Chapter 21
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— Indira —
The community hospital campaign was eating my life alive.
I’d been at my desk since seven this morning, and it was now past nine at night. My eyes burned from staring at market research data, my shoulders ached from hunching over my laptop, and I was pretty sure I’d forgotten to eat lunch again.
The campaign launch was in three days, and the client had just requested major changes to the messaging strategy. Changes that meant starting over on half the materials I’d already approved.
My phone buzzed with a text from Emma in Nashville: How’s life back in small-town Oregon? Missing the excitement of Music City yet?
I almost laughed. If only she knew that being back in Millfield was proving to be anything but boring.
The dinner with Jacob last week had been.
.. unsettling. Not in a bad way, but in a way that made me question everything I thought I knew about the man I’d left behind.
It had been our first real date since I’d moved back to Millfield—he’d taken me to my favorite restaurant, the upscale one with the garden view, and let me make every decision.
What wine to order, what to talk about, whether I wanted to stay for dessert.
He’d asked questions about my work, remembered that I hated onions and had my plate remade without making a big deal about it.
At my door, he’d been a perfect gentleman, waiting for me to kiss him goodnight.
He’d been attentive without being overbearing, interested without trying to fix my problems, respectful of boundaries I hadn’t even had to articulate.
It was confusing as hell.
My stomach growled loudly, reminding me that the granola bar I’d eaten at three probably didn’t count as dinner. I was debating whether to order pizza or just go home and crash when I heard a knock at my office door.
“Leave it for today,” I called out, not looking up from my screen. The cleaner usually came by around this time to empty the bins and vacuum, but I wasn’t in the mood to move my feet or make small talk.
The door opened anyway, and I looked up to see Jacob.
He filled the doorway in his leather jacket, a trace of cool night air clinging to him, takeout bags dangling from one hand.
The warm smell of garlic and tomato sauce reached me before he did—food from the little Italian place that had the best chicken parmesan in town.
My favorite comfort food when I was stressed.
“Wrong answer,” he said.
“How did you get in?” I asked.
“I know the night security guard. I may have mentioned I was bringing dinner to my hardworking wife.”
“I’m not your wife.”
“Fair point. Hardworking woman I’m trying to earn the right to call my wife.”
Despite my exhaustion, I smiled. “That’s better.”
He set the bags on my desk and started unpacking containers. “Chicken parm, garlic bread, that Caesar salad you like. And...” He pulled out a bottle of wine. “That Pinot Grigio you ordered at dinner last week. And water, in case you don’t want to drink.”
I stared at the spread he’d laid out. “You remembered all of this?”
“I pay attention.” He pulled a corkscrew from his jacket pocket. “Mind if I open this?”
I gestured for him to go ahead, still processing the fact that he’d noticed I was working late and decided to do something about it.
I was trying to reconcile it with the Dutch who would have called and complained that I wasn’t available when he wanted to see me.
And I would have stopped work and gone because time with Dutch was so precious.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I said, accepting the glass of wine he offered.
“I wanted to. You’ve been working yourself to death all week.”
“How would you know?”
“Your office lights have been on every night when I drive past. And Sarah mentioned you’ve been stressed about some big campaign.”
Sarah had stayed in touch, but I hadn’t realized she was talking to Jacob. “You’ve been talking to Sarah?”
“She called the clubhouse to tell me to check on you, said to make sure you were settling in okay. Mentioned you were pulling long hours on something important.”
I took a sip of wine and felt some of the tension leave my shoulders. “The hospital account. They want to rebrand their program, but they can’t agree on messaging strategy. And the launch is Friday.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“It is. And frustrating. And probably going to require me working all night to pull together.”
Jacob nodded, cutting into his own chicken parm. “What’s the core issue with the messaging?”
I found myself explaining the campaign challenges—how the hospital wanted to position themselves as cutting-edge and high-tech, but market research showed their patients valued personal connection and trust over technological advancement.
“So you’re trying to bridge the gap between what they think they should be and what their patients actually want,” he said.
“Exactly. But every compromise feels like it waters down both messages.”
He was quiet for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. “What if you didn’t compromise?”
“What do you mean?”
“What if you gave them two different campaigns? High-tech messaging for the younger demographics who research everything online, personal connection messaging for the older patients who make decisions based on trust and referrals?”
I stared at him, surprised. “That’s not bad.”
“Segmented marketing, right? You mentioned it once during one of our phone calls. Same service, different approaches based on what each group values.”
The fact that he’d remembered a random comment I’d made weeks ago and applied it to my current problem made my chest tight. “That could work. It would be more complex to execute, but it could work.”
“You want me to leave you alone so you can work on it?”
I looked at him. He’d driven across town with food, listened to my work problems without trying to minimize them, and now he was offering to disappear so I could focus. No pressure to spend time with him, no guilt about choosing work over his company.
“Actually,” I said, “would you mind staying? I could use the company while I work through this.”
His face lit up. “Of course.”
For the next three hours, Jacob sat there scrolling through his phone while I restructured the entire campaign strategy.
Every now and then I’d glance over—watching the way his brow furrowed at whatever he was reading, the absent way he rubbed his thumb along the arm of the chair.
He was just there, a quiet presence in the periphery of my focus.
Occasionally I’d bounce an idea off him. “Does ‘Your Heart, Our Family’ sound too cheesy?”
“Sounds like something my mother would respond to,” he said without looking up. “She’d trust that over a bunch of numbers about surgical success rates.”
It was companionable in a way I hadn’t expected. Comfortable. Like having him there made me more focused rather than distracted.
“Okay,” I said finally, stretching my arms over my head and reviewing the two campaign mockups side by side on my monitor. “I think I’ve got it. Two parallel campaigns, targeted messaging, coordinated launch strategy.”
“Feeling better about it?”
“Much better. Thank you.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You brought food. You listened without judging.” I saved my work and closed my laptop. “You let me be good at my job without feeling like it threatened you somehow.”
Something shifted in his expression. “Is that how I used to make you feel? Threatened by your success?”
“Not threatened, exactly. But like my career was an inconvenience. Something that took time and attention away from you.”
“Fuck.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I really was a selfish bastard.”
“You were. But I didn’t realise that until I left and looked back at the compromises I made to be with you.” I shrugged. “Anyway, you’re not now.”
“How can you be sure?”
I looked at him, sitting in my office at midnight, shadows under his eyes from staying up with me, his jacket tossed over the back of the chair. His hands rested loosely on his thighs, patient, unhurried. Surrounded by the mess of my work crisis, and looking genuinely interested in my answer.
“Because the old you would have called and complained that I was working late again. The new you showed up with dinner and kept me company while I worked.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I’m still learning how to be supportive instead of possessive.”
“You’re doing better than you think.”
We packed up the leftover food in comfortable silence. As he walked me to my car, I found myself reluctant for the evening to end.
“Thank you,” I said. “For dinner, for the company.” I turned to face him. “I had a good time tonight. Even though I was working.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It felt... normal. Like something a couple would do.”
Hope flickered in his eyes. “We could be a couple. If you wanted.”
“I’m not ready for that yet,” I said softly. “But tonight felt like a step in that direction.”
“I’ll take it.”
He didn’t try to kiss me goodnight, didn’t push for more than I was offering. Just squeezed my hand briefly and waited until I was safely in my car.
As I pulled out of the parking lot, I saw the single headlight of his bike fall in behind me.
He followed me all the way home, keeping a respectful distance, and when I parked outside my apartment, he waited at the curb.
I waved from my door once I had it open, and only then did he rev the engine and pull away into the night.
?
I woke slowly the next morning, warm under the covers, morning light filtering through the curtains. For a long moment I just lay there, not thinking, just feeling the softness of the sheets against my skin and the quiet of the apartment around me.
Then I thought about the night before. And something shifted in my chest.