Chapter 11 #3
Guilt tries to sink its claws in me, even as I lift my chin. “I know you’re business rivals, but that has nothing to do with me. All I did was listen to his offer. I haven’t agreed to sell anything to anyone. Yet.”
Though I can’t lie, the offer was tempting.
I didn’t want it to be. After hearing Beckett talk about the forest last weekend, about how logging “done right” preserves the land, after coming to know him (and I mean that biblically), it had felt weird and wrong to consider selling out to his competitor. Like a betrayal.
But that’s my dick-straction talking. The numbers Derek mentioned would be life-changing. Enough to set me up for my next chapter and give my moms some money for renovations at the B&B that they’ve been daydreaming about. I can’t just dismiss that because Beckett and I have hooked up…
Two and a half times.
“Besides, are you saying Derek’s wrong?” I press. “Because you sure didn’t seem eager to welcome an outsider when you were trying to tow my car.”
Beckett runs a hand through his thick hair, looking uncomfortable.
“That was the product of a difficult few weeks and a bad morning,” he says almost apologetically.
“And if it makes you feel better, my crew’s been giving me endless shit about my behavior.
The other day, Carlos started waving a fork at Rocky, telling him to unhand his chicken salad, and Rocky said to cool it before the boss threw his fork in a tree.
” He grimaces. “Freddy keeps giving me these sad looks like he’s not mad, just disappointed. ”
I snort laugh so loud I clap a hand over my mouth. I can just picture the big man doing that exact thing.
“That does make me feel somewhat better,” I admit. “Though… to be fair, I wasn’t at my most diplomatic that morning. Vermont had already tried to kill me multiple times, just on the drive in.”
His lips twitch. “Look, I know I’m not the friendliest person in Winsome, and people find me intimidating—”
I can’t help it. I laugh out loud. “You wish.” I shove his shoulder, though it doesn’t move a centimeter. “You’re a seven-foot-tall, inscrutable teddy bear. You’re bossy as fuck, and you yank people out of trees against their will, but you’re not intimidating. Do I seem intimidated by you?”
“No,” he says slowly. “Except maybe when you were…” One side of his mouth quirks up, and he lowers his voice to a whisper. “Doing that thing we’re not talking about.”
I just know he means choking on his cock, and my face sets itself on fire.
“What you are is annoying,” I say crisply, continuing our walk. “Which is worse than intimidating by far.”
Beckett chuckles low as he falls into step beside me. “I’m only six three,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Great. That changes everything. You’re practically petite,” I shoot back. “A petite pain in the ass.”
He chuckles again, and I feel a surge of something like pride. That’s, what, four laughs in five minutes? Not that I’m counting because that would be absurd and black-banana-level mushy.
We’re almost to the diner when an older man in coveralls calls out, “Beckett!” and rushes over. “Hey! I wanted to thank you again for helping me work out that payment plan. I signed all the paperwork and emailed it back.”
Beckett looks nearly as uncomfortable as he did back at Ada’s. “Oh. Good. And, uh… no problem. Thanks for agreeing to formalize things.”
The man shakes Beckett’s hand with both of his, then continues on his way.
“So intimidating,” I say with a mock shiver. “I’m terrified right now.”
Beckett knocks his arm into mine, but he still seems amused. “Shut it.”
“What was that about?” I ask curiously. “A payment plan?”
He shrugs. “You remember I told you my dad and I have different opinions about running the business?”
When I nod, he continues. “My dad was pressing me to extend Ed credit, so I did… but I had him sign a formal agreement. Sort of a compromise between Dad’s way and mine.
No more handshake deals, though. Protecting the business is too important to me to just trust people willy-nilly.
It’s what I wanted to do with Jim, to get the easement in writing,” he adds.
“He agreed, but he didn’t get to sign the papers before… you know.”
“Oh,” I say in a small voice.
Now I do feel guilty because for the last week and a half, I’ve been thinking of my own needs regarding the easement. How I want to protect my inheritance, protect Jim’s legacy, from this powerful family who seems to run the town.
I haven’t let myself think about what it’s doing to Beckett’s bottom line.
“Is not having an easement going to be a problem for—?” I begin.
Serious blue eyes meet mine. “We’re not talking about that, remember? I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.”
“Right.” I nod. “No. Good.”
For a wild second there, I’d considered offering Beckett some kind of temporary agreement, but it’s good that he stopped me. This is exactly what Milo warned me about.
The restaurant is what you’d expect from a place called Ruby’s Diner—red vinyl booths with silver-edged tables, black-and-white checkered floors, everything permeated by the scent of a million cups of coffee.
We slide into a booth by the window, and when Ruby comes over, Beckett orders us waffles, and she fills our coffee mugs without asking.
“You boys picked the right day,” she says with a grin. “Got in some apples from an orchard up in Little Pippin Hollow.” She points left to wherever she’s talking about. “The apple cinnamon sauce is extra saucy.”
While we’re waiting, Beckett stirs his coffee and watches me over the table. “So, this tourism campaign.”
I tilt my head, trying to decide if he’s serious. “You really want to hear about it? Or you want to size up the competition?”
“Both? Mostly, I’m curious what you’d do differently. What turns Mr. Marketing Degree’s crank…” He smiles and adds, “About this town, I mean.”
I shake my head, fighting a smile. “Fine, then. But I warn you, the presentation’s going to be way better at Hello, Winsome. I’m putting together a whole audio-visual thing.”
“Now I’m intimidated,” he says, not sounding intimidated at all.
I decide to use this as a trial run and launch into the presentation I’ve been working on. The campaign started out as a way to win Big Dill, but I’ve been missing the marketing game so much, I’ve thrown myself into it and spent the last few nights brainstorming.
“I’ve come up with some ideas for cross-promotional partnerships with businesses both local and distant. Like, how fun would it be to see a Winsome Pickle Martini on the menu at a bar in the Village? At least for those who don’t shudder at the thought of a pickle martini.”
I go on to explain a few facts and figures supporting some of my ideas.
“I also researched the possibility of adding more cell towers to get rid of the cell-signal dead zones just outside town but realized pretty quickly that there’d be an environmental impact.
So instead, I dreamed up the idea to—hear me out—call those zones ‘Winsome Peace Pockets.’ With proper signage that warns people in advance and encourages them to take those few miles to be fully present in nature, it could make the experience a feature, not a bug. ”
Beckett’s eyebrows lift with interest. “Huh. That’s cute.”
“Right?” I continue telling him about including the stuff he told me about the rock walls in the forest and the change in the landscape over time. “That stuff will really appeal to naturalists.”
Beckett listens to my spiel with his full attention, nodding along and looking both thoughtful and impressed. I hate how nice that feels.
I finish just as Ruby delivers our waffles and refills our coffee, and Beckett sighs.
“Damn. That’s… really fucking good, city boy,” he says, and I hate how his approval hits me like rain on parched earth.
“It’s funny,” I say, following Beckett’s lead and smearing whipped cream and apples all over my steaming waffle.
“Usually, creating marketing campaigns is about creating an aspirational lifestyle story. Like, drink this vodka, eat these wholesome granola bars, wear these leggings, and you too can be as social, healthy, and picture-perfect as these paid models!”
Beckett laughs as he cuts into his waffle. “Yeah, how do you do that for Winsome? Eat these pickles, participate in these weird festival rituals, commune with the forest, and you too can be the subject of small-town gossip for the rest of your life?”
I frown a little. “Is that really how you see life here?”
He lifts one big shoulder, uncomfortable. “I dunno. Maybe a little. I’ve never really thought about it. Except for a few years in college, Winsome’s all I’ve ever known. And the busybodies are a lot. There’s always someone around, up in your business.”
I nod. “That’s true. Sometimes I’m like, how do all these people know who I am?”
Beckett flicks his wrist and spreads his fingers as if to say, There you go.
“But… I don’t know,” I say, fork suspended in midair.
“The longer I’m here, the more I think it’s kind of cool that people are so…
open? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s definitely weird as fuck and nothing like New York.
But the story here is that there’s something in this town for everyone—natural beauty, kitschy charm, fine dining.
You can come as you are and enjoy yourself.
Be yourself. I mean, I haven’t felt like anyone’s wanted me to change who I am. ”
He frowns hard, but he doesn’t look angry so much as… thoughtful.
“You’d know better than I do,” I say with a shrug. “It’s just that coming up with this campaign feels… organic, I guess? Like I’m not creating the story, I’m just telling it.” I laugh lightly. “I’m almost sad I won’t be around to see my ideas come to fruition.”
“But only almost,” he teases.
“Right,” I agree, scooping up a bite of waffle. “Only almost.”
I take my bite, and honest to god, I moan.
The waffle’s perfectly crispy on the outside but fluffy inside, and the apple cinnamon topping is like autumn distilled into edible form—sweet but with just enough spice to warm my throat.
“Okay, maybe slightly more than almost,” I say, forking up another bite.
Beckett laughs, but it sounds strangled, and when I glance up, he’s watching me with intent. “The noise you make when you eat something delicious is another thing we won’t be talking about,” he says darkly.
My stomach gives a happy swoop that has not a damn thing to do with waffles.
“If it isn’t our two biggest Big Dill competitors out for a nice brunch,” Ramona Pratt says, materializing beside us, and I realize I’d forgotten for a minute that we were in a crowded diner. “Griffin, dear, how are you getting on?”
Something in her tone makes my hackles rise, though I can’t put my finger on it. “I’m researching local businesses for my campaign, and Beckett’s helping. Putting aside our competition for the good of Winsome is what it’s all about, right?”
“Of course.” She smiles fondly at me, then looks at Beckett with faint disapproval and says, “Nice to see you actually talking to someone for once, Beckett.”
Beckett closes his eyes briefly. “Mrs. Pratt, I told you that was a misunderstanding—”
She purses her lips, and when she sees my confusion, she explains, “Beckett once spent an entire book club meeting in my living room without saying a single word.”
I blink. “Beckett was in a book club?”
Beckett’s cheeks are red. “As I told Mrs. Pratt at the time, I was just there dropping off a pie my mother had baked—”
“Didn’t even pretend to eat the cookies I made!” she huffs. “Rude.”
Something hot and protective flares in my chest that I definitely won’t be telling Milo about. Is she seriously giving Beckett grief over this? No wonder he thinks people find him intimidating.
“Actually, Beckett’s been incredibly charming,” I interrupt with a bland smile before the man has a chance to respond.
I feel like I’m channeling the old Griffin, the Manhattan Griffin who could handle the trickiest, crankiest clients.
“My marketing campaign’s made Beckett see Winsome in a new light, and I hope it encourages other Winsomefolk to look at things differently too.
It’s funny how we can become blind to what’s right in front of us, isn’t it? ”
I can’t tell which of the three of us is more surprised by me rushing to Beckett’s defense, but Ramona recovers first.
Her expression shifts from disapproval to something more speculative as she glances between us. “Hmm. Well, I’ll be interested to hear this presentation,” she says. “Very interested. And I’ll see you both at the Brine and Dandy tomorrow.”
She walks away, leaving us sitting there in the aftermath. I focus on my waffles since I can’t quite meet Beckett’s gaze, but I don’t really taste them anymore. What was I thinking?
“I’m seeing Winsome in a new light, huh?” Beckett teases.
I lift my chin and glare at him challengingly. “Well, aren’t you?”
He smirks and takes another bite of waffle. “Maybe so.”
“Do I want to know what this Brine and Dandy thing is?” I ask.
He shakes his head, giving me a look that makes my stomach loop-de-loop. “Definitely not, city boy.”
Fuck. I want Beckett Axford. I shouldn’t, but I do.
But Winsome was only ever supposed to be a stop on my comeback tour. A place where I could lay low and reinvent myself before heading back to the real world. I wasn’t supposed to like it, and I sure as fuck wasn’t supposed to get mushy for a lumberjack I barely know.
Fortunately, just as I’m getting back in my car to go home, I get an email notification.
And for the first time in forever, it’s not a bank statement or a Pottery Barn sales flyer, but an actual honest-to-god communication from Conor, an old business school classmate, saying he wants to talk to me about the possibility of a job back in the city.
The fact that I hesitate for a second and consider that the job’s not precisely in my field is a sign of just how weird I’m being lately. It’s in New York, for god’s sake! What am I waiting for?
I’m starting to wonder if Milo’s right… this town is making me bananas.