Chapter 3 #3
Across the lawn, Mara Vance is still talking to Grant. A second person has lifted a phone. Somebody near the farmstand is whispering Celeste’s name.
Landon lowers his voice. “We were building something, Nor. You walked away from all of it.”
“You slept with a client and signed a contract in both our names after I told you not to.”
His face drains.
Good.
I have never said it that plainly in public.
“Keep your voice down.”
“Then stop rewriting history where I can hear you.”
He glances around, embarrassed now. “It was one mistake.”
“It was several mistakes wearing a trench coat.”
“I apologized.”
“And I accepted that the apology happened. That is not the same as returning your access.”
A shadow falls beside us.
Grant.
He does not look at Landon first. He looks at me.
“Everything okay?”
No.
I am angry, embarrassed, exposed, and standing within twenty feet of a maple tree that my aunt tells tourists punishes liars for recreational profit.
Also Mara Vance is watching us now.
Of course she is.
Landon gives a short laugh. “We’re fine. Old business.”
Something in me snaps with surprising elegance.
“Actually,” I say, “we are not we.”
Landon’s expression hardens.
Grant’s does not.
He waits.
I look at him.
A terrible idea arrives fully dressed.
“How good are you at improvising?” I ask.
His eyes sharpen. “Usually better than this question suggests.”
“Do you trust me?”
He does not even glance at the reporter.
“Yes.”
That is enough.
I put one hand on the front of his sweater and kiss him.
For half a second, Grant is absolutely still.
Then his hand settles at my waist.
Not grabbing. Not claiming. Just there, warm and steady, giving me one perfect beat to change my mind.
I do not.
His mouth moves against mine, and every sensible part of my brain walks directly off a cliff.
He tastes like cider and cinnamon.
Of course he does. Vermont has apparently joined the conspiracy.
The kiss is supposed to be strategic.
It is not strategic.
It is slow enough to be convincing, soft enough to make my chest hurt, and hot enough that I become abruptly aware of his thumb resting just above my hip and the fact that I have been thinking about his forearms since breakfast like a woman with no civic responsibilities.
Somebody behind us makes a tiny delighted sound.
A phone camera clicks.
Right.
Public.
I pull back.
Grant looks at me as if I have personally altered atmospheric pressure.
That is gratifying for approximately one second.
Then Mara says, “Oh.”
Landon says nothing at all.
And Aunt Mae, from somewhere much too close, murmurs, “Well, that’s one way to save five dollars.”
I close my eyes.
When I open them, Grant is still watching me.
Mara recovers first. “So, Mr. Ashford, I assume that answers the Celeste question?”
Grant could save us.
He could laugh. He could say Nora was making a point. He could restore reality before reality notices what I have done.
Instead he looks at me.
Asks without words.
Choice again.
My pulse is hammering.
Landon is staring.
Three tourists are openly pretending not to stare.
I should stop this.
I hear myself say, “We’re seeing each other.”
Grant’s eyes darken.
“We are,” he says.
Mara’s smile becomes professionally radiant. “How long?”
“Recently,” Grant says, which is technically so true I could put it on a notarized affidavit.
“And this isn’t part of the Northspan campaign?”
His expression cools at once.
“No. Nora’s private life isn’t campaign content.”
Something in my chest shifts.
Mara nods, apparently sensing the boundary. “Understood. Congratulations.”
She walks away before either of us can explain that congratulations may be premature by several major relationship stages.
Landon looks at me.
Not angry.
Hurt.
That is worse than I expected.
“You could have just told me,” he says.
Guilt pricks hard and immediate.
“Landon.”
He shakes his head. “No. Message received. I’ll get back to load-in.”
He leaves before I can decide whether I owe him an apology for the lie or he owes me one for making it feel necessary.
Probably both. Human beings are inconvenient that way.
I become aware that my hand is still resting on Grant’s chest.
I remove it.
His hand leaves my waist at the exact same time.
For one quiet second, neither of us speaks.
Then a gust moves through the Truth Maple above us.
Leaves rustle. Brass charms tap softly together.
One little leaf spins at the end of its twine and flashes in the sun.
I point up at it. “Do not.”
Grant looks at the tree, then at me.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your eyebrows did.”
His mouth curves.
I should be panicking about Mara Vance, Northspan, Celeste, Landon, Aunt Mae, Tessa, and the fact that Bellweather gossip can cross town before an ambulance.
Instead I am thinking about his mouth.
This is catastrophic.
Grant leans slightly closer, voice low enough for only me.
“Nora.”
“What?”
“If we’re going to be seeing each other, I think we need rules.”
I stare at him.
Then I start laughing.
Because of course the billionaire wants terms and conditions for the fake relationship I invented thirty seconds ago.
And because the truly alarming part is not that I kissed him on purpose.
It is that I already want to do it again.