Lured by the sweet scent of sugar and vanilla, I stand, smoothing my skirt, and step into the doorway. “Those look amazing. What are Crush Cakes?”
Austin lights up. “Crush Cakes is our new bakery concept. They’re like muffin tops—the good part, but cupcake-style.”
“Like in that Seinfeld episode about how muffin tops are really the only part that matters?” I ask, referencing my working knowledge of the popular nineties sitcom, with thanks to Grandma’s regular viewing of the syndicated show.
He winks. “Exactly. Crush Cakes.Pattonpending, like patent, get it?”
Everyone chuckles except the man with the same name, as if he’s generously offering us the gift of laughter by virtue of his name sort of sounding like the wordpatent.Puh-lease.
Austin adds, “We’re renovating the old fire house down the street and converting it into a bakery. Should be open by spring.”
“That’s the building on the parkland easement,” I say.
The permit request came as a surprise from the zoning board. After the new municipal complex was constructed, the land beneath the old fire hall was incorporated into the park area since a stream runs behind it.
I start, “You’ll need to?—”
“We know.” Patton’s tone is clipped. “We’ve already started the paperwork.”
“Alrighty then.” I wait for him to apologize or elaborate. Of course, he doesn’t.
The silence is long, like the icicles forming under the eaves of Grandma’s cottage.
Austin clears his throat and extends the box toward me. “Want to try one? The recipe still needs work, but?—”
Patton cuts across him. “Actually, these are for people whoare helping with the paperwork. People like Nancy in the Clerk’s office.”
Is he implying that I’m hindering the process? I’m just doing my job!
Austin and the other members of the fire team—a tall guy named Reese—offer apologetic looks.
Turning to me, Patton adds, “Oops. Guess there won’t be enough.”
My smile holds, but it’s carved from ice, ready to crack. “No problem! I’ll just have to wait until you open the bakery. I’m sure they’re delicious.”
“They are,” Patton says, self-satisfied.
“Maybe you can make a special Valentine’s Day flavor,” I suggest.
“I hate Valentine’s Day.”
“Of course you do,” I mutter. Just like you probably hate puppies, long walks on the beach, and me. Mustering a pageant-worthy smile, I say, “In that case, you’re going to despise the décor I have planned for my favorite holiday. I love Valentine’s Day.” That’s not strictly true, but this man brings out the contrarian in me.
It’s not that I want him to like me necessarily—though I wouldn’t be opposed—I just can’t tolerate how he thinks he’s oh-so-superior for no good reason.
The first time we met, he took one good look at me—eyes scanning me from top to bottom like a judge at a beauty competition—must have decided that he didn’t like what he saw, all but audibly jeered, and the rest is history.
The guys continue down the hall, leaving me standing in my doorway, doing my best not to feel small after being snubbed by a six-foot-two firefighter with a personality that could best be described as pleasant as a January frost.
I return to my desk and pull out my phone, firing off a quick text to my younger brother Fabrizio.
Me: Remind me why I’m trying to be nice to everyone in this town?
Fab: Because you’re a people pleaser? A victim of your own cheerfulness? Shall I go on?
Me: That’s harsh.
Fab: But accurate. How’s the family fund coming? The parents are stress cases. I found Ma with a spoon in the cannoli filling last night.
