13. Take Two
Chapter 13
Take Two
T he evening light did funny things to your perception. At least, that's what I told myself as I watched Jimmy laugh at Mr. Quackers' increasingly dramatic attempts to claim territory on our bench. The sunset had softened everything – the park's edges, the pond's ripples, and apparently my carefully maintained defenses.
My phone buzzed for probably the hundredth time. Mia, no doubt, with more updates about the board's growing concerns. But for once, the corporate world could wait. Right now, all I could focus on was the way Jimmy's eyes crinkled when he laughed – exactly the same as they had at Rosewood, exactly the same as every memory I'd tried so hard to forget.
“Have dinner with me.”
The words escaped before my business-trained filter could catch them, coming out more like a demand than an actual invitation. I winced immediately, watching Jimmy's eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
“That wasn't...” Smooth. Real smooth. “I meant...”
Jimmy's expression shifted from startled to amused, clearly enjoying watching my composure completely desert me. Mr. Quackers, sensing weakness, chose this moment to make another attempt at my shoes.
“Would you like to have dinner?” I tried again, my usual confidence nowhere to be found. “With me? If you're comfortable with that, of course. No pressure. Entirely your choice. I'm making this worse, aren't I?”
Mr. Quackers, apparently deciding to help, chose this moment to attempt what could only be described as a tactical distraction maneuver, sending a spray of pond water directly at my suit.
“I think,” Jimmy said, fighting back a smile, “your new friend is trying to tell you something about formal wear at duck ponds.”
“Your duck,” I said with what dignity I could muster while dripping pond water, “has strong opinions about Italian wool.”
“He has strong opinions about most things. Very judgmental for someone who lives on a pond.” His smile softened slightly. “And yes.”
“Yes, my suit is inappropriate for waterfowl encounters?”
“Yes to dinner.” He watched my expression with something between amusement and fondness. “Though maybe somewhere without dress codes. For Mr. Quackers' sake.”
My heart did something completely unprofessional in my chest. Before I could respond, my phone buzzed yet again. This time the screen showed my father's name.
Jimmy caught my instinctive glance. “You should probably get that. Before the entire business world implodes from lack of attention.”
“They can wait.” The certainty in my voice surprised even me. “Some things are more important.”
His smile then – quick and genuine and achingly familiar – made every ignored message worth it. Mr. Quackers, apparently satisfied with his role in facilitating human interaction, waddled off to terrorize another jogger.
“So,” Jimmy said, watching me try to salvage what remained of my suit's dignity, “is this dinner a business meeting? Should I prepare a PowerPoint about duck-based economic theories?”
“I think Mr. Quackers has that market cornered.” I found myself really smiling for what felt like the first time in ages. “No, this is... just dinner. If that's okay.”
“Just dinner,” he repeated softly, like he was testing how the words felt. “I'd like that. Although,” Jimmy added, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “you might want to change first. You're a bit... damp.”
“Your criminal mastermind of a duck friend did that on purpose.”
“Probably. He's very protective of my virtue.”
The laugh that escaped me felt foreign – too real, too unguarded. But Jimmy's answering smile made me think maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.
My phone buzzed one more time, then fell silent. Through the screen, I could see my father's message.
Fatherly Figure
Some things matter more than business, son. Don't mess this up again.
For once, my father and I were in perfect agreement.
A suspicious amount of activity suddenly erupted around the duck pond. Mrs. Henderson appeared with her eternally exhausted pug, Winston, who looked about as interested in their “casual evening walk” as he was in actually walking. They made three increasingly slow passes by our bench, Winston being practically dragged along in his owner's enthusiasm for surveillance.
Riley materialized behind a nearby tree, armed with binoculars and what was probably supposed to look like a birdwatching notebook but definitely had “DUCK POND DEVELOPMENT???” written across the top in large letters.
Even Officer Dawn got in on the action, performing what had to be the most thorough patrol of a duck pond in law enforcement history. She spent a suspiciously long time examining a bush that happened to be within perfect eavesdropping distance.
“I think,” Jimmy said, fighting back a grin, “we've drawn an audience.”
“What gave it away? The pug's fourth lap or Riley's completely subtle note-taking?”
“You know,” he added thoughtfully, “if I say no to dinner, Mrs. Henderson might never make me her famous cookies again. The stakes are surprisingly high.”
“Ah yes, the cookie leverage. A classic small-town negotiation tactic.”
Winston the pug chose that moment to stage what appeared to be a protest sit-in, forcing Mrs. Henderson to pretend intense interest in a nearby flower while trying to convince him to move.
The absurdity of our completely unsubtle audience finally broke whatever tension remained. Then my brain, apparently deciding I hadn't embarrassed myself enough for one evening, kicked into default planning mode.
“I could have my helicopter here in an hour,” I heard myself say. “There's this amazing place in Manhattan that?—“
Jimmy's eyebrows climbed steadily higher.
“Or,” I course-corrected rapidly, “I know an excellent private chef who could?—“
The eyebrows remained skeptical.
“There's a new French place in the next town,” I tried one last time, increasingly aware that I was falling into old habits. “Very exclusive?—“
“How about,” Jimmy cut in gently, “you let me pick?”
I stopped, recognizing my pattern of trying to impress rather than connect. Same old defense mechanism, just with a bigger budget now.
“I'm doing it again, aren't I?” I sighed. “Throwing money at simple things to make them complicated.”
“Just a bit.” His smile took any sting out of the words. “Though I have to admit, the helicopter suggestion was impressive. Mr. Quackers would never recover from that level of drama.”
The duck in question looked up at his name, clearly considering whether this conversation required his intervention.
“Sorry,” I said, meaning it. “Old habits.”
“Hey, at least your grand gestures have evolved. Besides, I happen to know a place that makes a mean grilled cheese. No helicopter required.”
Through the gathering dusk, I could see Riley frantically scribbling in his not-at-all-obvious notebook. Mrs. Henderson had given up all pretense of walking Winston, who had settled in for what looked like a long-term occupation of his patch of grass.
“Sarah's?” I asked, remembering the infamous sandwich that apparently bore Jimmy's name.
“Actually, I was thinking somewhere a little more private. Less chance of audience participation.” He nodded toward our observers, who all suddenly found various aspects of the landscape fascinating.
“You cook?” The surprise in my voice made him laugh.
“According to Nina, I make a pretty spectacular comfort food spread. Though she might just be being nice because I organize her vinyl collection.”
The simple offer – dinner at his place, no helicopters or private chefs required – felt more intimate than any fancy restaurant could have been.
“That sounds perfect,” I said, meaning it more than any corporate deal I'd ever closed.
A cheer erupted from the surveillance squad, followed by quick attempts to look busy. Officer Dawn became intensely interested in a nearby duckling. Riley dropped his binoculars. Mrs. Henderson didn't even bother pretending, just beamed at us while Winston snoozed peacefully at her feet.
“So,” Jimmy said, eyes dancing with amusement, “should we give them something else to report?”
“Pretty sure Mrs. Henderson is already drafting the town-wide announcement.”
“Oh, definitely. Winston is her stenographer. Look at him taking notes.”
The pug snored loudly in response, clearly excelling at his assigned duty.
“I think your suit might actually be a write-off. Mr. Quackers plays for keeps.” Jimmy said thoughtfully.
“Worth it,” I said without thinking, then caught his soft smile.
The town's response to our bench conversation was immediate and overwhelming. Sarah materialized with fresh coffee and a smile that suggested she'd already planned our wedding menu. She didn't even try to be subtle about it, just handed over the cups with a cheerful, “On the house. Consider it my investment in local happiness.”
Nina's timing was suspiciously perfect – calling Jimmy “just to check on that inventory thing” while obviously fishing for details. Even through the phone, I could hear her barely contained excitement.
“No, Nina, I haven't forgotten about my shift,” Jimmy said, rolling his eyes fondly. “Yes, I'm still by the pond. No, Mr. Quackers hasn't successfully stolen any more designer footwear.” A pause. “I'm not answering that.” Another pause. “Or that. I'll see you later.”
Jake's patrol car rolled by at approximately two miles per hour, giving me a look that somehow combined “I approve” with “I know how to hide bodies” in one practiced expression.
Through it all, Jimmy handled the town's investment in our potential date with an ease that made my chest ache. He fielded their not-so-subtle interest with grace and humor, like he was completely comfortable being the center of their collective attention. It made me both proud and regretful – proud of who he'd become, regretful of missing how he got there.
“So,” he said after we'd survived another drive-by from Mrs. Henderson, who had now acquired opera glasses, “tomorrow evening?”
“Tomorrow evening,” I confirmed, feeling oddly nervous. Like a teenager asking out his first crush instead of... well, instead of who I was supposed to be. “Seven?”
“It's a date.”
The casual confirmation nearly made me trip over absolutely nothing. Mr. Quackers, sensing a pivotal moment that clearly required his input, chose this time to make another bid for attention. His tactical maneuver almost sent Jimmy's laptop into the pond, saved only by surprisingly quick reflexes.
“Your duck,” I told him, “has questionable timing.”
“My duck has excellent timing. He just has unusual methods of expressing it.”
Jimmy stood to leave, then paused. In the fading light, he looked exactly like the boy I'd first met in the practice room, but also entirely new.
“I might not remember our history, but...” He gestured at Mr. Quackers, at the bench, at the simple perfection of the evening. “I think I'd like to make some new memories.”
The sincerity in his voice made my carefully reconstructed world tilt on its axis. Before I could respond, Mr. Quackers delivered what was clearly meant to be a final verdict on the situation, splashing both of us with an impressively accurate wing flick.
“I think,” Jimmy said, fighting back a laugh, “that's duck for 'get going before Mrs. Henderson requisitions satellite surveillance.'”
Through the gathering dusk, I could see our audience starting to disperse, probably heading straight to The Watering Hole to update various betting pools. Riley was already on his phone, likely calling in the scoop of the century to his editor.
“Tomorrow then,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “No helicopters. No private chefs. Just...”
“Just us,” he finished. “And probably half the town hiding behind various shrubbery.”
“At least they care.”
His smile then was worth every missed call, every board meeting I'd have to explain, every moment I'd spent thinking I had to be someone else to be worth anything.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “They really do.”
I watched Jimmy walk away, Mr. Quackers providing a surprisingly dignified escort service. The grin on my face probably looked ridiculous – definitely not appropriate for someone who regularly negotiated billion-dollar deals – but for once, I didn't care about maintaining appearances.
My phone erupted with messages, apparently the town's preferred method of immediate interference:
Nina
Don't screw it up this time, moneybags. Also, if you show up to your date in a three-piece suit, we're going to have words.
Jake
The whole town's watching. No pressure.
Mrs. Henderson
Winston and I are SO HAPPY for you both!! Do you need restaurant recommendations? I have a spreadsheet!
Wait. How did these people even get my number?
Before I could process that mystery, more messages flooded in.
Riley
Any comment on the developing duck pond situation? For the record, of course. Also, my mother wants to know if you have any food allergies for the welcome basket she's planning.
Sarah
The Jimmy Special comes with extra pickles. Just FYI. And don't let him convince you he can handle the spicy sauce. He cannot.
Officer Dawn
Remember our chat about intentions? Still have my taser.
Sky
Your coffee order has been noted in the 'Potential Romance Development' spreadsheet. Updates will be provided as needed.
I stared at my phone in bewilderment. These messages were coming faster than most corporate crisis alerts. And somehow, they felt more intimidating than any board meeting. It might have a group chat, too.
Liam
He likes the corner booth by the window. And he still can't handle spicy food, even if he says he can. Don't let him try to prove otherwise.
Caleb
Melody expects pre-date pets. Non-negotiable.
I should have been annoyed by their meddling. Should have been concerned about how they'd all got my private number (a mystery for another time). Should have been maintaining professional distance and corporate composure.
Instead, I found myself overwhelmed with gratitude for this town's absolutely unsubtle but completely sincere investment in our happiness. They'd been protecting Jimmy all this time, holding his story safe until we could both find our way back to it.
Mr. Quackers made one final appearance, waddling past with what could only be described as a threatening stare. Message received, sir. No more messing this up.