Chapter 28 Genevieve
Genevieve
The kitchen smells incredible.
Caramelized onions, thyme, the deep richness of red wine reducing in the Dutch oven. I’ve commandeered Lance’s criminally underused Wolf range like it’s my birthright, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like myself.
Coq au vin. My father’s recipe. The peace-offering dish, the apology meal, the one we made together when words failed us both. Tonight it’s serving a different purpose.
Art’s coming over, and I need him relaxed. Comfortable. Off guard.
Because I have questions, and Art keeps leaving before I can ask them.
Cavall is curled in his bed in the corner, Virgil tucked under one paw, watching me with those soulful eyes like he’s judging my technique.
Lance is somewhere in the house. I can feel his presence the way you feel a storm coming—that low-pressure shift, electricity prickling along your skin. After the town square, after what I said on that bench, I’ve been avoiding being in the same room as him.
Two people trying really hard not to look like they’re enjoying each other’s company.
My phone buzzes.
ART:
Hey babe. On my way in 20.
I exhale and check the table. Three places set, because apparently this is my life now.
“Smells good.”
I spin around, nearly dropping a plate.
Lance is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He’s changed into a black T-shirt that stretches across his shoulders, hair damp and curling at the ends, silver chain catching the light.
Cavall’s tail thumps, but he doesn’t move from his spot.
“Do you practice your constant lurking, or does it come naturally?”
“Natural talent.” His mouth lifts. “Art on his way?”
“Twenty minutes.”
He nods and moves into the kitchen, grabs a wineglass, and pours some of the red I opened. Sets it on the counter near me without a word.
“What’s that for?”
“You’ve been cooking for two hours, and your lip is half chewed to death.”
My hand flies to my mouth. Sure enough, it’s raw. I didn’t even notice.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a sip.
“Game plan?” he asks, and the question is so casual that anyone overhearing would think he meant dinner logistics.
But I know what he’s asking. It feels weird, this limbo the two of us are in. We went from barely tolerating each other’s company to mutual acceptance and now we’re…whatever this is. A team?
It’s strange, but I’m thankful to have him on my side while I try to unravel what’s going on with Art and my dad, both of whom have become master-level avoiders.
“I want to know where he actually went,” I say, turning back to the stove. “And I want to see if he’ll mention Brutus or Badon Hill by name.”
“He won’t.”
“Maybe not. But if I ask the right questions, the things he avoids will tell us as much as the things he says.” I stir the sauce. “My dad taught me that. The best cross-examination isn’t about what the witness admits. It’s about what they won’t.”
“What do you need from me?” he asks.
“Just be you. If he thinks we’re both relaxed, he’ll let his guard down. And if I push too hard, he’ll clock it. But if you ask a follow-up question that sounds casual—like you’re just his best friend catching up—he won’t see it coming from you.”
“I am his best friend.”
“Who he didn’t tell he was traveling.”
“Fair point.”
“One more thing,” I say. “Don’t react to anything he says, even if it’s a lie. I need to hear the full shape of what he’s willing to tell us before we show any cards.”
He studies me for a long moment, something shifting behind his eyes. “Your dad trained you well.”
“You learn a lot being a lawyer’s kid. Turns out it works on boyfriends, too.”
The front door opens.
“Hello?” Art’s voice echoes through the house. “Something smells incredible.”
Cavall lifts his head but doesn’t get up.
Art steps into the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, and holds up a finger.
“Yeah, no, I understand,” he says into his cell, moving past me to do some complicated handshake with Lance. “Tell him I’ll have the numbers by tomorrow. No, that’s not what I said. Just…fine. I’ll handle it.”
He hangs up, runs a hand through his hair, and turns to me.
“Sorry, baby.” A kiss to my temple. “Work stuff.”
“On a Sunday night?”
“Paxton’s party is in a few days, and my dad’s breathing down my neck about Calloway funding. So the only time I have to do my own thing is the weekend. You know how it is.” He’s already looking past me at Lance. “Everything good here?”
Lance crosses his arms. “Sure.”
I catch his eye for a fraction of a second. Steady.
“Dinner’s ready,” I say. “Let’s sit.”
The coq au vin is plated over buttery mashed potatoes, garnished with fresh thyme. Salad, crusty bread from Second Circle, wine glowing dark in our glasses.
Art hasn’t looked up from his phone in three minutes.
Cavall is under the table, his warm weight against my feet. I slip him a piece of chicken, and his tail wags.
“This is really good,” Lance says. “The sauce especially. What’s in it?”
“Burgundy wine. Chicken stock. Tomato paste for depth. The usual.”
“You toast the paste first?”
I stare at him. “How do you know to ask that?”
“We had a chef growing up. I used to sit in the kitchen and watch him cook.”
“Funny. You’d think you’d do it better, then.”
His gaze holds mine, and my stomach flutters.
Art snorts, finally putting his phone down. “Don’t let him fool you. He stayed in the kitchen with Chef Aaron because it was the only place his parents and Beverly never went to berate him.”
Lance’s expression shutters. He looks at his plate.
Something cold slides through me. After everything Lance told me about Beverly and his parents and feeling like a monster, Art just served it up as a dinner anecdote.
“So where were you this week? You were pretty vague on the phone.”
Art takes a bite, chews. “Boston, actually.”
My fork doesn’t pause. I make sure of it. Even though my chest spasms and the food gets stuck in my throat. “Boston? My Boston?”
“I have some contacts up there. Figured if someone was following you, it might be connected to everything with your dad.”
Contacts. In the city where I was blacklisted. Where my career was dismantled by people I never saw coming.
“What kind of contacts?” I ask, keeping my voice light. Curious girlfriend. Nothing more. “Did you see my dad?”
Is he okay?
“Just people who owe me favors.” He waves a hand. “Nobody you’d know.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Not yet. But I’m working on it.”
I glance at Lance. His face is neutral, but I can see him cataloguing the vagueness, the hand wave, the deflection.
“Boston’s a big city,” Lance says, taking a sip of water. “You narrow it down to anyone specific?”
“I’m following some leads.” Art’s phone buzzes. He glances at it, types something, sets it down. “It might be connected to your dad’s firm, Gin. Some of the people he represents have ties up there.”
“Ties to what?”
“To the people who might want leverage on him.” His eyes meet mine, and he reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “I’m handling it, okay?”
There it is. The door closing. I’m handling it. Don’t worry. The same phrase he’s used every time I get close to something real. There was still some little part of me hoping that he wasn’t involved in this, and I’m not sure how to handle the fact that it seems like he is.
“I don’t want you worrying about this. Has there… He hasn’t been around anymore, has he?” Art adds, pulling his hand back.
“You mean the guy who was stalking me? No. But that’s the thing about stalkers, sometimes they’re good enough to not be seen.”
“We don’t know for sure that’s what he was doing.”
“We don’t know it’s not,” Lance says.
Art’s phone buzzes again. “Shit. Hold on.”
He’s standing before I can stop him, pacing into the hallway, his voice a low murmur.
I look at Lance across the table. Art’s plate has maybe three bites missing.
“He didn’t mention a single name,” I say quietly.
“Nope.”
“And ‘contacts who owe him favors’ in Boston.” I push food around my plate. “Who owes Art Penngrove favors in Boston? He’s a mayor’s son who likes to buy up property.”
Lance doesn’t answer, but his expression says he’s asking the same question.
Art reappears, grimacing. “Sorry. Where were we?”
“You were telling us about Boston,” I say. “What your contacts found.”
“Right. Look, it’s still early. I don’t want to jump to conclusions.” He drums his fingers on the table. “But maybe it’s over if that guy hasn’t been back.”
My fork pauses. “It wasn’t like it was just an inconvenience, Art.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
He shifts in his chair. “I just mean I’m sorry I wasn’t here. And I’m glad Lance had your back.”
Lance says nothing.
Art’s phone rings again. He stands. “I have to go.”
“You just got here,” I say, and I hate how small my voice sounds.
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s my dad—he needs me for some fundraiser planning.”
How much fundraiser planning does a mayor need?
He doesn’t wait. A quick kiss to my lips, and it’s perfunctory, like checking a box, and a clap on Lance’s shoulder.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
And then he’s out the front door.
The house goes painfully quiet. Even Cavall seems subdued, emerging from under the table to press his nose against my hand.
I stare at Art’s plate. Three bites. His wine barely touched. He was here maybe forty minutes, half of it on his phone, and we got nothing. Not a single name. Not a single lead. Just “I’m handling it” and a kiss that felt like an obligation.
“Well,” I say. “That was productive.”
Lance carries his plate to the sink. The water runs. Dishes clink.
I snap out of it and move to help, and we stand side by side, him washing, me drying, the rhythm almost soothing. Splash of water, squeak of towel, clink of plates. This is our thing, I’ve decided. The one time we both can pretend nothing’s out of sorts.
“He’s never going to tell us,” I say.
“Maybe not voluntarily.”
“Then we need another way in.” I dry a glass, turning it in my hands. “His office. His phone. His laptop. Whatever he’s not telling us, there’s a trail. Art always leaves a trail.”
Lance is quiet for a moment. “That’s a line you can’t uncross.”
“I know.”
“If he catches you—”
“I know.”
Our hands brush when he passes me a plate, and I jolt, nearly dropping it.
“Sorry,” I mutter, face heating.
“It’s fine.”
We finish in silence. I set the last plate in the cabinet.
“I should get some sleep,” I say, pushing off the counter.
“Genevieve.”
I stop in the doorway. He moves toward me, and the warmth radiates off him, sparks landing on my skin.
He bends close, his breath ghosting across my ear. “For what it’s worth. That was the best meal anyone’s made for me in a long time.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
My heart slams against my ribs. I’m wedged between him and the doorframe, wood pressing into my back, teeth sinking into my raw lip.
He reaches out and touches a strand of my hair, twirling it around his finger.
Heat pools low in my belly.
“Lance…”
His eyes flare.
“I can’t breathe with you this close,” I manage.
The muscle in his jaw tics.
He releases me and backs away, turning into the kitchen without a word.
Cavall looks between us, then trots after Lance.
I slide down the doorframe to the floor, press my forehead to my knees, and let out a breath that shakes all the way through me.
BenchGate: The Calloway Throwaway and Arthur Penngrove’s Girlfriend At It Again.
Lance Calloway may have grown out of his womanizing ways after high school, but it looks like someone’s finally got his attention.
Sources snapped the youngest Calloway son in town square yesterday afternoon, looking suspiciously cozy with one Genevieve DeGrance, and we’ve got the photos to prove it.
And by cozy we mean the kind of close that makes you wonder if someone forgot they’re tied to the most-well-liked young adult in Rosebrook. Are they trying to get caught?
We reached out to the Penngrove campaign for comment. They declined…as usual.
So what do you think? Use our tip line and let us know if you’ve spotted Lance Calloway overstepping his boundaries or Arthur’s girlfriend forgetting hers.
#Benchgate #CallowayWatch #DeGranceDrama #PenngroveProblems #RosebrookRag #RagSpotted #BestFriendsAndBackstabs