Chapter 30 Winnie
WINNIE
I wake up with Patton’s kiss still burning on my lips and my phone already buzzing.
It’s six a.m. on a Thursday. This can only be bad news. The irony that in exactly twelve hours I have a date with Patton, which is the opposite, isn’t lost on me.
“Fab?” I answer, voice thick with sleep.
“Win, the landlord stopped by. We have less than three weeks. Mom and Dad are a mess.”
The room tilts because I still haven’t figured out how to fix this. “Less than three weeks?”
“He said he needs to be paid in full. No more payment plans. Either way, we’re closing. But I don’t want him to take them to court.”
I check my banking app with shaking fingers, already knowing what I’ll see. “I don’t have it.”
“We need a miracle.”
“I’ll figure something out.” But even I don’t quite believe my own words.
My brother is quiet for a long moment. “You made me promise to tell you everything that’s going on. To keep Mom and Dad in the dark. That it would ruin them. You said you’d take care of it. But it’s time to let go. They have to accept it. You can’t save the restaurant alone.”
After we hang up, I stare at my reflection in Grandma’s antique mirror. Dark circles form shadows under my eyes. Tangled hair that’s long overdue for a trim. A woman failing her family, terrified of ruining things with Patton, drowning in secrets and bets I never should have made.
Something has to give.
But it can’t be tonight. Tonight is my date with Patton, and I just need one thing in my life that sparkles instead of explodes.
By lunch, I’m vibrating with anxiety. When Peony texts asking if I want to grab food at Huck’s, I practically sprint out the door.
I find her at a booth in the back. “You look like you need a hug, a mug of something warm, a cozy blanket, and a day off,” she announces after taking one look at me.
“I wouldn’t object.” But it’s an impossibility.
I order a grilled cheese because I revert to my favorite childhood meal when stressed. She gets the soup of the day.
Peony leans forward. “Feel free to use me as your sounding board.”
She’s still not wearing her wedding ring and I sense I should ask her about what’s going on, but she goads me, so I tell her about Operation Make Maverick Smile.
“That can’t end well.”
“The goal was to make him smile at the Fireman’s Ball. Now it feels really, really wrong.”
“Because it is and because you caught feelings.”
I wince. “Yes. I think so. I mean, I’ve never quite felt this way before, so I don’t exactly have something to compare it to.”
“How does it feel?”
I wave my hand in front of my stomach. “It’s all fluttery in here.” I lift my hand toward my chest. “Here.” Then, gesturing to my head, I finish with, “And up here is a mess.”
“Then tell him about the bet first before he finds out another way.” She squeezes my hand. “If what you have is real, it’ll survive the truth.”
I want to believe her. But wanting something and believing it are two very different things and quite frankly, she doesn’t look so sure herself.
The afternoon passes in a blur of paperwork, accompanied by a slow drip of worry.
Every time I try to focus on solving the restaurant problem, my mind circles back to Patton.
The bakery. Tonight’s date. The way his kiss felt like sprinkles on a Crush Cake in what’s otherwise been a challenging season of my life.
At five o’clock, I’m ready to race home to get ready, but Thomas needs help closing out the accounting software without losing his work, and then Pauline decides now is the time to tell me about her latest knitting project.
By the time I return to the cottage, I have less than fifteen minutes to get ready.
Thankfully, my grandmother is on the phone, bickering with Judy about cocoa percentages in chocolate.
After quickly showering, then putting on jeans and a vintage cashmere sweater that belonged to my Nonna, I style my hair in loose waves and spritz myself with perfume.
Expecting Patton to knock any moment, I find Grandma Joyce is in the kitchen stirring something in the slow cooker.
She must’ve gotten off the phone with Judy.
Time to get out of here before I’m subject to questioning. I’ll just wait outside.
When I open the door, Patton’s arm is lifted as if ready to knock. He looks devastating in dark jeans and a pea coat, holding a bouquet that definitely didn’t come from the gas station.
“For you,” he says.
“Thank you.” I take the flowers—beautiful winter blooms of burgundy roses, white anemones, and sprigs of evergreen. “These are gorgeous.”
“Not as gorgeous as you.”
My cheeks warm.
“Smells good. Were you making something?”
“No, that would be—”
“Pulled pork.” My grandmother wipes her hands on a towel and bustles around.
Not having had a chance to tell her about the date, I hesitate. “Grandma, Patton and I are—”
“Just in time to eat.”
I open my mouth to correct her when she talks over me. “Lieutenant Cross, please come in. Winnie, put those in water. Patton, I need your opinion on something.”
Before either of us can protest, she’s leading him through the house, pointing out various fixtures that are perpetually on the fritz.
“The drain in the kitchen sink has been acting up again, too,” she says. “And the screen to the door on the back porch is inviting in flies.”
“It’s been too cold out for—” I start.
She turns to my date. “Would you mind taking a look?”
“Grandma, we have a reservation—”
She waves her hand. “It’s Thursday night, the roads are foggy, and I made plenty for us to eat.”
Patton shoots me an apologetic look. “I actually didn’t make a reservation. Figured tonight at the Timber’s Edge Inn restaurant wouldn’t be too busy.”
“Perfect!” Grandma claps her hands. “Then you can stay for dinner.”
Forty-five minutes later, we’re still here because Patton not only looked at the drain and the screen, he fixed them. Then Grandma roped him into tightening the wobbly banister and adjusting the cabinet door that never quite closed right.
Now he’s in her kitchen, assembling dinner. He pulls something out of the crisper in the fridge and explains that adding scallion rings and julienned apple adds a satisfying crunch to the pulled pork. He toasts the buns and then arranges everything on top as if he’s not the guest.
“This man is a definite keeper,” Grandma stage whispers loud enough for him to hear.
“Grandma,” I hiss.
Patton just grins.
During dinner, Grandma grills him about his “culinary wizardry.”
“Started with boxed mac and cheese. Graduated to actual food around age fifteen.”
“What’s your favorite meal?” Grandma asks.
“Spaghetti carbonara. The first time I made it, it turned out more like scrambled eggs with pasta, but it’s now a special birthday meal at the station.”
I’m falling harder with every word. This warm, teasing, smiling-at-my-grandmother’s-terrible-jokes version of Patton is dangerous. Because this is the real him, the one he keeps hidden behind gruffness and self-satisfied smirks.
And I want more of it. More of him.
After dinner, we clean up and then Grandma Joyce conveniently remembers she has a call she has to make and shoos us to the front porch.
The night air is cold and crisp, carrying the scent of pine, thawing earth, and the coming spring. We sit on the porch swing and Patton drapes his arm across the back, close but not quite touching.
“So much for our date,” I say.
“This was better.”
I scrunch up my nose. “We didn’t even leave the house.”
“Exactly.” He looks at me. “No pressure. No performance. Just … this. Us.”
“My grandmother hijacked our evening.”
“I liked it.”
“You fixed half her house.”
“I wanted to.” His fingers brush my shoulder—casual, natural.
I have the urge to rest my head in the crook of his arm and chest.
He says, “Besides, now I have a good excuse to skip poker night.”
I wince. “Not a fan of betting?”
He goes still and instead of the air leaving the planet, oxygen seems to feed the flames between us.
“Patton—” I start.
“Winnie—” he says at the same time.
We stop. Stare at each other.
“You first,” I say.
“No, you.”
“I insist.”
He runs a hand through his hair, looking slightly uncomfortable. “I just meant that betting isn’t my thing. Cards, sure. But putting money on things feels wrong.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “It does.”
Another loaded silence.
I should tell him about Operation Make Maverick Smile and how stupid I’ve been. But the words remain locked behind my lips. Needing something to hold on to, I catch his hand.
Voice a whisper, I say, “Patton. What are we doing?”
He looks at our joined hands, then at me. “I don’t know, but I don’t want to stop.”
“Me neither.”
“Good.” He squeezes my fingers. “Then we’ll figure it out.”
I sure hope so.