“We can have ice sculptures shaped like firefighters—cookies too with frosting and cardboard cutouts so we can play pin the tail on the?—”
Eyes wide, I stare at her. She can’t be serious. “That’s …”
“Amazing? Brilliant? Social media-worthy?” She waggles her eyebrows.
“Dangerous when they melt.” Just like I might do when around this woman if I’m not careful.
“They won’t melt if we—” She stops. “Wait, did you just say ‘when’ they melt, implying you’re at least considering them?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “I’m not considering them.”
“You said ‘when,’ not ‘if.’ There is a distinction.”
“Slip of the tongue.”
“I’ll win you over yet.”
“You won’t. I’m being realistic about ice in a heated venue in the springtime.”
We continue going back and forth. We’ve been arguing foralmost ten minutes about hypothetical firefighter-shaped items, to which I raise reasonable objections. “You want to play pin the tail on the firefighter?”
“It’s a classic game.”
“Are you calling us donkeys?”
“Just you.”
When did this become amusing? I only relent when she grins, her beauty mark emphasizing her full lips.
Leaning back in my chair, feet planted on the ground, I cradle my head in my hands. “Maybe we can compromise.”
She perks up. “Okay. What if we do some practical elements and some special touches? Not huge ice sculptures, but maybe LED luminaries? Cheaper, safer, still pretty.”
My thoughts wander to the bed of my pickup truck, the two of us reclining on a cool night, gazing up at the heavens. Out here, away from the city lights, it’s so dark and so peaceful, it’s like swimming in the sky. Inspired, I suggest, “A starry night theme.”
Vincenza leaps out of her seat, launching herself at me before stopping abruptly. “I just, um, that’s a great idea. I knew you had it in you.”
She taps my arm playfully and I reflexively draw back, breaking the moment. Worried that her touch could burn me in a way that would leave a mark.
“Sorry. I, uh, am just excited.”
And I can’t let myself be, not after imagining taking Winnie stargazing.
Hold on. When did Vincenza become Winnie? Being in this room with her is like managing a controlled burn. The heat is tolerable until it isn’t.
Sitting up, I refocus. “LED strands for the twinkle lights will work. They’re cool to the touch, low fire risk, energyefficient.”
She blinks. “Yes!” Then she does a double-take. “Who are you and what have you done with Patton Cross?”
“Don’t push it.”
We dive into the details from the seating arrangements to supplier contracts to the timeline. She opens her laptop and shows me samples and photos. I cross-reference budget line items, and before either of us realizes it, we’re actually cooperating instead of bickering, working together like two mature adults.
She points to her laminated seating chart. “What do you think about Silver Sam and Lucky Donahoo at the same table?”
“Absolutely not. They’ll spend the whole night trying to one-up each other with prospector tales and card tricks.”
“But that could be entertaining.”
