Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
I tap my pen nervously, checking the time. Ten minutes until our meeting. James suggested his place (more space, fewer distractions). Logical reasons that shouldn't make my stomach twist, but here I am, checking my appearance again.
"Just work," I mutter. "Professional collaboration. Nothing more."
Except it doesn't feel that way. Not since O'Malley's. Not since he told me about his siblings. Not since that look that stole my breath.
I grab my things and approach his Craftsman house, understated and perfectly maintained. Immaculate gardens, inviting porch.
Before I can even knock, the door swings open.
"Right on time." James smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way that makes my heart do a little flip. "Come in."
I step inside, immediately struck by the warm, open space. High ceilings, hardwood floors, built-in bookshelves filled with actual books, not just decorative objects. It's magazine-worthy but still feels lived-in.
"Your home is beautiful," I say, following him through to a sunlit dining room where papers and laptops are already arranged on a large table.
"Thanks. I renovated most of it myself when I bought it three years ago."
"You renovated this?" I look around, genuinely impressed. "Is there anything you can't do?"
He laughs, but there's something tight in it. "Plenty. Coffee?" He gestures toward the kitchen. "Or I have tea, water..."
"Coffee would be great. Black is fine."
While James prepares our drinks, I take the opportunity to look more closely at the room. Family photos line one wall—James with who must be his siblings, all with the same warm smile. A bookshelf holds a mix of business titles, biographies, and several books on carpentry and home restoration.
He returns with two mugs, handing one to me. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and I feel that now-familiar spark of connection.
"So," I say, settling into a chair. "The Chamber breakfast is tomorrow. Are we ready?"
"Almost." James sits opposite me, spreading our notes. "I think we should start with the 'why'—why Meadowbrook needs a rebrand—before showing the designs."
"Good idea. Context is everything." I open my laptop. "I've refined the visuals based on feedback. Want to see?"
We fall into an easy rhythm, discussing transitions and talking points. It's comfortable, this partnership. The way we anticipate each other's thoughts, build on each other's ideas.
But underneath runs something more, in his lingering glances, how he leans toward me when I speak, his careful attention to my suggestions.
After an hour, James leans back. "I think we're in good shape."
"Agreed." I close my laptop. "Though I'm still nervous about speaking at the Chamber."
"You'll be amazing. You know this material inside out."
"It's not the material I'm worried about. It's me. I tend to overdo it. Get too passionate, take up too much space."
"What makes you say that?"
"Experience. My ex said I was 'too intense.' My teacher wrote I was 'enthusiastic to a fault.' Even my sister sometimes says I need to dial it back."
James considers this. "Can I tell you what I see?"
I meet his gaze. "What?"
"Someone who cares deeply. Who invests fully in her work, ideas, relationships. That's not a flaw. It's what makes you exceptional."
His sincerity catches me off guard. "You don't find it overwhelming?"
"It's refreshing. Your intensity isn't too much. It's exactly right. At least... to me."
The air between us feels charged with unspoken feelings.
"Well," I manage, "that's a nice change from being told to tone it down."
James smiles, though shadows linger in his eyes. "I understand something about wearing masks, about being told your natural self is wrong."
"Do you?" I ask softly.
He stands suddenly. "Let's take a break. Want to see the backyard?"
The shift surprises me, but I follow. "Sure."
James's backyard is as thoughtful as his home: stone patio with seating, fire pit, and a garden with vegetable beds and flowering shrubs. Late sun casts a golden glow.
"Did you do this too?" I ask.
"Mostly. Gardening helps me think. Nice creating something tangible that grows."
We sit on a bench under a maple, not quite touching. I wrap my arms around myself in the chilly air.
"You're cold," James observes. "We can go back inside."
"No, I'm fine. It's beautiful out here."
He hesitates, then slides closer, his arm coming around my shoulders. "Better?"
My heart hammers against my ribs. "Yes."
For a moment, we sit in silence, watching the breeze stir the leaves above us. It's comfortable but charged with potential energy, like the air before a thunderstorm.
"You know," James says finally, "I've spent most of my life trying to be what everyone needed me to be. The responsible son. The surrogate parent. The community leader. The motivational speaker with all the answers."
I turn slightly to look at him, surprised by this sudden vulnerability. "That sounds exhausting."
"It is." He meets my eyes. "But it's also safer, in a way. If you're always what other people need, you never have to figure out what you actually want."
"And what do you want, James?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.
He holds my gaze, something raw and honest in his expression. "These past few weeks, working with you... it's the first time in years I've felt like myself. Not the polished, perfect version people expect, but just... me. The real me."
My breath catches. "I like the real you."
"Even when I don't have all the answers? Even when I'm not in control?"
"Especially then." I place my hand tentatively on his knee. "Perfect is boring. Real is... beautiful."
James looks down at my hand, then back to my face. His eyes drop briefly to my lips before meeting my gaze again. The question in them is clear.
My heart races as I give an almost imperceptible nod.
He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away if I wanted to. But I don't want to. I've been thinking about this moment since that night at O'Malley's—if I'm honest, since that first meeting when he looked at me with genuine interest instead of dismissal after I challenged him.
When his lips finally meet mine, it's gentle at first, a whisper of a kiss. My eyes flutter closed as I lean into him, my hand sliding up to his shoulder. He deepens the kiss, his arm tightening around me, drawing me closer.
It's not a perfect first kiss—there's the awkward angle of the bench, the slight bump of noses as we find our rhythm—but it's real. Beautifully, breathtakingly real.
When we finally break apart, I'm slightly breathless. James rests his forehead against mine, his eyes still closed.
"I've been wanting to do that since you called the town logo generic in our first meeting," he murmurs.
I laugh softly. "That's what did it for you? My brutal honesty about bad design?"
"Your courage to say what everyone else was thinking but afraid to voice." He pulls back slightly to look at me. "Your refusal to just go along with the expected."
"I was terrified you'd think I was being difficult."
"I thought you were brilliant." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "Still do."
The tenderness in his touch and gaze makes my chest ache sweetly, stirring that familiar anxiety when something feels too right.
"James, I..." I hesitate. "I'm not good at relationships. I always end up being too much."
"What if that's exactly what I want? Someone who doesn't hold back, who challenges me."
"You say that now, but?—"
"Eva." He takes my face gently. "I've spent my life being strong for everyone else. Do you know how rare it is finding someone who makes me feel I don't have to be? Someone who sees beneath the facade?"
His vulnerability disarms me. This admired pillar of the community feels safe with me. That my "too muchness" is exactly what he needs.
"I'm scared," I admit. "This feels important. And things that feel important have a way of disappearing on me."
"I'm not going anywhere." He kisses me again, softly. "But we can take this slow. Figure it out together."
"Together," I repeat, letting myself believe it might be possible. "I'd like that."
The wind picks up, sending a shower of golden leaves swirling around us. One lands in James's hair, and I reach up to brush it away, marveling at the simple intimacy of the gesture.
"We should probably get back to the presentation," I say reluctantly.
"Probably." But neither of us moves, unwilling to break the moment.
Finally, James stands, offering his hand. "Come on. The sooner we finish, the sooner we can talk about what happens after tomorrow's breakfast."
"After?" I take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet.
"Our first real date." He smiles, and it's different from his public smile. It's softer, more genuine, a little uncertain. "If you want that."
"I do." I squeeze his hand. "I definitely do."
As we walk back toward the house, his hand still holding mine, I can't help but wonder if this is really happening. If James Adams—perfect, polished James Adams—really sees me, accepts me, wants me exactly as I am.
It seems too good to be true. And in my experience, things that seem too good to be true usually are.
But as he turns to me at the door, catching me in another brief kiss before we step inside, I allow myself to hope that maybe, just maybe, this time will be different.
Maybe this time, I won't be too much.
Maybe this time, I'll be exactly enough.
Back at the table, we try refocusing on the presentation, but a new energy flows between us—stolen glances, "accidental" finger brushes, smiles unrelated to town branding.
"We should practice delivery," James suggests, standing. "I'll introduce, then hand over to you for design rationale."
"Okay." I nod, trying to be professional despite feeling his lips on mine. "I'll pull up slides."
When James begins, his natural command impresses me. His voice clear, pacing perfect, gestures deliberate yet natural. He makes complex ideas accessible without simplifying too much.