I press my hand to my forehead. “Everyone in this town has lost their minds.”
“Or maybe they see something you’re trying not to admit,” Peony wisely suggests as she pushes the re-shelving cart past.
My heart thunders and I try to remind it this is a library! “What do we have to admit?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but a herd of children descends for the fire safety demo, and the moment dissolves with the pitter-patter of their feet as they creep past Geraldine Thorndike.
As I gather my photocopies, I catch sight of a book on top of Peony’s cart titled “How to Fall in Love with Your Enemy.”
The world is mocking me.
But as I watch Patton patiently explain fire extinguishers to a group of enraptured kids who follow up with questions, I have one of my own, or three.
What if the person everyone thinks is impossible to please just hasn’t met the right person yet?
What if I’m that person?
What if we both are?
That evening,I’m working late at my desk, trying to focus on grant applications and failing miserably because Patton is also working late across the hall.
Everyone else has gone home. It’s just us in the municipal complex, separated by glass and stubbornness.
My stomach growls. Loudly.
Through the window, Patton looks up.
A moment later, my phone buzzes and I recall he’d textedme earlier. I scroll back and see that he asked if I wanted a Crush Cake. Apparently, they were fresh out of the oven. I read the first one he sent.
Patton: Hungry?
Me: Focused.
Patton: I ordered takeout.
In a last-ditch effort to maintain space between us, I revert to our standard bickering.
Me: How nice for you.
Patton. For us. My treat. Call it a business dinner.
Me: And get everyone speculating all over again?
Patton: You won’t be able to resist the fried rice and egg rolls.
Me: Watch me.
Twenty minutes later, Patton is indeed watching me—devour the most delicious takeout I’ve had in a while. Like a little cat coaxed by a can of tuna, he lured me into his office with an assortment of Chinese food favorites.
“For the bakery, do you have uniforms? Will there be aprons?” I waggle my eyebrows, thinking about him in the former earlier today at the library and in the latter, given his washboard abs.
“Aprons are non-negotiable. Can’t have the crew covered in flour and frosting. Want to see the business plan?”
“Seriously? Sure.”
“I knew that would be like catnip to your well-organized, efficient, and task-oriented mind.”
“Har har,” I say, stopping short of flicking a lo-mein noodle at him, then licking my paw to smooth my whiskers.
