Chapter 22Victor
Chapter Twenty-Two
Victor
As the car rolls to a smooth stop in front of One Eleven Chophouse, I feel my stomach drop. It's all polished wood and valet parking, nothing like the cozy joints that dot the town. A ripple of regret washes over me; this place screams Victor Stone, billionaire, loud and clear.
Avery's gaze is fixed outside the window, her eyes narrowed just enough to betray her thoughts without a word spoken. The disdain etched on her lovely face says it all: I've blundered, big time.
Neither of us says anything. She just keeps staring at the grand entrance as if it's a gate to somewhere she never wanted to be.
I reach out, laying my hand gently over hers. Her head snaps toward me, confusion dancing in her eyes. "Aren't we getting out?"
"No," I admit, squeezing her hand lightly. "I'm... I'm no good at this."
She draws back slightly, tucking a strand of that beautiful chestnut hair behind her ear, and retorts, "This is a business meeting, Victor."
"Yes, but not the usual kind." My voice comes out more raw than I intend. "I deal with people who—people who have egos bigger than this whole town. They want fancy dinners; they want to be seen. Maybe I've let that world color my judgment. But that's not me. Not really."
"Isn't it?" she asks, her tone a bit harsh, but I understand why. In her eyes, I've come into her home to make money, and she probably thinks I'm trying to buy her too. But that couldn't be further from the truth.
I shake my head. The leather seat creaks as I shift to face her fully. "No. That's not how I was raised. Or rather, not how I grew up. I went into automatic mode, Avery. I'm treating you more like an investor and less like a person. I'm sorry."
There's a long pause, the car idling patiently, the hum of the engine a low background symphony to our exchange. Avery looks at me, and I can't quite read what's going on behind those eyes. But I hope she sees the truth in mine.
"Look, Avery," I start, trying to find a middle ground in her still-hard gaze. "This town... it's your home. It means something to you. And I know you think I've come here like some sort of steamroller without considering that." My own features scrunch as I search for the right words. "But, I promise you, that's not my intention. How about we ditch this place? You show me around instead, pick somewhere you love. Where we can talk, and you can show me the town from your point of view."
She blinks at me, and for a moment, I think she might argue. But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, her expression eases. "Fine," Avery says, though her voice betrays a reluctance. She rolls her eyes, but there's a hint of curiosity there too.
"What's your driver's name?" she asks.
"Marcus," I reply.
"Can you roll the thing down?" she asks, referring to the glass partition.
I press a button, and the glass lowers.
"Marcus," she calls out. "Do you know where Lou's Diner is? Down on Third?"
"Sure thing," Marcus replies. The car starts moving again, pulling away from the curb smoothly.
As we drive, the tension in the car begins to dissipate. Avery points out the window to a small park with swings. "Olivia loves that place," she says, her voice softer now, more open. "They have an art fair there every spring. We always go."
"What sorts of things is she into? She's a natural on the ice, so I sort of figured she played sports before."
Avery chuckles slightly and shakes her head. "Actually, no. This is her first time doing anything like this. Other than just going skating for fun, she's spent no time on the ice, and certainly never played hockey before."
"Wow," I exclaim, a little surprised. "You wouldn't know it by watching her."
Avery smiles. "She was much more into art and drawing before this." I watch as Avery smiles.
"Like you, then?" I ask.
Avery looks out the window a bit wistfully. "That was a lifetime ago."
I make a mental note of that, but figure it's not the time to dig into her past now. The look on her face makes me think there's a sad story behind it.
"And what about that building over there?" I gesture to an old brick structure with faded paint.
"Ah, the Grand Theatre," Avery explains. "It's been closed for years, but there's a group trying to save it. They want to restore it to its former glory." There's admiration in her tone, and it strikes me that Avery's heart is woven deeply into the fabric of this town.
"I'd like to see that happen," I say honestly, feeling a pull toward the efforts to preserve something so cherished.
"Would you?" She turns to look at me, searching my face as if trying to find a catch. But there isn't one. Not anymore.
"Absolutely," I say, meeting her gaze squarely .
We pull up to Lou's Diner, a cozy-looking spot with neon lights flickering in the evening haze. "Well, here we are," Avery announces, unbuckling her seatbelt. "Lou's may not be high-end, but it's got character."
"Character's exactly what I need to see," I reply, feeling a genuine smile tugging at my lips.
"Let's hope you're ready for it," Avery teases, stepping out of the car with a newfound lightness. I follow her lead, ready to dive into the heart of the town that's captured hers.
Stepping inside, the scent of coffee and fried onions wraps around us like a warm embrace. The red vinyl booths, chipped formica countertops, and walls adorned with vintage posters of local landmarks give off an unpretentious, welcoming charm.
"Does this place mean something to you?" I ask Avery as we slide into a booth near the window, the neon 'Open' sign casting a soft glow over her face.
She shrugs, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "I've always liked its vibe. It's real, you know? No pretenses."
A waitress with a nametag that reads 'Betty' ambles over, pad in hand. "What can I get for ya?"
"Two coffees, please," Avery says, then looks at me for my order.
I nod in agreement, adding, "And whatever she decides is fine with me."
"Blueberry pancakes for me and the standard for him," Avery says.
"Got it. I'll be right back with your drinks." Betty saunters off, leaving us in a bubble of murmured conversations and clinking silverware.
I clear my throat, suddenly conscious of how out of my element I feel. "About the development..." I begin, trying to ignore the fluttering in my stomach. It's ridiculous; I've stood in boardrooms without so much as batting an eyelid, but here, with Avery, it's different.
"I took your concerns to heart," I continue, watching her expression for any signs of approval or censure. "We're adjusting the plans to preserve more green spaces, incorporate local businesses, and scale back on any design that doesn't fit with the town's aesthetic."
Her eyebrows raise slightly. "Really? That's... unexpected." There's a cautious optimism in her voice that makes me want to lean in, to assure her further.
"Believe me, I want this project to enhance the community, not overrun it," I admit, feeling a vulnerability I haven't experienced in years. "Your town's character is unique; it would be a shame to lose that."
"Wow, Victor," she says, her eyes searching mine. "It sounds like you've put some real thought into this."
"More than you know," I murmur, just as Betty reappears with our coffees.
I drum my fingers on the laminated menu, feeling her eyes on me. "Everything seems solid, Victor," Avery finally says, folding her hands on the table, "but the heart of the issue remains—your development could change the fabric of this town. Property taxes might skyrocket, and people... people like me could be priced out."
She's right, of course. I've thought about it late at night when the city lights can't chase away the doubts. "Avery, I won't lie to you. The market dictates those things. It's not something I can promise to control." My voice is steady, but inside, there's a twinge of helplessness.
Her lips tighten, and she nods, more to herself than to me. "I figured as much. But it doesn't ease the worry."
Our silence hangs heavy, filled only by the clatter of dishes from a nearby table. It's broken when a plate of steaming eggs and bacon slides in front of me, followed by her stack of pancakes, courtesy of Betty's efficient service.
"Thanks," we mumble, almost in unison.
As I cut into my food, Avery leans back, her fork idly pushing a blueberry around. "So, tell me about the hockey team. Why sponsor them? You're obviously good on the ice—saw you skate. You told Olivia you learned as a kid?"
She's caught me off guard, the subject shift subtle but pointed. I take a sip of coffee, buying time. "A friend of mine when I was a kid had a pond and played hockey. That's where I learned." I keep it matter-of-fact; old memories don't deserve new emotions.
"As you said," she replies, eyeing me with a new kind of interest. "But it feels like there's more to the story. "
I just look down at my plate, not sure how to answer
her.
"And now you're sponsoring the local team. Is it just good PR, or do you actually enjoy it?"
"I'm not going to lie to you. At first, it was just for the PR. I actually fought the idea of the sponsorship with my team because," I pause, "because it stirred up old memories too much."
"But now?"
A corner of my mouth lifts involuntarily. "I enjoy it. The memories aren't as haunting as I thought they'd be. It reminds me... of simpler times, I guess." The words feel foreign coming out, but they hang between us, sincere and unexpectedly warm.
I poke at the eggs on my plate, their yellow centers now blending with the crisp strips of bacon. I can tell she wants to know more about my past. In the same way that I want to know more about hers. I'm not used to this—being probed for more than surface-level niceties. It feels like standing on thin ice, unsure if it'll crack beneath my feet and plunge me into icy waters of vulnerability.
"Look," I start, pausing to muster the courage that's always armored me in boardrooms but seems to falter here under the soft buzz of the diner's fluorescent lights. "I know how I come across."
"Like you've got everything figured out and you know best?" Her tone isn't mocking; there's genuine curiosity there, mixed with something softer, gentler even.
"Something like that." I chuckle, but it's hollow. "Truth is, I put on a good show. But there's... there's stuff underneath all that." My hand grips the fork tighter, knuckles whitening.
"Stuff?" She prompts, her pancake forgotten, and now she's leaning forward, elbows on the table, all attention on me.
"Personal stuff. History." The admission tastes bitter, like I'm swallowing back years of built-up walls, brick by brick tumbling down with each word.
"Everyone's got history, Victor." Her eyes lock onto mine, and there's no judgment there, just an open road inviting me to travel further.
"Yeah," I say, looking down at my half-eaten breakfast. "Mine's just not the rags-to-riches fairytale everyone loves to hear."
"Does it have to be a fairytale?" Her voice is soft, coaxing secrets from a place inside me I usually keep locked tight.
"No, I guess not." I take a deep breath and finally meet her gaze again. "There's more to my story, Avery. More than the ice-cold businessman front everyone sees." And just like that, the words are out, hanging in the air between us, delicate and dangerous.