“That I was running away?”
He comes around the counter, and I inhale his cedar and woodsmoke scent over the butter and sugar of the bakery.
He nods. “It crossed my mind.”
“I almost did. Packed a bag, got in my car, full dramatic exit planned.”
“What stopped you?”
“Grandma Joyce, my mom, Mindy, a certain Mrs. Cross, and the realization that I’ve spent my whole life doing things on my own because asking for help scares me. But mostly, you. We passed each other on Route 50.” I take a breath.
His eyes search mine. “Winnie, that was the lowest point of the last twenty-four hours. I thought I lost you.”
I shake my head. “Nothing about us makes sense—we started as enemies, secretly each made a bet, argued about everything, and somehow fell in love in the middle of it all.”
He’s smiling now, just slightly. “Keep going.”
“I’m not scared of loving a firefighter, Patton. I’m only scared of not loving you.” I hold up the enamel pin. “This is foryour jacket. For good luck. So you always know the whole town is with you on calls. That I’m with you.”
He takes the pin, studying it. “A squirrel in a fireman’s hat.”
“The town mascot. It’s either sweet or weird. I haven’t decided.”
He chuckles, then sets it on the counter. “It’s something I’ll always treasure.” He cups my face in his hands. “I have things I need to say. Things I need to ask you. But first?—”
And then he’s kissing me.
When our mouths meet, it’s not desperate like in the first aid room. Not uncertain like our almost-kisses. This is a promise, a beginning, a choice made with full knowledge of the risks and full commitment to taking them, anyway.
His hands slide into my hair. Mine grip his shirt, pulling him closer. The bakery disappears. The world narrows to this moment, this man, this choice to stop running and start living.
When we reluctantly pull apart, we’re both breathless, and he’s beaming.
I laugh through happy, misty eyes. “With that smile, Lieutenant Cross, I might need to start wearing sunglasses.”
He presses his forehead to mine. “Get used to it.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Both.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “Winnie, I love you. I love your sticky notes and your optimism and the way you see the best in people, even when they don’t deserve it—that would be me. I love that you tried to save your family’s restaurant and that you made peace between feuding grandmas. I love?—”
“Patton.” I press my finger to his lips. “I love you too. All of you. Even the cocky and grouchy parts.”
“I’m not grouchy or cocky.”
“It can be extreme, but it’s one of your best features.”
He laughs, arms circled around my waist, and kisses me again. His desire matches all of the want that I’ve been holdingback. Then it shifts, turns softer, sweeter, like we have all the time in the world.
His arms tighten around me, pulling me flush against him. Mine wrap around his neck in response.
As the movement of our lips finds a rhythm, goes off script, and then loops around again, Patton’s fingers roam along my back, tracing the curve of my spine. Meanwhile, I memorize every detail of this moment—the butterflies, the intensity, our raging pulses.
When we break apart for air, I have no doubt that my eyes are dazed and wonder-filled.
His lips twist, amused by how wrecked we both are.
Tingles race across my skin everywhere we’re touching, and I realize I’m smiling too as I lean in to kiss him once more.
