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.
