Chapter 5 #2
I narrow my eyes. “You already used the fear question yesterday.”
“I’m consistent.”
“Annoying trait.”
“So I’ve been told.”
I take a sip of cider.
“And I would have to tell my family I’m not leaving the orchard, exactly, but I’m not making it my whole job forever.”
“Would they object?”
“Probably not. Which is rude, because then I can’t blame them.”
He smiles.
“Can I ask one business question without becoming a billionaire stereotype?”
“One. I have a spray bottle under the table if you get aggressive.”
“Why do you need an office before you have the clients?”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
He waits.
“I don’t,” I say.
“That was my only question.”
“You are deeply irritating.”
“I know.”
But he is right.
Worse, he asked instead of telling me what to do. No offer to call someone. No building purchased by dessert. No magical check slid across the table.
Just one question.
Something in my chest loosens in a place I had not noticed was tight.
“Your turn,” I say. “Why Northspan?”
He glances toward the window, thinking.
“I liked useful things.”
“That sounds suspiciously wholesome.”
“My first real product was a daypack that didn’t fail at the zipper after six months.”
“You built a billion-dollar company because zippers made you angry?”
“Mostly.”
“I respect spite as an entrepreneurial foundation.”
“There was also timing, online retail, very good people, and several years where I slept badly. But the zipper anger helped.”
Our food arrives, along with Maggie’s complete refusal to acknowledge that our hands are still linked until we have to separate them for plates.
The absence feels immediate.
Ridiculous.
I pick up a fry so I have something to do.
“Cameron work with you from the beginning?”
“No. She came later, after deciding corporate litigation was not worth losing her personality over.”
“Did she have one before?”
“Debatable.”
“I am telling her you said that.”
“She’ll believe you.”
We eat.
For ten minutes, the date becomes almost alarmingly normal.
We talk about Bellweather’s annual winter carnival, the town selectboard’s ongoing war over decorative banners, the fact that Northspan once tested a tent prototype in a wind tunnel and accidentally sent part of it into a ventilation system.
Grant is funny in a way that sneaks up on me. Dry, almost invisible until the sentence is already lodged under my ribs.
I forget to check who is watching.
That may be the most dangerous thing that happens all night.
Then his phone lights on the table.
CAMERON.
Grant looks at it, then at me.
“Take it if you need to.”
He turns the phone face down. “She’ll call twice if it’s urgent.”
It lights again immediately.
I point. “Your sister knows how to weaponize procedure.”
“She taught me most of mine.”
He picks up the phone, reads the message, and his jaw tightens.
“Celeste?” I ask.
“Yes.”
He hesitates.
That tiny hesitation matters more than it should.
“Tell me,” I say. “If it affects this.”
He nods.
“Her team contacted Northspan this afternoon. They asked whether she could come to Bellweather later this week as an independent creator. They framed it as autumn content, not a reunion.”
I set down my fork.
“And?”
“Priya said no. Cameron confirmed it in writing.”
“Will that stop her?”
“From being part of our campaign, yes. From coming to Vermont, no.”
His face is controlled, but I can see the exhaustion beneath it now. Yesterday it was a shadow. Tonight I understand the shape better.
“Do you think she’ll come?”
“I don’t know.”
I appreciate the answer because it is not designed to reassure me.
“Would you want me to do anything differently if she does?” I ask.
“No.”
“That was fast.”
“Because this isn’t your problem to manage.”
I sit back.
The man really does know how to say dangerous things casually.
“For the record,” I say, “Landon texted me twice today about the Burlington retreat. I haven’t answered.”
Grant’s eyes sharpen.
“Do you want to?”
I think about it.
“Not the way he asked.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I want the work. I do not want to do it under him, through his company, while pretending that’s the only route back into that world.”
“That seems clear.”
“It does now.”
A little current of excitement moves through me.
Not about Landon.
About the possibility that the answer to his invitation is not yes or no.
Maybe the answer is neither.
Maybe the answer is build my own damn door.
I reach for a fry.
“I think I’m going to email those two former clients tomorrow.”
Grant goes very still.
“Good.”
One word.
No congratulations, no takeover, no strategy deck appearing from his pocket.
Just good.
I like it so much I want to kiss him again.
This is becoming a pattern.
By the time Maggie clears our plates, the tavern has thinned out. Mrs. Doyle stops at our table on her way to the door.
“Nice to meet you properly, Grant,” she says.
He stands because apparently his mother or a very expensive boarding school trained him to terrify Vermont women with manners.
“You too.”
Mrs. Doyle looks at me. “Mae says the maple finally caught you.”
“Mae says many things when there are charms to sell.”
“Mm-hm.”
She turns to Grant. “Tree’s persistent.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Don’t let Nora tell you it isn’t.”
I sigh. “Goodnight, Mrs. Doyle.”
She pats my shoulder as she passes.
Grant sits.
“Finally caught you?”
“No.”
“That sounded like history.”
“It sounded like a woman trying to make tomorrow’s print-shop conversation interesting.”
“I think you’re avoiding the question.”
“I am. It’s one of my strengths.”
Maggie drops the check in front of Grant.
I reach for it at the same time.
He raises an eyebrow.
“Rule four,” I say. “You may buy dinner if I buy the next one. I am verifying that dinner does not somehow cost four thousand dollars because you ordered a chicken raised by monks.”
He slides the bill toward me.
Forty-eight dollars and change.
I nod. “Acceptable.”
“I’m relieved.”
“Tip like a human being.”
“What does that mean?”
“More than twenty percent, less than the cost of Maggie’s car.”
“These rules are getting very specific.”
“Local governance.”
He pays, within my democratically established tip range.
Outside, the air has sharpened.
Not cold yet, but September has started practicing.
The green is mostly empty. A few cars pass on Main Street. The shop windows throw warm rectangles across the sidewalk, and somewhere behind the tavern a dryer vent smells faintly like laundry and woodsmoke.
Grant looks toward his SUV, then at me.
“Do you have ten minutes?”
“For what?”
“A walk. Unless walking violates the dinner clause.”
“Walking is currently unregulated.”
“Good.”
We cross toward the green.
There is no reason for it to feel different out here, but it does.
Inside the tavern, we had an audience whether we acknowledged it or not. Outside, Bellweather has mostly gone home. The church clock says seven forty-one. Dry leaves scrape along the curb in a small gust.
Grant puts his hands in his coat pockets.
For three steps, neither of us touches the other.
Then I slip my hand through his arm.
He looks down at me.
“Public performance?” he asks.
“There is no public.”
His expression changes.
Very slightly.
“Right,” he says.
We keep walking.
At the far side of the green, a wooden bench faces the old war memorial and the maples behind it. We do not sit. The air feels too charged for sitting.
I look up at him.
“What are we doing?”
“Walking.”
“Do not use literalism as a defense mechanism.”
“You noticed.”
“I work in events. I identify hazards.”
He smiles, but it fades quickly.
“I don’t know what we’re doing yet.”
That answer should make me feel safer.
It does not.
“I know what I don’t want,” he says.
“What?”
“I don’t want the only real part of this to happen by accident.”
My pulse stutters.
He keeps his voice quiet.
“Yesterday, the public part became convenient. Fine. I understand why we’re maintaining it. But the kiss in the barn wasn’t for Landon or Celeste or a reporter. I don’t want to pretend it was.”
I swallow.
“I wasn’t pretending.”
“I know.”
“You’re very confident.”
“You asked why I stopped.”
Heat climbs my face.
“That could have been curiosity.”
“Nora.”
“Fine.”
He is smiling again.
I tug lightly on his sleeve. “Do not be smug while I am emotionally exposed.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You are failing.”
“I’ve heard that.”
The easy repetition steadies me.
I look at the maples, the empty sidewalk, anywhere but directly at the man making my fake relationship feel more honest than my last real one did near the end.
“I don’t know if I can separate this cleanly,” I admit.
“Then don’t.”
I look at him.
“That’s your advice?”
“No. It’s my preference. Advice would imply I know what’s best for you.”
There it is again.