Chapter 10
IVY
Maya's shrieking echoes through Rogan's phone loud enough that I hear every word from two feet away.
"Define problem," Rogan says, which proves he's either brave or stupid.
"The kind where Mrs. Shay asked me if you're settling down and Mr. Kowalski wants to know if we're doing a couples' tasting menu special!"
I pinch the bridge of my nose. My boots are caked in mud. My braid's a catastrophe. And somewhere between the barn and this road, my entire professional reputation just combusted.
"We can manage this," I say, though I'm not sure I believe it.
"Who's we?" Maya demands. "Put me on speaker."
Rogan taps the screen. Maya's face fills it, all narrowed eyes and crossed arms.
"Ivy Hale. Please tell me you have a crisis management plan."
"I have a trowel and three packets of winter squash seeds."
"Perfect. Very useful." She drags a hand through her hair. "The Chamber of Commerce breakfast is in two hours. You're both expected. Looking professional. Not like you just rolled out of a barn."
"We didn't roll—" Rogan starts.
"Save it." Maya's expression softens fractionally. "Listen. I'm happy for you. Really. But the timing is garbage, and Webb's people are already weaponizing this."
My stomach drops. "Weaponizing how?"
"Check your email."
I grasp my phone. Three new messages wait in my inbox, all flagged urgent.
The first is from Marcus Webb's assistant. Re: Community Partnership Concerns.
I skim it. Professional language wrapped around a poison core. Phrases like "potential conflicts of interest" and "questions about seed program neutrality" and "donors prefer transparent governance structures."
"He's implying I'm compromised," I say flatly. "That I can't advocate for local sourcing because I'm involved with a chef who benefits from it."
"Bingo." Maya's mouth thins. "And he sent copies to every donor on your grant list."
The second email is from Dr. Patel at the agricultural extension office. Three sentences: Ivy, we need to discuss optics. The university requires programs to avoid conflicts of interest. Let's schedule a call.
The third is from Farmer Hank. Just two words: Call me.
"I need to go," I say.
Rogan's hand finds my elbow. "Ivy—"
"Not now." I pull away. Not angry. Just drowning. "I have to fix this before the whole program collapses."
I walk.
Fast.
My house is ten minutes away if I cut through the back lots. I need a shower. Clean clothes. A plan that doesn't involve my entire professional life imploding because of one kiss in a barn.
One perfect, terrible, complicated kiss.
The live cooking demo should have been simple.
Local access television. Forty-minute segment. Rogan demonstrating a seasonal harvest dish while I talked about heirloom varieties and seed saving. Good PR for both the bistro and the program. Win-win.
Except nothing about this morning is simple.
I arrive at the studio in clean jeans and a pressed button-down, my hair tamed into a professional braid. Rogan's already there, looking unfairly good in dark pants and a crisp chef's coat, talking to the producer.
"Ivy." He turns. Something careful in his expression. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one you're getting." I set my sample seed packets on the counter. Labels perfect. Everything organized. Control where I can find it. "Let's just get through this."
The producer, a harried woman named Kelly, waves us toward the set. Bright lights. Two cameras. A kitchen island stocked with ingredients I prepped yesterday with heirloom tomatoes, fresh herbs, squash from Farmer Hank's plot.
"Five minutes," Kelly calls. "Remember, keep it light. Fun. Audience loves chemistry."
I suppress a grimace. Chemistry. Right.
The cameras go live.
Rogan slides into host mode like breathing. Charm cranked to full power, easy smile, hands moving as he talks through the dish.
"Today we're celebrating Pine Hollow's heirloom harvest," he says. "And I've got the town's seed expert here to make sure I don't accidentally poison anyone."
Polite laughter from the tiny studio audience.
I manage a smile. Launch into my talking points about heritage varieties and genetic diversity. Rogan chops tomatoes. The rhythm almost works.
Then the blender explodes.
Not figuratively.
Rogan's making a quick herb puree. Hits the button. The lid wasn't secured properly and suddenly there's green liquid everywhere, across the counter, his coat, the camera lens.
"Shit!" He jumps back.
The camera catches it. All of it. His startled curse. My laugh that I can't quite stifle. The way he grabs a towel and tries to salvage the shot while Kelly frantically gestures from off-camera.
"Well," Rogan says, wiping basil off his jaw, "that's why we taste as we go. Can't trust equipment. You need instinct."
He's trying to recover. Make it charming. But his next words are clipped, rushed.
"Look, cooking isn't some precious art form. It's throwing things together and seeing what works. Don't overthink it."
I freeze.
Because that's not what we discussed. That's the opposite of everything I'm trying to teach about intentional growing and careful stewardship.
The producer makes a wrap gesture. We finish in a scramble. Rogan plates the dish. I describe the seed saving process. The whole thing feels disjointed, messy.
When the cameras cut, I exhale.
"That was a disaster," I say quietly.
"It was fine." Rogan scrubs herb stains off his hands. "People love chaos. Makes it real."
"Real doesn't help when I'm trying to secure grant funding."
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Whatever he sees in my face makes him step back.
Kelly approaches with a tight smile. "Great energy, you two. We'll have it edited and posted by tonight."
Posted. Online. Where anyone can clip it. Twist it. Use it.
My phone dings. Text from Dr. Patel: Saw the promo clip. We should definitely talk.
Promo clip. They're already promoting it.
I'm so screwed.
By evening, the damage spreads like rot.
Someone clipped Rogan's don't overthink it line. Added a caption: Local chef says farming is just throwing things together. The video's got three thousand shares on the regional food forum.
Another clip focuses on the moment right after the blender exploded. Rogan laughing. Me covering my mouth. Caption: When your girlfriend ruins your demo but you're too in love to care. Heart emojis everywhere.
I sit at my kitchen table. Laptop open. Watching my professional credibility dissolve in real time.
An email arrives from the community foundation. Subject line: Seed Program Review.
I don't open it.
Instead I call Farmer Hank.
He picks up on the first ring. "Ivy."
"Tell me."
He sighs. Long. Heavy. "Webb's people came by this afternoon. New offer. Twenty percent higher than last month."
"Hank—"
"I'm not taking it. Yet." A pause. "But he made a good point. Said the town's getting unstable. PR problems. Leadership questions. Maybe it's time to cash out while the offers are good."
My throat tightens. "He's using the video."
"He's using everything. The photo. The demo. Says it proves local operations can't maintain professional standards." Another pause. "Is it true? You and Rogan?"
I close my eyes. "It's complicated."
"That's not a no."
"No. It's not a no."
Hank makes a sound that might be sympathy. "You're a good kid, Ivy. But you can't fix the world by yourself. And you can't expect everyone to wait while you figure out your love life."
He hangs up.
I sit in the dark.
My phone lights up again. Text from an unknown number: Ms. Hale, this is Trevor from Webb Industries. Mr. Webb would like to schedule a conversation about partnership opportunities. Would tomorrow at 2pm work?
Partnership opportunities.
Translation: he wants to buy me off. Put me on his advisory board. Neutralize my opposition by making me part of his team.
I delete it.
Then I pull up my donor contact list and start drafting emails. Damage control. Reassurances. Explanations that don't sound like excuses.
Dear Dr. Patel, I understand your concerns about optics. The seed program maintains strict protocols...
Dear Foundation Board, recent media attention does not reflect...
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Patterson, I appreciate your longtime support and want to assure you...
Each one feels like pulling teeth.
By midnight I've sent seventeen emails. Fielded four phone calls. Promised three meetings I don't have time for.
My inbox pings. Response from Dr. Patel: Appreciate the context. University legal wants documentation of your conflict-of-interest protocols. Can you provide that by Friday?
Conflict-of-interest protocols.
I don't have conflict-of-interest protocols because I never needed them before. Because my program was small and scrappy and built on trust, not bureaucratic safeguards.
I drop my head into my hands.
My phone vibrates. Rogan's name on the screen.
You awake?
I gaze at the message.
Type: Yes.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Can I come over?
I should say no. Should protect what's left of my reputation by keeping distance. Should be smart.
Instead I type: Back door's open.
He arrives twenty minutes later. Still in his chef's coat, smelling like garlic and wine and exhaustion.
"I'm sorry," he says.
I pour two glasses of whiskey. Slide one across the table. "For which part?"
"The blender. The soundbite. Not thinking before I spoke." He drops into the chair across from me. "Maya says I need media training."
"Maya's right."
"Yeah." He drinks. "Webb's been calling the bistro. Wants to schedule a lunch meeting. Discuss 'mutual interests.'"
"Don't."
"I won't." His jaw sets. "But he's got Farmer Hank. Mrs. Shay's wavering. The Kowalskis are taking meetings."
I wrap both hands around my glass. "He's using our mess as proof that local operations are unprofessional. Unreliable. That selling to him is the safe choice."
"So we prove him wrong."