“And finally,” Mindy says with dramatic flair, “Patton ‘Maverick’ Cross. Lieutenant. Intimidating. Possibly carved from granite. Definitely has a tragic backstory.”
“More like Patton Potato,” I mutter. “Mush for brains.”
Mindy gasps. “You’re so mean to him!”
“He was mean to me first.”
“He’s not mean. He’s … intense.”
“He’s insufferable.”
Through the glass, I catch movement. Patton stands in the hall talking to Austin. He’s wearing his uniform—navy polo, tactical pants, boots. He looks exactly like a rogue chef carved a spud into a competent, controlled, completely closed off, chiseled beast of a man, like a renaissance artist revealed him from a block of marble. That works too.
My breath hitches.
He turns, and for a second, our eyes meet through the double glass walls separating our departments.
I look away first.
“You’re blushing,” Mindy says.
“I’m not.”
“Your face is red.”
“It’s the coffee. It’s hot.”
Thomas chuckles. “Sure.”
Mindy waves her hand in front of her face. “He sure is hot. But that’s not the point. When the two of you are in a room together, it goes up in smoke.”
I wince, thinking of Tacos & Trivia night, which was more of a dumpster fire. Not wanting to be grilled about whether I understand how the audio works on my phone, I say, “Don’t you both have work to do?”
They scatter, giggling like teenagers. I sink into my desk chair and pull up my email, determinedlynotlooking across the hallway where Patton is definitely not looking back at me.
Probably.
Statistically, it’s unlikely.
Realistically, it’s impossible.
My phone rings. It’s my grandmother.
“Hi, Grandma.”
“Winnie, dear. The pipe under the kitchen sink is leaking again.”
My mental to-do list, already groaning under the weight of permit reviews and budget reports, not to mention, now planning the Fireman’s Ball, gains another item. “I’ll look at it after work.”
“You’re such a good girl. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Perhaps, though, you could find someone qualified.”
“Grandma, you grew up in Huckleberry Hill. Surely—” I was about to say that if there’s a plumber, she’d know them, but as I speak, I realize my error. We can’t afford one. Not with her fixed income and me spending all of my money on the restaurant. She means she wants me to ask someone for a favor.
Guilt twists in my chest. I’m not a good girl. I’m a broke girl pretending to have everything under control while secretly hemorrhaging money to keep my family’s failing business afloat.
Video tutorials to the rescue!
“Not to worry. I’ll get it taken care of. I’ll see you tonight.” I infuse my tone with a chipper, can-do certitude.
