The room erupts in cheers. He’s basically Nevada hockey royalty.
Patton leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “We’re going to win.”
I mutter, “Someone watered your confidence tree this morning.”
His eyes cut to mine. “Not confidence. Experience. We’ve won the last five years.”
“Past performance doesn’t guarantee future results.”
He slowly unfurls that cocky smirk—the one he wears when he’s not running for Grouch of the Year. “It does when you’re the best.”
Mayor Barbie’s voice rises above our sparring as if to scold us. “Winnie will coordinate festival logistics. Patton is the captain of the recreational team. I expect full cooperation between departments.”
We both nod, chastised, though I notice Patton’s jaw tightens slightly.
Before we move on, I raise my hand. “I’ve been thinking of a new income stream to help offset the costs of events like this. What if we have a gift table with Gus the squirrel-themed merchandise? I’m thinking shirts, hats, keychains, plushies?”
Mayor Barbie perks up. “I love that! Winnie, you’re brilliant.”
Patton looks at me like I’ve just negotiated world peace with a tray of cookies. There’s something in his expression I can’t quite read—surprise, maybe? Grudging respect?
Off to the races with the proposed idea, Mayor Barbiesays, “And Gus will be there in costume to introduce his new goods. But can you get on this in time?”
“Absolutely.”
“Just no live squirrels,” Patton says, so only I can hear.
I want nothing more than to elbow him, but I resist, remaining professional for the rest of the meeting. Although when his leg leans absently against mine under the table, sending a jolt, zinging along my skin, I don’t move.
That afternoon,after I scramble and place orders for Gus-branded merchandise, I realize I have to get the signed permits for the firehouse bakery to admin before the end of the day. Patton isn’t in his office and Reese says he’s at the bakery, so I bundle up and enjoy the sun on my face as I walk over to the old fire house—soon to be Huckleberry Hill’s newest dining establishment—admiring the renovation progress. The classic red brick has been cleaned, new windows installed, and fresh coats of paint on the trim.
The door is locked, so I lift my hand to knock as it swings open. Patton fills the frame with work gloves on, a coffee in his hand, and a smudge of something that might be paint or drywall dust on his jaw.
Much like this morning, his eyebrow arches. Does that mean he wasn’t behind the coffee delivery? Please don’t say it was Hayes. He’s a sweet kid, but a bit young. Oh no! Or Thomas. How to put this kindly, er, honestly, he’s a bit dorky for me. I’ll admit that I’m disappointed that the coffee may not have been from Patton after all.
His gaze tracks from mine, to the coffee, to my beauty mark, er, lips, and then lifts to my eyes again.
Voice low, he says, “I see you survived.”
“So you did poison my coffee.”
He sputters and nearly chokes on the sip he’d taken from his cup. “What?”
I shrug. “Murder is a crime, you know.”
“I’m well aware and I didn’t poison your coffee or the doughnut hole.”
“So they were from you?”
Instead of wearing a smug grin, his ears turn the faintest shade of pink. “You’re welcome.”
“I can see your halo glowing from here.”
He snorts.
“By the way, I have good news. The permits are complete. I just need a signature on the amendment form and we can submit.”
He brightens. “That’s great news. Come in.”
