I hesitate because it’s after hours. This isn’t the right time. I should come back tomorrow.
She spots me. Like the human equivalent of a motion-activated porch light, she waves at me like we’re friends. Definitely not after Tuesday night’s disaster.
“Hi, Patton.”
“Vincenza.” It’s either that or Parks & Rec Princess. UsingWinniewould suggest we’re on friendly terms, which we’re not.
She lets out a breath. “It’s Winnie. Everyone calls me Winnie.”
Two feet of hallway and a thousand miles of rocky, mountainous mutual annoyance stretch between us. I’ve lost count of how many times she’s corrected me about her name.
“Okay, Vincenza.” It’s childish, but the teasing words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Her expression quickly shifts from surprise to salty. “Is this the hill you want to die on?”
I grunt and a nearby door opening and closing reminds us where we are. Work.
Her guard goes up and a professional mask slides into place. She gets to her feet, tosses something in the trash, and then crosses her arms. My gaze tracks her every move from the slopes of her figure to the silky strands of her hair.
She impatiently taps her fingers by her elbow. “Did you needsomething?”
I hold up the permit paperwork. “These were rejected.”
“Because they were incomplete.”
“They were good enough.”
“They’re missing signatures, proper zoning documentation, and the environmental impact assessment.”
“We’re renovating a building, not clear-cutting a forest.”
“It sits on parkland. There are regulations.”
“There are always regulations with you people.” I slap the folder on her desk.
Her eyes flash. “Youpeople? You mean the department that’s legally required to protect community resources?”
“I mean the department that’s making this impossible.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“So am I. It’s literally my life’s work to protect this community and the surrounding environment. I’d wager I know a lot more about it than these pieces of paper do.”
We’re closer now. I don’t remember shifting, but somehow the distance between us has shrunk. I can smell her perfume—it’s sophisticated, European, not that I’d know—the notion of romance languages comes to mind. It’s completely at odds with the sharp bite of her tongue as she defends slowing down progress on the bakery.
The tongue that licks her lower lip before she nibbles it with her teeth, popping it back into place.
I swallow thickly.
Cheeks the faintest shade of pink, she huffs. “Look, I can tell that you’re frustrated. But these rules exist for a reason. I can help you with the resubmission if you?—”
“I don’t need your help.” The words make me feel stark, like I’m standing in the wind. Yet I’m closer to her than I’ve ever been.
“Clearly you do need help, since you can’t seemto fill out a form correctly.” Her breath smells sweet, reminding me of the Crush Cake I refused to share.
Standing my ground, she meets me, toe to toe. Vincenza is a little fiery and a bit bossy. I tell myself that I don’t like it.
Voice suddenly husky, I say, “Maybe if the forms weren’t written in bureaucratic legalese?—”
