I follow him inside and take a slow spin of surprise while ignoring that much of this work was done pre-permit, since it’s literally in my hands, but I guess I can let that slide because the space is incredible. They’ve kept the original firehouse charm—the brass pole, the high ceilings, the vintage touches—but modernized it with soft lighting, gleaming equipment stations, and a custom bakery counter that will certainly be featured in social media posts.
“Patton, this is amazing—” but my compliments are cut off by the buzz of a saw.
He leans in close and I inhale his manly, cedar and woodsmoke scent. “It’s getting there. Let’s head upstairs to the office.”
I follow him away from the loud tools and into what must have been the old chief’s office, where it’s quiet. It has a glass window with mutton bars overlooking the main space. I feel a strange, premature sense of loneliness about the idea of Pattonbeing up here rather than across the hall from me, if he ends up going full-time here at the bakery.
I show him the forms and try to make a joke about the squirrel who besieged me, leaving a Valentine’s Day apology on a sticky note and a pink acorn on my desk.
All business, he signs the documents, giving me the sense he wants to return to work.
Dropping the pen on the desk, he leans back and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “So you’re not holding the squirrel event against Gus, the town’s mascot?”
“Nope. All is forgiven. I have hundreds of pieces of merch on the way as we speak.”
“All is forgiven, huh?”
I tilt my head, wondering what he means.
“Sure. The squirrel was lost. I panicked.”
“Lost. Yeah.” I have the strange sense that he knows the feeling.
“Thanks again for helping me … and for the coffee.” I tell myself that I just want him to admit that he did something nice, but deep down, I cling to the idea that I received a Valentine’s Day gift from a secret admirer … him.
Eyes grazing me as I stand in front of his desk, he says, “Don’t mention it.”
Does he meandon’t mention it, as indo not tell anyoneor is this a casualyou’re welcome? Am I overthinking things? The heat in my cheeks says yes, very much so. Panicking all over again, this is my cue to exit before I say or do anything stupid.
I turn to leave and try the door handle. It doesn’t budge. “Uh, Patton?”
I expect him to look up, but his gaze is already fixed on me when I turn around. “Yeah?”
My blush may as well fill my throat, because when I speak, my voice is garbled. “I think the door is locked.”
14
WINNIE
Expression shiftingfrom what I can only describe as intent to concerned, Patton leaps to his feet, tries the door, and looks it over carefully, before bellowing, “Austin!”
“Did he lock us in here? That sneak!”
“He hung the door backward and the lock is on the wrong side. How? Why? Hinges!” His tone is tight with frustration.
“So we’re locked in?” I bang on the door, but no one hears us because of the loud tools. “Are they using jackhammers?”
“Unfortunately.” Patton runs his hand through his hair.
We stand close together as if prepared to be the first to escape should the door suddenly fly open. My gaze crawls up his body as I take in his profile while he examines the hinges. Perfect posture, masculine features, eyes that—that meet mine for a beat at the recognition we’re locked in a small, intimate space together. If he were any other man, I’d imagine I see a question there, a longing in the way his eyelids dip ever so slightly, the way his tongue peeks through his lips briefly.
My breath catches and I step back, practically flinging myself against the nearby wall to put distance between us. Itell myself I feel annoyed because I have work to do. Also, it’s suddenly so warm in here that I peel off my jacket.
Intending to cool the temperature with sarcasm, I say, “Nothing awful about being trapped with your nemesis.”
“Nemesis? That’s dramatic.” His eyes dance as if amused.
“Then would you call us frenemies?” I ask while waving through the window, but no one sees me.
