Chapter 4
I have negotiated acquisitions with less immediate downside than the sentence, “We need rules.”
Nora is still laughing at me under the Truth Maple, one hand pressed to her stomach, while three tourists pretend to study a chalkboard twenty feet away.
I wait.
This is not patience. This is self-preservation.
I can still feel her mouth on mine.
The kiss lasted seconds. My body has apparently entered a long-term contract with it.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally.
“For kissing me?”
Her laughter stops.
“For doing it without warning you. I panicked. Landon was pushing, Mara was watching, and my brain chose the least professional available option.”
“There were less professional options.”
“Do not make me imagine them.”
I look at her.
She looks back.
Too late.
Color rises into her cheeks. “That was a terrible sentence.”
“I liked it.”
“Of course you did.”
A brass leaf taps softly against another above us. Nora points at the tree without looking up.
“It has terrible timing.”
“Maybe it objects to the apology.”
“The tree is not getting a vote in our consent policy.”
That pulls me back to the part that matters.
“For the record,” I say, “you can ask me before kissing me next time.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Next time?”
“I’m trying to draft rules with realistic assumptions.”
“This is exactly why people hate contracts.”
“People hate bad contracts.”
“People hate contracts that assume additional kissing.”
“Do they?”
Her eyes drop to my mouth.
“Some people,” she says.
I make myself step back half a pace.
It is surprisingly difficult.
“Office?” I ask.
“Why?”
“Because if we’re going to invent a relationship, I’d prefer not to do it in front of your aunt’s surveillance maple.”
Nora glances toward the farmstand.
Mae is openly watching us over a display of jam.
She raises one hand and gives a slow, delighted wave.
“Office,” Nora says.
We cross the lawn through the remains of the cider-press crowd. People look at us differently now. Not everyone, but enough.
I am used to being recognized. I am not used to having recognition include a woman beside me who never agreed to become public collateral.
That distinction arrives with uncomfortable force.
At the market-office door, Tessa is waiting with her arms folded.
“I have questions,” she says.
Nora does not break stride. “Die curious.”
“I saw tongue.”
Nora stops so fast I nearly walk into her.
“You did not.”
“I have excellent distance vision.”
“You need a hobby.”
“I have one. It’s this.”
Tessa turns to me. “Was there tongue?”
“I value my life.”
“Smart. Come back when she kills you. I make a good funeral pie.”
Nora pushes open the office door. “No one is dying.”
“Yet,” Tessa calls.
The office is small enough that shutting the door changes the temperature.
One desk, two mismatched chairs, a filing cabinet covered in old vendor magnets, a wall calendar with half of September written over in Nora’s block handwriting, and a whiteboard divided into STAFF, WEATHER, VENDORS, and THINGS CURRENTLY ON FIRE.
Under the last heading, someone has written LANDON in red marker.
I point.
Nora turns, sees it, and closes her eyes.
“Tessa.”
“I’m assuming.”
“Correctly.”
She wipes the name off with the heel of her hand, then sits on the edge of the desk and looks at me.
“Okay. Rules.”
I take the chair opposite her.
“First, either of us can end this whenever we want. No justification required.”
Her expression changes slightly.
“Good rule.”
“Second, the public version ends at Harvest Lights unless we end it sooner.”
“Six weeks.”
“Approximately.”
“Do not say approximately like you have already opened a spreadsheet.”
“I haven’t.”
She narrows her eyes.
“I considered it.”
“Of course you did.”
I lean back. “Third, Northspan does not use this in campaign content. No relationship angle, no ads, no social posts, no employee deciding we’re charming B-roll.”
Her mouth softens.
“I was going to ask for that.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
“Still asking.”
“Then yes. Separate consent for anything involving you personally. Every time.”
She studies me for a second, then nods.
“Fourth, no money.”
“Define no money.”
“You don’t buy the orchard a parking lot because I complain about traffic. You don’t solve my business problems. You don’t send me a car. You don’t buy me jewelry that costs more than my first Honda.”
“How much was your first Honda?”
“Grant.”
“I need the threshold.”
She points at me. “This is not funny.”
“I know.”
I do.
There is something underneath the rule that has nothing to do with my net worth and everything to do with Landon saying I could use you like Nora was equipment he had misplaced.
I keep my voice even.
“I won’t spend money to create obligations for you. I won’t fund your business, buy you property, or make decisions for the orchard. If there’s a legitimate Northspan campaign expense, Northspan pays it through the contract. If I want to buy you dinner, I ask.”
She blinks.
“That was annoyingly reasonable.”
“I’m having a strong day.”
“Don’t get comfortable.”
“Never.”
She looks down at her hands, then back at me.
“Fifth, we don’t use this to hurt the exes.”
I think of Celeste’s photo from last fall and Landon’s face when Nora said we’re seeing each other.
“Agreed.”
“I wanted him to back off. I did not want to humiliate him.”
“I know.”
“And Celeste is not a prop either.”
“Also agreed.”
“If this gives us a boundary, fine. But we don’t perform at them.”
“Fine.”
Nora squints. “You just said fine in a way that suggests you want to add a clause.”
“I want to add a practical exception.”
“There it is.”
“If one of them challenges the relationship in public, we don’t have to stand six feet apart and look guilty for ethical reasons.”
Her mouth twitches.
“Reasonable.”
“Thank you.”
“I hate how much you enjoy being told that.”
“I receive very little positive reinforcement.”
“You own a company named after a mountain range.”
“Northspan is not a mountain range.”
“It sounds like one. That’s enough wealth for today.”
I let myself smile.
“Sixth,” she says, “people close to us get the truth. Tessa. Your sister, if you want. I am not lying to my parents if this reaches them.”
“Cameron needs to know because legal and communications will need boundaries.”
“Romantic.”
“You kissed a CEO beside a reporter. There are consequences.”
“I know. I invented at least seven of them while walking over here.”
“Only seven?”
“I’m pacing myself.”
My phone vibrates on the desk between us.
Cameron.
Nora looks at the screen.
Then at me.
“Summon the lawyers.”
“One lawyer.”
“Does she count as more because she’s related to you?”
“Usually.”
I answer and put the call on speaker.
“Please tell me you haven’t seen anything,” I say.
“I have seen enough to understand why Priya just texted me the word interesting with six question marks.”
Nora covers her face with one hand.
Cameron continues, “Hello, Nora. I’m assuming you’re in the room because my brother has never voluntarily used speakerphone in his life.”
“Hi, Cameron. Sorry about the pallet.”
“Never apologize for the pallet. It has brought me joy all day.”
I look at Nora.
She is smiling into her hand.
“There was a reporter,” I say.
“There is always a reporter. Start over.”
I give Cameron the short version. Mara’s question. Landon. Nora’s kiss. The public answer. The fact that Nora and I have now agreed to maintain the story temporarily.
Cameron is silent for exactly three seconds.
“Voluntarily?” she asks.
“Yes,” Nora and I say together.
Nora looks at me.
That should not feel intimate.
It does.
“Any compensation, campaign consideration, contract amendment, endorsement, or exchange of value tied to the relationship?” Cameron asks.
“No,” Nora says.
“No,” I confirm.
“Good. Keep it that way. Nora, are you comfortable with Northspan communications saying nothing beyond Grant’s statement that your private life is not campaign content?”
“Very.”
“Grant?”
“Yes. No spin. No cute social copy. No use of images of us together without Nora’s separate approval.”
“Already typing it.”
Keys click on Cameron’s end.
“Anything else?” she asks.
I look at Nora.
She mouths, Rules.
“We have an end date,” I say. “Harvest Lights, unless either of us opts out sooner.”
The typing stops.
“You made rules.”
“We are adults.”
“You made rules within an hour of kissing a woman.”
“It has been less than an hour.”
Nora makes a strangled sound.
Cameron says, “Nora, blink twice if he has created a shared document.”
“He has not,” Nora says. “But I believe the urge is being medically suppressed.”
“I like you.”
“Thank you. I like you too.”
I rub one hand over my face.
“Are we done?”
“Almost. Grant.”
Something in Cameron’s tone changes.
“Yes?”
“Do not turn this into another problem you think you can solve by controlling every variable.”
The office goes quiet.
I look at the calendar behind Nora instead of at her.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’m learning.”
Cameron waits.
Then, more lightly, “For what it’s worth, the photo is good.”
Nora sits up. “What photo?”
My stomach drops.
“Cameron.”
“North Country Living posted from the orchard. It is not the kiss. Relax. It’s the two of you standing under the maple afterward. Grant looks like someone replaced his operating system.”
Nora snorts.
“Can you send it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do not encourage this,” I say.
“Too late. Goodbye.”
The call ends.
Three seconds later, Nora’s phone buzzes.
She opens the message.
I do not need to see the image to know exactly which moment it captured. Her hair is windblown from the gust. My hand is probably still half lifted from her waist. She was looking at me like the world had briefly become a badly supervised experiment.
Her expression changes as she reads.
“What?”
“The headline.”
“How bad?”
She turns the screen toward me.
NORTHSPAN’S GRANT ASHFORD DENIES REUNION RUMORS, APPEARS TO HAVE A VERMONT ROMANCE INSTEAD.
I read it twice.
“Accurate enough.”
“That is a horrifying standard.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
She scrolls.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“Comments.”
“Never read comments.”
“A woman named AppleMama76 says we have chemistry.”
“She sounds credible.”
“She also says your sweater is too expensive for farm work.”