But her perfume reaches me with its delightfully dizzying, rose scent, and she’s looking up at me with those coffee-colored eyes, lips slightly parted. I forget why I was supposed to stay away.
“Patton,” she breathes.
I’m going to kiss her. Right here in this dusty, half-finished bakery. I’m going to kiss Vincenza Sorrentino and probably ruin everything. But do I care?
“Patton Cross!” The voice booms from outside like a foghorn blown through a megaphone.
We jump apart, flustered, awkward, and not at all looking innocent.
Through the front window, Silver Sam—the town’s oldest resident and most enthusiastic local historian—stands on the sidewalk, waving his walking stick like a conductor’s baton.
“Is that—?” Winnie starts.
He pushes through the door without knocking, his long gray beard practically crackling with excitement. “Patton, my boy, that old ghost is getting restless. Wants you to hurry things along.”
“There’s no ghost, Sam.”
“The ghost of Captain Finnegan!” He wavers slightly on his feet. “Perished in the great fire of 1929! Still walks these halls, looking for his?—”
“Lost axe,” I finish flatly. Having heard this story at last a half dozen times, I gaze at the ceiling, summoning patience.
Sam’s eyes are wild with conviction. “His voice is as clear as day, moaning about?—”
“Municipal codes. I know.”
“Code violations. Safety first!”
Winnie presses her lips together, fighting laughter.
“That was probably the pipes. This building is over a hundred years old.”
“Mark my words, young Maverick!” Sam shakes his walking stick at me. “The captain don’t rest easy! He’ll be wanting a proper tribute. Maybe a plaque? Or some sourdough bread—he loved sourdough!”
Trying to keep a straight face, I say, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You mock me now, but when your pastries start floating across the room—” Sam pauses dramatically, “—don’t say I didn’t warn you!”
He departs as suddenly as he arrived, the door swinging shut behind him.
We’re both silent for a long beat, then Winnie dissolves into gasping laughter as she presses her hand to her chest. “Floating pastries,” she manages between giggles.
I find myself joining in, clutching my stomach. “Welcome to Huckleberry Hill. Where every building is possibly haunted and the town historian thinks he’s a prospector from the 1800swhile ranting about a fire chief from the last century. It’s safe to say, the man’s wires are crossed.”
“He’s a character, that’s for sure. Every town needs one.”
“We have multiple.”
This interrupted what was about to be the greatest decision I’ve ever made or the worst mistake.
“Huckleberry Hill is wonderful,” she says, wiping her eyes. “Completely ridiculous, but wonderful.”
The almost-kiss moment is gone, replaced by laughter, which is definitely a step up from our usual grudge matches. Winnie remains close, cheeks flushed from laughing, and I think that if I’d kissed her, I would’ve wanted to keep kissing her.
She’d never let me live it down.
Unless she liked it.
I’m not sure I’m ready for what it would mean if we did, though, because what if something worse is happening? When we’re together, I feel like I’m free-falling. When I’m thinking about her, I feel suspended in midair.
