fire.
When we finally hang up, I sit in silence.
Through the windshield, I glimpse Patton by the fire engine, talking to his crew. Even from here, he’s magnetic. Powerful shoulders. Easy confidence. The way he gestures with his hands when he’s explaining something.
The man is so handsome it makes my skin hum.
And he kissed me.
But if he knew the full extent of how messy my life is—the debt, the failing family business, the fact that I’m one crisis away from completely unraveling—would he still want me?
I watch him excuse himself from the conversation.
He picks up a pastry box off the step of the engine and starts toward my car.
My pulse goes on a rollercoaster ride as he opens the passenger door and slides in without asking, bringing with him cold air and the scent of woodsmoke.
“Thought you might need this.” He hands me the box with the finalized Crush Cakes logo.
Inside the Maltese Cross, common on fire department symbols, instead of a crossed axe and ladder like on the Huckleberry Hill scramble, there is a crossed rolling pin and spatula.
It’s emblazoned with the words Fire House Bakery—the one we finalized together.
“I like your logo.”
Eyes landing on me, he says, “I happen to know the amazing woman who made it.”
“I think it’s charming.”
“She’s charming.”
My cheeks go up in flames.
Lifting the lid, inside is a single Crush Cake—chocolate with what looks like raspberry frosting and pearl sugar sprinkles.
“Tell me if you like the flavor.”
“You know, this is my first one.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He inclines his head, thinking back.
“You denied me one when you, Austin, and Reese were testing recipes. Said it was reserved for Nancy in admin.”
“I was being petty. Consider this my formal apology, but surely, you’ve had one since then.”
I shake my head. “Nope. I was on a boycott.”
His eyebrows knit together. “Were you boycotting the baked good or the baker, too?”
I snicker and take a bite. The Crush Cake is perfect—rich and sweet with just the right amount of tart from the raspberry. “This is delicious. Exactly what I needed.”
Not just the treat, but Patton’s stabilizing presence. His even inhales and exhales. His steady hands, covered in small scars and calluses. Working hands. Hands that fix things. A hand that lands in mine.
I take a sharp intake of breath. His eyes widen with the faintest alarm.
“I’m trained in CPR, but please don’t choke.”
We both laugh lightly and it feels impossibly good.
“This is new and I can’t help but wonder how someone so grouchy and cocky turned out to be so sweet?”
He makes a face. “I’m not sweet.”
“You literally just brought me cake.”
“I’m a public servant and just doing my job.”
“Did you bring Mrs. Weaver one when her smoke alarm went off?”
He smirks. “No, I did not.”
Something about this feels special. Right? I take another bite and some frosting sticks to my lip. As I lick it off, Patton’s eyes track the movement. He licks his lip and his gaze turns heavy.
The air in the car does too.
“Off topic,” I blurt out, needing to break the tension before I do something stupid like kiss him in broad daylight in the municipal complex parking lot. “Tell me about your love life.”
This time, he nearly chokes … on nothing, on air. “What?”
“I mean—are you—?” I turn the color of the raspberry frosting. “You said you don’t do relationships, but I, um, that doesn’t mean that you’re not seeing someone.”
He looks at me like I’m wearing the squirrel mascot head. “Winnie, I kissed you the night we got snowed in. Multiple times. Why would I do that if I were seeing someone?”
“I don’t know! Maybe your lips were cold.”
His eyes flick to mine for a beat and then, with a warm crackling fire burning in his eyes, he says, “You know that’s not why I kissed you.”
“I do?”
Eyebrows raised slightly, he nods slowly.
“I just—I need to know where we stand.”
He shifts in the seat to face me fully. “I had a girlfriend in high school. Didn’t work out. Dated someone after the fire academy. It didn’t last. Nothing serious since then because—” He stops. “Because I didn’t want anything serious.”
“And now?”
“Recently, that changed.”
My heart takes flight like a flock of birds migrating because the answer could be terrifying. “Recently?”
“Very recently.” His voice drops lower. “Like, the past few months recently.”
Oh.
“What about your love life?” he asks.
“High school boyfriend. Brief. A couple of dates in college. Uneventful. Then recently, I’ve been too busy for romance. But there was—” I stop.
Anger flashes across Patton’s face. “The loser who took advantage of your giving nature?”
“That’s one way to put it.”
His expression is fierce, protective. “What’s his name?”
“Why?”
“So if I ever meet him, I can level him to the ground.”
I laugh despite myself. “His name was Greg, but he pronounced it Grej. Like the second G was a J. And he’s not worth it. He was constantly borrowing money.”
“I thought he was the son of a casino owner.”
“Yes, but he frequented the tables and had debt. He expected me to manage his life, made me feel like his unpaid assistant.” I pause. “But the worst part was that he made me feel inadequate. Like, no matter what I did, it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.”
“He’s an idiot.”
“I don’t disagree. But sometimes I wonder if being helpful just makes me a doormat. If that’s all I’ll ever be to someone.”
Patton turns to me, and the look in his eyes is so intense my breath catches.
“Doormats don’t negotiate supplier contracts in Italian. Doormats don’t tell me I’m wrong—even when I’m obviously right.”
“You’re never obviously right—”
“See? Not a doormat.” His mouth quirks. “Adorably. Annoyingly at times. Absolutely. But you’re not a doormat, Winnie.
You’re—” He stops, searching for words. “You’re the kind of person who makes people smile, warms up the room, and makes the world better just by being in it.
You’re a doer, a fixer. You’re helping to build connections in this community.
That’s not being a doormat. That’s being brave enough to care when most people can’t be bothered because they’re too lazy or afraid that if it doesn’t work out, that means they failed. ”
My throat tightens. Oh.
“You deserve someone who sees how special you are. Who values you? Who—?” He swallows hard. “Who wants to build you up instead of tear you down.”
Does he mean himself? The question sits on my tongue, but before I can ask, the fire engine’s siren blares.
He curses under his breath. “I have to go.”
“Be safe.”
He hesitates, hand on the door handle, then leans across the console and presses a quick kiss to my cheek.
Then he’s gone, jogging toward the engine, leaving me sitting in my car with half a Crush Cake and a heart that’s on fire.
I spend the rest of the afternoon trying to focus on work while crashing and burning.
Patton’s words loop in my head. His lips left what feels like a tattoo on my cheek. His scent fills my nose.
Every time I look up, I catch him watching me through the glass walls separating our offices. Not creepy watching—sweetly watching. The way you look at someone when they don’t know you’re looking, but you don’t care if you get caught.
Our eyes meet. But the animosity, like a wrecking ball, between us isn’t there.
His smile is brief, but it reaches his eyes, then he goes back to work.
I feel very wobbly inside.
Peony stops by later to drop off the printed invitations for the Fireman’s Ball. “Why are you all grin-y?”
“No. What? Nothing. Just—” I pause.
Her gaze follows mine to the office across the hall and her eyebrow quirks.
I hide my face in my hands.
She lets out a gleeful squeal and then I tell her everything. Well, not all the details, but the highlights.
As the afternoon bleeds into evening, sirens sound outside. I watch the fire engine, followed by the command unit, pull out, lights flashing, and my stomach clenches with worry.
Is he safe? Will he come back?
This is what it means to care about a firefighter. This constant low-level fear. But as the truck disappears around the corner, a thought slowly follows. Patton is worth the fear.
I stay late, still caught in a flurry of catch-up work after the storm, and no sooner do I leave to go home does guilt join me for the ride. While I was obsessing and indulging what might be the start of something special with Patton, I wasn’t figuring out my family’s business problems.
I hold it together through dinner, but when I’m still awake after ten p.m., trying to fix a broken shelf, Grandma Joyce finds me elbow-deep in the pantry.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
While sorting canned goods and finding items from the last century, I fall apart.
“Everything. The restaurant. The bet. I kissed Patton and now I don’t know what we’re doing and I feel terrible because I’m so happy even just thinking about the possibilities, but my family and—”
She pulls me into a hug, and then the tears come. I let myself cry.
When I slow to a sniffle, she grips my upper arms and looks me over. “Vincenza, did anyone ever tell you that you don’t have to be perfect?”
The sobs return, flooding the emptiness from always coming up short.
She rubs my back. “You don’t have to fix everything.”
“Yes, I do. If I don’t, who will?” I say through a watery blubber.
“Maybe that’s not your job, sweetheart. Maybe people need to learn to save themselves sometimes.”
“But what if they can’t?”
“Then they ask for help. Like you should be doing.”
I pull back, wiping my eyes. “I’m fine—”
“You’re fixing the shelf in the pantry at ten o’clock at night. A shelf that has been broken for ten years. I trust that we’ll survive another ten without it. You’re not fine.”
A long breath rolls through me as she draws me back into the kitchen, where my phone buzzes on the counter.
Patton: Thinking about you. Are you okay?
Warmth and alarm flood through me in equal measure. Does he care about me and what does it mean if he does?
Me: Yeah. Long day.
Patton: Do you want to talk about it?
Me: Tomorrow?
Patton: Now.
That sounds vaguely like an order, but a lot can be lost in translation on a text message.
Me: It’s late.
Patton: By talk, I meant taste. I could use some help at the bakery and something tells me you find my Crush Cakes irresistible.
My pulse does a record scratch. What I once thought was cockiness, but might have always been flirtation, stares back at me in black and white.
Patton: Meet me at the bakery. Now.
Me: Now?
Patton: Now.
Grandma Joyce reads over my shoulder and then does what looks like a victory dance.
“What?”
Moving to the sound of her own drum beat, she shoos me toward the door. “Go on.”
“But it’s late and—”
“Go.”
I grab my coat, my heart already halfway to the old fire house. When I arrive, despite the late hour, lights glow warmly and invitingly from inside.
I park and sit in my car for a moment, gathering courage.
He wants to talk? Taste? That could mean anything. Maybe he regrets the kiss. Maybe he’s realized I’m too messy, too complicated, too much.
Or maybe instead of letting myself finish the thought, I should get out of the car and walk to the door.