“Maybe another time?” Hayes is practically vibrating with puppy-dog enthusiasm.
“Um …”
“Great! It’s a date. I mean, not a date-date. Just a lunch date. Which is also a date. But casual?—”
I interrupt. “Handsome, gear check. Now.”
“But I just—” Hayes starts.
“Now.”
He scurries off. Winnie presses her lips together, trying not to laugh.
“He’s twenty-four,” I say.
“So …?” Her gaze dances over me.
“So …” But I stop. What am I doing?
“So I’m thirty-two. Is there an age limit on lunch I’m not aware of? Or a rule about Parks & Rec staff spending time with more than one person from the fire department? A protocol, perhaps?”
I shift from foot to foot. “He’s a rookie.”
“And I’m a grown woman who can share a meal with whoever she wants.”
She’s right. It’s none of my business. So why does my gut feel like it’s full of concrete?
Wiggling her fingers with a wave, she says, “See you soon, Lieutenant.”
Picking my ego up off the floor, I watch her go, hips swaying, curves setting me on fire.
Oreo sits next to me, making a sound that might be judgment.
“Don’t you dare.”
Hours later, night has fallen and I’m back in my office doing paperwork for the bakery. The building is mostly empty. Through the glass and across the hall, a small light in Winnie’s office glows. I glance at the time. It’s seven and dinner has come and gone.
My phone rings with a call from the dairy company I’ve been trying to negotiate with for two weeks. The woman on the line apologizes for the late call with a comment on being behind—seems like a theme. “Mr. Cross, as I’ve explained, our prices are firm?—”
“I understand that, but for a startup business, your minimum order requirements are a little excessive. Surely there’s another plan or some flexibility?—”
“Take it or leave it.”
I’m getting nowhere. Again. It’s not likewe need fifty gallons of milk and a metric ton of butter each month. At least not yet.
Winnie looks up. She can probably hear my frustration rattling the glass as I continue to negotiate.
She stands, walks over, and makes a “give me the phone” gesture.
I stare at her and shake my head. “I can handle this,” I hiss.
She makes the gesture again, inclining her head, more insistent.
Looking down at the myriad pieces of paper on my desk, demanding my attention, I ask myself,What do I have to lose? I hand her my phone.
“Hi there, this is Winnie Sorrentino and—” Her tone is warm and charming before she goes silent as if she were interrupted.
I lean in, concerned about where this is going. I hold a position of authority and am used to people listening to me. Stella from Dimato’s Family Dairy didn’t get the memo.
