Chapter 5
“Wear the green one,” Tessa says from my desk chair.
“I am wearing the green one.”
“Then stop glaring at it like it forged your signature.”
I look at myself again. Dark jeans, ankle boots, green sweater, hair down because apparently I have decided to advertise that my neck exists.
This is ridiculous.
I have stood in front of six hundred wedding guests with a microphone and announced that the caterer had lost power without visibly sweating. I once told a bride that a swan had eaten part of her bouquet and somehow made the sentence sound manageable.
This is one drink in a tavern with a man I have already kissed twice.
The second kiss is the problem.
The first one had witnesses, adrenaline, Landon, a reporter, and enough bad judgment to qualify as a municipal bond issue. The second one happened in a storage barn because Grant asked if he could kiss me and I said yes.
No strategic necessity.
No audience.
Just yes.
Tessa watches me through the mirror. “You look hot. In a normal person way, not a billionaire hostage way.”
“That was exactly the target.”
“Good. Are there date rules?”
“There are relationship rules.”
“Of course there are. Does he carry them in a leather folio?”
“No.”
“Laminated card?”
“No.”
“Tattooed inside his expensive forearm?”
I turn. “You need to stop talking about his forearms.”
Her grin becomes unbearable. “I did not start talking about his forearms.”
Damn it.
I grab my jacket from the hook.
Tessa sits forward. The teasing slips just enough for me to see the real question underneath it.
“You okay?”
I know what she means.
Not about tonight. Not entirely.
Landon spent yesterday pressing on every bruise I thought had stopped hurting. Grant spent the same day doing something much more dangerous: noticing where they were and not touching them without permission.
“I think so,” I say.
“That is a suspicious answer.”
“It is the answer I have.”
She nods. “Fair. One thing.”
“If this is about condoms, I am leaving.”
“It was not, but I admire your optimism.”
“Tessa.”
“Do not spend the whole night trying to figure out whether you’re allowed to enjoy him. You are thirty-three. Pleasure is not a zoning variance.”
I stare at her.
“That was almost wise.”
“Write it down. It will never happen again.”
I leave before she can ruin it.
The Bellweather Tavern sits one block off the green in a brick building with crooked floors, dark wood, six taps, and a front window that guarantees every person walking home from the grocery store can see who is eating with whom.
Grant is waiting outside.
Of course he is.
Six twenty-six.
He is wearing dark jeans, a navy sweater, and a wool coat that probably costs more than the tavern’s dishwasher. His boots are no longer clean.
I find this weirdly satisfying.
His face changes when he sees me.
It is not a big reaction. Grant does not seem built for big visible reactions.
But his eyes move slowly from my boots to my face, and then he smiles.
I feel it lower than is reasonable.
“Hi,” he says.
“You’re early.”
“You’re four minutes early.”
“I work in events. Early is on time.”
“I run a company.”
“And yet you parked in a loading lane yesterday.”
“I was hoping we’d moved past that.”
“Never. It is part of our origin story now.”
His smile deepens.
Through the front window, three people look directly at us and then perform the synchronized Vermont maneuver of pretending they were actually interested in a salt shaker.
I tip my head toward the door. “Public enough for you?”
“I think half the town knows what I ordered before I’ve ordered it.”
“Good. Authentic local experience.”
He opens the door for me.
Warm air rolls over us, carrying beer, onions, woodsmoke from the old fireplace, and fried potatoes.
The Sunday crowd is smaller than Saturday, but not small enough to disappear into.
Two orchard volunteers are at the bar. Mrs. Doyle from the print shop is eating with her husband.
A table of Northspan crew occupies the back corner and becomes aggressively interested in its menus the moment Grant walks in.
I look at him.
“Did you know they were here?”
“No.”
“Do you want to leave?”
He glances at the crew, then at me. “Do you?”
“No. This is the point.”
“Then no.”
Simple.
I am starting to understand how dangerous I find simple answers.
Maggie, who has worked here since approximately the invention of soup, appears behind the host stand with two menus.
Her eyes go to Grant, then me, then our very separate hands.
She says nothing.
This is more threatening than if she screamed.
“Window or back?” she asks.
I know a test when I hear one.
“Window,” I say.
Grant’s mouth twitches.
Maggie leads us to a small table where Bellweather can conduct visual oversight of the evening. When Grant pulls out my chair, Maggie lifts one eyebrow at me.
I refuse to participate.
We sit.
Grant leans closer. “I think she just interviewed you.”
“You failed.”
“How?”
“Too polished. Bellweather distrusts men who know what to do with chairs.”
“Should I have sat down first?”
“You should have tripped over it and sworn.”
“I can still recover.”
I laugh, and the tension in my shoulders loosens.
Maggie returns with water. “Drinks?”
“Hot cider,” I say. “No whiskey.”
She looks at Grant.
“Same.”
I turn toward him. “You don’t have to copy me.”
“I’m driving.”
That should not be sexy.
Apparently responsibility is having a strong weekend.
Maggie leaves.
Grant rests his forearms on the table.
I do not look at them.
This is growth.
“We should probably know things about each other,” I say.
“We know things.”
“I know your sister is terrifying, you can operate a pallet jack, and your ex has enough followers to destabilize a small republic.”
“All useful.”
“If we’re publicly dating, people will ask normal questions. Favorite food. Where you grew up. What you do when you aren’t controlling multinational distribution networks or whatever billionaires do before lunch.”
“Northspan isn’t multinational distribution.”
“See? Already learning.”
He studies me with that focused look that makes me feel as if I am the only item on a crowded agenda.
“All right,” he says. “Ask.”
I fold my hands. “Middle name.”
“Elliot.”
“Safe. Disappointing.”
“Yours?”
“Mae.”
His eyebrows lift.
“Yes, after my aunt. No, this does not give you leverage.”
“Nora Mae Bell.”
“Do not make it sound nice.”
“I didn’t realize that was prohibited.”
“New rule.”
“We’re not adding rules at dinner.”
“Fine. Guideline.”
Our ciders arrive. Steam curls between us, carrying clove and apple.
Grant wraps both hands around his mug. “Favorite food.”
“Tessa’s cider doughnuts for emotional reasons. My mother’s chicken pot pie for actual survival. Yours?”
He thinks.
“Eggs.”
I stare at him.
“Eggs.”
“In almost any form.”
“You have access to every restaurant in New York and your answer is eggs?”
“You asked my favorite, not the most expensive thing I’ve eaten.”
“This relationship is already suffering.”
“How do you feel about omelets?”
“Neutral before tonight. Increasingly hostile.”
He laughs.
The two orchard volunteers at the bar look over.
I feel the audience again.
This is why we are here.
I place my hand on the table between us.
“Public performance question,” I say quietly. “Hand?”
His gaze drops to mine.
“Yes.”
His fingers close around mine.
There is nothing theatrical about it.
That is the problem.
His hand is warm, larger than mine, his thumb resting once against my knuckle and then going still as if he is making sure I can decide what happens next.
I can.
I leave my hand there.
“Your turn,” I say.
“Where did you grow up?”
I blink. “Here.”
“I know. Where here?”
The question catches me because it is more precise than I expected.
“Farmhouse on the north edge of the property. My parents are still there. I lived in the little bedroom over the kitchen until college, came back for two summers, then swore I was moving somewhere with public transportation and Thai food after midnight.”
“Did you?”
“Boston for a while. Then everywhere Landon and I had an event. Then Boston again. Then here.”
“And now?”
“Now I have an apartment above the old hardware store and Thai food ends at eight forty-five if Pete remembers to answer his phone.”
Grant smiles. “Do you like it?”
I look toward the tavern window. Outside, the green is dim in the early evening, maples barely beginning to turn, church steeple pale against a sky going blue-gray.
“Yes,” I say.
Then, because the truth is more irritating, “And sometimes I’m afraid liking it means I stopped trying.”
His thumb moves once over my knuckle.
“Those aren’t the same thing.”
“I know that intellectually. My intellect is very mature. The rest of me is a raccoon with a knife.”
“Good image.”
“Thank you.”
Maggie arrives for our orders. I get the burger. Grant orders roast chicken with potatoes, which is respectable enough that I suspend judgment over the egg issue.
When she leaves, he says, “Tell me about the studio.”
My stomach tightens.
“That was not in the fake-dating question packet.”
“No.”
“You don’t have to pretend interest because we’re holding hands.”
His expression goes flat in a way I already recognize as Grant being displeased without raising his voice.
“I’m not pretending interest.”
Right.
I look down at our joined hands.
“There is a folder on my laptop,” I say. “It is called Definitely Not a Business Plan.”
His mouth curves.
“How long is it?”
“Eighteen pages.”
“That’s a business plan.”
“It has no executive summary.”
“Then it’s anarchy.”
I laugh.
“I’ve priced software, insurance, freelance staffing, and basic winter storage. I’ve got three venues within an hour that I think would partner with an outside planner. Two former clients have asked if I’m doing private work again. I said no both times.”
“Why?”
“Because saying yes means it exists.”
He does not rescue me from the admission.
He lets it sit there.
“What would make it real enough to start?” he asks.
“Three anchor clients. A line of credit. A winter operating plan. Maybe a tiny office eventually, but I can work from my apartment at first.”
“And?”