He pulls out a binder containing revenue projections, staffing schedules, and menu development phases. It’s so organized that it makes my sticky notes look pathetic in comparison.
“This is impressive. Solid,” I admit, flipping through pages.
“Captain Kendrick taught me not to hate preparation.”
“Wise man. Did you ever imagine yourself becoming a baker?”
“Nope.” He steals a piece of orange chicken from my container. “Firefighter was the goal for as long as I can remember. This is the side hustle. The retirement plan.”
“You’re planning your retirement already?”
“Captain Kendrick made me promise.”
That Patton live long enough to retire? My heart craters for the kid who had to grow up too fast, who learned early that nothing lasts forever.
“What about you? What’s your big dream? Besides color-coding the entire municipal budget?”
I laugh, but the question lodges somewhere deep. “Going back to Reno. Taking over the restaurant eventually. Living near family.”
“But … that’s not your dream …” he says as if sensing my uncertainty.
I stab at my kung pao chicken, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t know anymore. This town … the people, the community, the?—”
“The grouchy firefighters?”
“The one cocky firefighter,” I correct, looking up.
His smug pretenses disappear for a fraction of a moment and in their place, I see a glimpse of boyishness.
“Sometimes this place feels like it could be home.”
“And …?” he asks, once more detecting that I have more to say.
“That maybe a certain firefighter isn’t as cocky or grouchy as I initially thought.”
“And perhaps,” he says slowly, “the Parks & Rec director isn’t as frivolous as I initially believed either.”
“Wow. High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
He digs in his white cardboard takeout container for a minute, and I take this as our cue to return to our regular scheduled banter. However, he then adds, “But she’s as pretty as she was when I first laid eyes on her. When something stirred inside and I told myself to steer clear.”
My chin lowers a fraction. “Is that so?”
He nods and resumes eating, leaving me to wonder what to make of that. Patton Cross thinks I’m pretty and he basically had to warn himself away by manipulating me into hating him? I open and close my mouth a few times, about to say something, to ask the obvious questions, but the words don’t come.
We finish the meal in loaded silence. I realize I’ve memorized details about him that I shouldn’t have. For example, he takes his coffee black. That he’s left-handed when writing but does everything else right-handed. The scar on his right forearm gets red in the cold. That he smiles ever so slightly from the corner of his mouth when something amuses him, like now.
“What?” he asks, catching me staring.
“Nothing.”
His eyebrows rise.
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
