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.”
