Chapter 12 #3
For a second, neither of us speaks.
Wind moves through the nearly bare trees.
The Truth Maple charms ring more softly now.
Grant puts his hands in his coat pockets.
“You were magnificent.”
I point at him.
“Careful.”
“Professionally.”
“Better.”
“Also personally.”
“Grant.”
“I am done taking instructions on that subject.”
I laugh.
It escapes before I can stop it.
Then I look toward the barn.
Through the windows, I can see Tessa moving between tables.
Landon is helping Ben stack unused route signs against the wall.
Priya is on her phone beside the production crew.
The orchard is safe.
The event is smaller than planned.
The footage is incomplete.
Nobody got hurt.
The world did not end because I shut down the pretty part.
My phone buzzes.
I check it.
An email from Lydia.
Saw the coverage. Also saw the weather alert. Your decision to close outdoor operations before conditions worsened is exactly why we hired you. Contract stands. Talk Monday.
I read it again.
Then I hand the phone to Grant.
He reads.
His smile is slow.
“Proud internally?” I ask.
“Extremely.”
“The bank will probably see the article.”
“The bank will also see your signed contract.”
“And several thousand people calling me a gold digger.”
“Those people are unlikely to sit on the credit committee.”
“One hopes.”
He gives the phone back.
My fingers brush his.
Everything inside me shifts.
The fake relationship ended today.
Not because nine o’clock arrived.
Not because the event closed.
Because there is no practical purpose left for it.
Celeste’s reunion story is dead.
Landon has stopped asking for another chance.
Northspan has publicly separated our relationship from the campaign.
The private arrangement is public.
There is nothing left to protect with pretending.
Grant can walk away from this exact spot and no contract, rumor, rule, or strategic advantage requires him to come back.
So can I.
That frightens me.
Then I realize something.
Choice is supposed to.
I take his hand.
Grant looks down at our fingers.
Then at me.
No one is photographing us.
At least no one I can see.
For once, I do not care enough to check twice.
“The arrangement is over,” I say.
His expression stills.
“Yes.”
“Harvest Lights.”
“Technically still occurring indoors.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
I tighten my fingers around his.
“I don’t need you to keep Celeste away.”
“I know.”
“I don’t need you to make Landon understand.”
“I know.”
“Bell & Weather doesn’t need your money.”
“I am painfully aware.”
“Good.”
His mouth moves.
Almost a smile.
I step closer.
“I want you here when the tourists are gone.”
His face changes.
“Nora.”
“I want your ridiculous refrigerator and your nine corporate tones and the way you remember cheese.”
He laughs once, quietly.
“I want you asking before you fix things.”
“I am improving.”
“Slowly.”
“Harsh.”
“I want to know what Bellweather looks like to you in November.”
His hand closes around mine.
“I want January too.”
My throat tightens.
“That seems greedy.”
“I’m a billionaire. There were signs.”
I laugh, and this time my eyes sting.
Damn Tessa.
Grant’s free hand lifts.
He stops before touching my face.
Even now.
Even after everything.
I lean into his palm.
“I love you,” I say.
There.
No maple.
No reporter.
No fake boyfriend rule.
No deadline.
Just the most terrifying sentence I have ever chosen voluntarily.
Grant does not answer immediately.
His eyes close for one second.
When they open, everything controlled about his face has cracked.
“I love you too.”
My chest goes warm and painful and absurd.
“How long?”
He exhales a laugh.
“Nora.”
“How long?”
“Long enough that Cameron diagnosed it weeks ago.”
“Your sister knew before I did?”
“Mae probably knew in September.”
“Mae claims squirrels know tax law.”
“That doesn’t make her wrong about this.”
I kiss him.
Not for cameras.
Not for a story.
Not to establish a boundary against someone else.
Because I love him and he is here and I can.
His arms come around me.
The kiss is warm and familiar and still capable of making my knees temporarily resign.
A sharp metallic clatter makes us separate.
Something lands on the porch boards beside my boot.
A brass leaf charm.
We both stare at it.
I look up.
The Truth Maple is twenty feet away.
Grant looks up too.
A broken length of twine whips from one of the lower branches in the remaining wind.
I point.
“Wind.”
“Clearly.”
“Old twine.”
“Obviously.”
“Absolutely no supernatural coercion.”
“None.”
Mae’s voice comes from the market doorway.
“Of course not.”
I turn.
She is holding a tray of empty cider cups and smiling like the devil has taken up agritourism.
“How long have you been there?”
“Long enough.”
“Mae.”
She looks at the brass leaf on the porch.
“Shame about that wind.”
Then she goes inside.
Grant bends and picks up the charm.
“Do we return it?”
“Absolutely.”
“To the tree?”
“To inventory.”
He looks offended.
“Very romantic.”
“I have a business to run.”
He slips the charm into my coat pocket anyway.
I let him.
Above us, the branches move in the dying wind.
Nothing forces another confession.
It doesn’t have to.