Chapter 31 Winnie
WINNIE
After Patton leaves, I’m left sitting on the porch, heart full and guilty conscience overflowing.
I have the sinking feeling this isn’t something that’ll easily be fixed, especially since I’ve had the opportunity to tell him about the bet, but can’t bring myself to do it.
I fear that it’ll ruin everything. A dismal thought crawls out of the darkness.
Does that mean what we have is fragile? Likely to break at the slightest problem?
Later, lying in bed, my phone buzzes.
Patton: I had a good night. It was nice. Felt like home.
Me: Thank you again for fixing the drain, indulging my grandmother, and your expert sandwich assembly.
Patton: Happy to help. Plus, if spending time with Joyce is the only way to see her granddaughter, I’ll do it every Thursday.
I stare at the screen, smiling like a complete fool.
Me: Does that mean you like someone’s company other than your own, Lieutenant Cross?
Patton: Get used to it, Sorrentino. Let’s go on a real date sometime soon.
Me: I would like that a lot.
Friday evening, I’m driving home from work when I spot lights on at the bakery. Patton’s truck is in the lot, and before I can talk myself out of it, I’m pulling in beside it.
He looks up when I walk through the door, surprise flickering across his face before it melts into something warmer.
I gesture to the kitchen. “Burning the midnight oil?”
“More like burning the cake.” He gestures to a pan with charred crumbs. “The grand opening is next week, and I’m still perfecting recipes.”
“They’re pretty perfect if you ask me, but I’ve been thinking about your Crush Cakes …”
His eyebrow arches. “Have you now?”
I giggle. “I thought of some Italian-inspired flavors and seasonal variations.”
“Whatcha got? We can test some of them.”
“Seriously?”
He hands me an apron.
Two hours later, we’re covered in flour and laughing as we sample our fourth batch of experimental Crush Cakes.
“The cannoli-inspired one is a winner,” he admits, licking the creamy filling off his thumb. “I was skeptical about the pistachios, but you were right.”
“I’m always right.”
“Don’t push it.” He nudges me with his shoulder.
“I learned from the best. Nonna doesn’t tolerate mediocrity in the kitchen.
” My throat tightens as I think of my paternal grandmother’s legacy, the restaurant, and how I should be on the street corner offering to sell one of my kidneys to save my family, instead of basking in the warm glow of Patton—I mean, the kitchen.
He turns to face me fully. “You’re good at all of this—business, people, problem-solving. You see things other people miss.”
“Thanks.” But it’s too late. The restaurant is finished and I’m afraid I lit the match.
“What are your favorite flavors?” he asks, startling me from my thoughts. “Like when you were a kid, did you like vanilla cake for your birthday? Chocolate ice cream? Peanut butter cookies? Or were you one of those weird children who liked Fig Newtons?”
“What? Those are good. How did you know I like Fig Newtons?” I snap my fingers. “Grandma Joyce is a snitch.”
“Figs are underrated. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I think about the answer to his question for a long moment. “Brown sugar cinnamon with cream cheese frosting sort of reminds me of a cappuccino. Spiced pear, pecan, and caramel are sort of like biscotti. If you want to be overtly Italian—tiramisu.”
He’s already writing it down. “Hmm. I like the second one. Spiced pear, pecan, and caramel. Juicy and nutty, but very sweet. We’ll call it the Win for Winnie.”
“Don’t you dare name a Crush Cake after me.”
“Why not?”
“Because that seems self-indulgent.”
“But I’d be the one naming it. Not you.”
I adamantly shake my head.
“Winnie, let me indulge you.”
“You can’t.”
“Too late. Already decided.” He grins. “The Win!”
Despite my hesitation, I can’t help but feel a little sparkly.
He steps closer, and the huge kitchen suddenly feels very small. “I want you to be part of this. Part of … everything.”
The space between us shrinks to nothing as he reaches for me, and suddenly I’m wrapped in his arms—powerful, warm strength that makes me think everything will be okay.
My eyes drop closed as he leans in, planting his lips on mine. Our breathing falls into synchronicity, rising and falling together like we’ve done this a thousand times before, with the promise to double the recipe.
His nose tickles my cheek as he nuzzles me into position to get a better angle. The kiss deepens. Along with our surroundings, my thoughts fade.
His pulse races under his skin, a steady beat as we press together.
My breath falters when he traces a finger along my jawline, down the side of my neck, so gentle it makes my toes tingle.
When we part, I’m in a complete daze, lost in the intensity of his gaze. My heart tugs in my chest—not with fear, but with hope. With wanting. With the terrifying, exhilarating feeling that this is it. My future is with this man.
At the start of the work week, Patton appears in my office doorway holding a thick folder.
“Good morning.” I gesture to the folder. “Let me guess. Grand opening permit?”
“Among other things.” He sets it on my desk and our fingers brush. Deliberate. Flammable. Sound the alarm! “It looks like I need your official stamp of approval.”
We’re professional. Mostly. But the air between us snaps and pops with unspoken things, loaded glances, the memory of flour-dusted kisses.
I flip through the paperwork, checking that everything is in order. It is, of course. Patton is nothing if not thorough. But then I reach a document I haven’t seen before. It’s a copy of Captain Kendrick’s will, including a clause about the firehouse property.
I read it once. Twice. Three times.
“‘The firehouse property transfers to Patton Cross. Upon opening a business that serves the community, provided said business operates successfully for six months, full and permanent ownership shall be complete. If the business fails or closes, property reverts to the town for public use.’” My head snaps up. “Were you going to mention this?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I know? This wasn’t in the original permit application … or maybe it was and I didn’t notice.” I’m on my feet now, pacing as yet another thing I care about slips out of my control. “Patton, if Crush Cakes fails, you lose everything. The building, the legacy, all of it.”
“I know.”
I whip my head in his direction. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want it to be your problem.”
“That’s not how partnerships work!”
He closes my office door, sealing us inside the glass walls.
He steps closer. “Is this a partnership?”
I wring my hands. “I don’t know. What do you want it to be?”
“I want you.” The words come out fierce, raw. “I want you involved in this, helping with this, part of this. I want—” He stops, looking frustrated.
“Says the guy who conveniently left out this big detail about the bakery.”
“It was all right there,” he says softly.
I feel like the silly little pig who chose the house made out of straw, and it’s about to blow over.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would matter or upset you so much.”
I hold back a sob, but he must see that I’m on the edge of falling apart.
“Take a walk with me?”
I grab my coat, and once we’re outside, he twines his hand in mine as we walk to the bakery.
It’s vacant except for evidence of all the hard work the guys have put in to make it a welcoming place for customers, a success.
No sooner does the door close behind us than I burst into tears.
Full, ugly, hiccupping sobs that probably have him looking for a fire extinguisher.
“Winnie? Did I say something wrong? Is it the bakery? The will? I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s not you.” I sink onto one of the stools, covering my face with my hands.
His arms are instantly around me. “It’s the restaurant,” he guesses accurately.
Nodding, I let it all out. “My family has two weeks to catch up on rent or they lose everything. I’ve been trying to save them, but I can’t. I’m failing. Just like you might fail, and I can’t watch another person I—”
I stop.
Another person I … what?
Love?
Do I love Patton Cross?
I do.
But what if loving him results in another thing I can’t fix?
He holds me tighter, leaving me with no choice but to melt into his strong embrace. “Hey, you’re not failing anyone.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I don’t mean for this to sound cruel, but maybe your parents need to figure it out themselves. Ask for help. I’m sure they don’t expect you to single handedly bail them out.”
“But I’m supposed to help. That’s what I do.”
“You’re supposed to be Winnie. You’re not responsible for everyone else’s lives or happiness.” He cups my face gently. “You can’t save everyone. And you shouldn’t have to try.”
“Says the firefighter. That’s literally your job.”
“This is different. I’m trained in this one area.
But I’m not always successful. It’s crushing.
” He gestures vaguely to our surroundings, lightening the mood slightly.
“We do our best. Our very best. But it’s not always enough.
It can’t be.” He squints. “If that were the case, my father and the captain would still be here.”
The tears come harder because he’s right. He’s absolutely right, and he has hurt too, and how can two people possibly bear all this weight?
He kisses my forehead and goes to the fridge, moves smoothly to the stove, and returns with a mug of peppermint hot chocolate—it’s warm and sweet and comforting. Cooling and refreshing.
It’s Patton in beverage form.
We sit together in silence, his arm around my shoulders, and for once I let myself be held.
When my breath finally returns, I peer up at him, appreciating the strong cut of his jaw, dotted with stubble, the set of his chin. His masculine features. The depth in his hazel eyes. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”
His arm tightens. “Yeah?”
I nod as the moment stretches between us. He shifts, turning to face me, and his gaze makes my heart stutter.
He leans in slightly.
I do too.
Our noses brush and I feel warm and melty like sunshine on snow.
“Maverick!” Austin’s voice shatters the moment like glass.
Of course, it’s Austin.
“We’ve got a call! Structure fire on Pinewood!”
Patton jumps up, already moving toward the door. “I have to go.”
“Be safe.” Three more words beg to follow those, but I don’t say them. Not yet. But when the time comes, will I be able to admit how I feel? It comes with a risk and that makes me want to flee.
Having visited Grandma and spent summer weekends in Huckleberry Hill as a kid, I traveled light and left most of my belongings in my parents’ garage because the cottage is at capacity.
However, there, in the back of the closet, my suitcase sits empty.
I could pack it. Be ready to take flight.
The plan was always to return to Reno. My parents definitely need my help.
My thoughts descend in a slow spiral of doubt as I drive home.