“This has taken me weeks to wrap my head around, never mind actually making contacts, and you settled nearly everything in a matter of an hour. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
Her smile is different from her usual bright, professional morning greeting. It’s real, a little demure, and very, very cute. Her gaze darts to the office across the hall, her office, and she pops out of my chair. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to occupy your throne.”
“Be my guest, Parks & Rec Princess.”
Mouth pinched, she cocks her head.
“Mostly, that was a joke. But really, thank you.” I back each word with sincerity.
She nudges me with her elbow. “You’re welcome, partner.”
“Partner?”
“Someone has to keep you from paying retail like a sucker.” Her stomach growls.
“When did you last eat?”
She bites her lip. “Lunch?”
“The woman whose family runs a restaurant and who charmed the pennies out of those salespeople hasn’t eaten in nearly eight hours?”
“Time got away from me. I’ll grab something later.” She waves her hand dismissively and starts toward the door. “I should head home, anyway. Grandma will worry.”
Winnie will go home and deal with whatever project the house needs. Unfortunately, the Huckleberry Hill gossip mill reaches my ears whether I want it to or not. She’ll probably send money to her family and fall asleep without eating. It’s just a guess, but with the way everyone in this town flaps their lips, I’d wager that I’m right over the target, which gives me an idea.
“Thanks again,” I say, getting to my feet as well. Five minutes later, holding a container, I rap lightly on the doorframe of her office, where she is back behind her desk.
She looks up, surprised. “Long time no see.”
“I brought leftovers from the station. We always make extra.”
“But it’s for the guys.”
“I insist.”
She opens the container and breathes in. “This smells amazing.”
“I know.”
She rolls her eyes.
“It’s nothing special.”
She takes a bite and her eyes close. “Patton, this is really good, and if you didn’t gather, I’m rather particular and a bit biased when it comes to good food.”
“It’s just cowboy stew.”
“It’s not ‘just’ anything. This is restaurant level.”
“Wait until you try my day-old spaghetti.”
The spoon hovers in front of her mouth. “No way you could beat my father’s recipe.”
I rock back on my heels and chuckle. “I have no doubt your father’s is authentic, but when I make it, there are never leftovers.”
She takes another bite. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Here and there.”
