11
PATTON
I’m halfwaythrough equipment inventory when I remember my jacket is still at Parks & Rec.
More specifically, with Vincenza.
Who I rescued from a squirrel yesterday. Who I couldn’t stop thinking about last night, despite my best efforts. Who I’m supposed to meet with this morning to plan the Fireman’s Ball.
I exit the east wing to the hall and she’s at her desk, peering at her computer with a crease between her eyebrows like she’s concentrating.
Not that I’ve noticed her particular facial expressions before … or the beauty mark above her lip … or the sparkle in her eyes.
“Morning,” I say from her doorway.
She looks up and her gaze softens, then brightens, then settles into neutral, professional. “Good morning! Come in. I have your jacket.”
She pulls it from behind her desk, folded neatly. When she hands it to me, our fingers brush and a trickle of low-wattage energy flows through my hand, building in intensity as it buzzes toward my chest.
“I didn’t put mud in the pockets or anything.”
I blink once, twice, confused. “Why would you do that?”
She wrings her hands. “I don’t know why I said that.”
I narrow my eyes because I recognize guilt when I see it. I overtly check the pockets. They’re empty. “Thanks. I think?” I start toward the door.
“You’re welcome … and Patton?”
I turn. “Yes?”
She takes a deep breath and lengthens her spine. “You make me feel eight years old sometimes. Twelve at others. Also, sixteen. Like you just can’t help but pull my pigtails.”
I take a generous sweep of her appearance—a pink sweater today with dark pants and high heels. A single pearl dots each delicate earlobe. “Your pigtails?”
“Metaphorically speaking.”
“That’s …” I don’t know how to finish the sentence.
“Weird? Immature? Accurate? All the above!” Flustered, she picks up a small bakery box from her desk.
I eye it warily as if it might contain a ticking bomb.
“These are for you. Well, for everyone at the station. Doughnut holes. As a thank you for yesterday’s rescue.”
“I was just doing my job.”
“Your job is squirrel wrangling?”
“My job is handling emergencies. You called 911.” I scratch my temple.
“The squirrel was aggressive!”
I chuckle. “It was six inches tall.”
“Eight. Maybe ten. It had sharp teeth and acorns!”
My lips twist. “Meeting at nine?”
