1
WINNIE
I’m living a happy-for-now life,but I’d really like a happily ever after.
Doubtful I’ll find it here in Huckleberry Hill, especially not among the men in this town.
Case in point: the guy occupying the office directly across from mine scowls instead of smiles when our eyes meet through the glass walls of the Sierra Nevada Spur Safety Complex.
Rude.
I wave anyway. I’m a hope-aholic, a martyr for manners, a sucker for civility.
Fire Lieutenant Patton Cross does what he always does. Holds my gaze for a beat, smirks in that smug way of his, then turns back to his computer screen like I’m a particularly annoying pop-up ad he can’t quite close.
Fine. His loss. For now.
I refocus on the mountain of paperwork covering my desk—permits for the spring concert series, grant applications for new playground equipment, and a stack of sticky notes that have somehow multiplied and migrated from my planner to every available surface in my office. My organizational system iswhat Grandma calls “creative chaos.” I prefer to think of it as color-coded brilliance, even if I can’t currently locate the purple note with the vendor contact information I desperately need.
A random Tuesday afternoon in January means most of the municipal complex is winding down early, but I’m still here, finalizing details for the Valentine’s Day decorations to display in the building’s common areas. Lacy doily hearts, felt garlands, cupids, and the whole romance-apalooza, aka, half-price chocolate day eve for those of us in the lonely hearts club.
I’m mentally calculating whether my budget can handle the name-brand chocolate for the community appreciation baskets when movement across the hall catches my eye.
Patton stands, stretching his arms overhead. His navy blue fire department polo lifts ever so slightly, exposing a chiseled waistline. I definitely don’t notice. I’m a consummate professional.
Also, I’m a liar.
The man is built like he walks out of a rugged outdoorsman catalog every morning—broad shoulders, powerful muscles, and quiet intensity. Brown hair, perpetual stubble, and hazel eyes that shift between green and whiskey depending on the light. Today, they’re like amber glass, probably from the late afternoon sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows that make this building resemble a modern ski lodge rather than a government office.
The only problem is he’s both cocky and grouchy. The particular kind of smug guy who revs his car at a red light and flashes a brilliant, pearly white smile—to be fair, he does have great teeth. But Patton is despicable. Incorrigible. Intolerable.
He catches me looking.
I don’t shift my gaze fast enough.
His lips lift with a smirk and his eyebrows flatten into an expression I’ve come to recognize over the pastfour months—the one that says he’d rather be literally anywhere else than making accidental eye contact with Vincenza Sorrentino. He insists on calling me by my given name even though everyone else uses Winnie.
I try for a bright smile, but fear it comes out strained, tired. Like gas station coffee that’s been sitting too long on the burner.
Speaking of which, I ought to clean out the break room pot so it’s ready for tomorrow.
Patton disappears from view, probably heading into the depths of the fire department. A few minutes later, voices carry from the hallway, followed by male laughter and the distinct sound of the station Dalmatian’s collar jingling.
My office door is open—always is because I try to be approachable—so when Patton and two of his crew members walk past carrying a cardboard bakery box, I smell them before I see them.
Cedar, woodsmoke, and something sweet that makes my traitorous stomach rumble.
“Crush Cakes test batch,” Austin James announces to no one in particular. He’s tall like his lieutenant, but charming and always smiling—the opposite of Mr. Smuglepuss.
They pause right outside my door.
The box opens, revealing what look like cupcakes but distinctly smooshed, like the bottoms gave way, leaving only the tops. Slathered with thick frosting, colorful bits and bites cover each one. My mouth waters.
“Want a Crush Cake, Mindy?” Austin offers one to my coworker with a twinkle in his smile.
“Yes!” She practically sprints from her desk, all but sliding into home base like during our Parks & Rec versus Admin softball game last summer. Though she repeatedly missed fly balls when she was gazing at the game between the fire department and the police at a nearbyfield.
You and me both, Mindy. You and me both.
