Chapter Seventeen
SEVENTEEN
LOU AND HELEN’S unwavering support, his quiet confidence, her practical energy… it settles around me, flooding me with relief. I sink into my desk chair, knees weak.
We have a plan.
Thanks to Lou’s experience, we have a proper plan.
But not just Lou…
My gaze lands on the pristine white business card beside my keyboard.
Matthew Warren, Senior Counsel.
The elegant script clashes with the man who ate burgers on a bench and talked about resilience under the stars.
But his advice…
Telling me to speak with Lou...
It’s like he knew.
He must have sensed Lou’s depth, his history.
Gratitude, sharp and immediate, surges through my chest. I need to thank him. But texting anything explicit about petitions, or Bancroft, feels like walking a tightrope without a net.
I pick up the card and my phone.
Fingers flying before I can second-guess myself, I type out the simplest, safest message I can come up with:
Very successful meeting with Lou.
It’s vague, almost cryptic, but he’ll understand.
Taking a shallow breath, I hit send, my thumb hovering over the screen a second too long.
My phone, still clutched in my hand, lights up instantly. No discreet chime of a text, just the jarring ring of an incoming call.
There’s no name, only the number.
I haven’t had the chance, or perhaps the nerve, to save it yet.
My stomach plummets. Panic flares.
Did I say too much?
Is something wrong?
I stare at the screen, thumb frozen, heart hammering. The ringing goes on and on, a harsh, demanding sound that fills my office, then abruptly stops.
Silence.
Voicemail.
A shaky sigh escapes my lips.
Maybe—
My phone flares to life again. Immediately. Same number.
Damn it!
Rolling my eyes at my own ridiculous avoidance, I take another breath, trying to steady my hand, and swipe to answer.
“Hello?” I try for casual, but my voice comes out thin and breathless.
A beat of silence, the faint crackle of the connection, then his voice, unmistakable, fills my ear, sending a familiar thrill straight to my heart.
“And so the fight begins,” he says.
His voice sounds intimate, leaving me reeling. “Yes.” My answer comes out meek.
“You don’t sound so sure.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Sorry, I was distracted,” I lie quickly. “Anyway, yes. I don’t know how you guessed it from briefly meeting him, but Lou is key to this whole thing working.”
“Reading people is my job, Amy,” he says simply.
“Of course.” A blush creeps up my cheeks. “You’re clearly good at what you do.” The words taste clumsy and foolish as soon as they leave my mouth.
I press a hand to my forehead, wincing, as if I could physically block the rest of the conversation from escaping.
His low chuckle travels to my ears. “Well, I’m glad it all worked out,” he says, easing the awkwardness.
“Thank you.” It’s the safest response I can manage.
“So, is he helping you with your statement?”
“No,” I reply, relieved the conversation has moved along. “He didn’t offer, and I didn’t want to ask. He’s already doing more than enough getting those signatures.”
A thoughtful hum comes from his end.
I feel the need to fill the silence. “Not to worry, though. I’m on it. Even if I have to spend the entire night in my office. I will have those copies ready for Lou and Helen. Just like I promised.”
“Busy night ahead then?” Matthew’s question sounds more like a statement.
“Better than a lonely night at home, defeated.” The words tumble out unchecked.
I grimace at the ceiling.
Great.
“I bet,” he replies, his tone unreadable.
“I’d better get to it then,” I conclude, desperately needing to end this disastrous call. “Time’s ticking.”
After a beat of silence, he concedes. “Of course. Call me if you have any questions. Anytime.”
“Thanks.” I pause. “Bye.”
Dropping my phone onto the desk, I throw my head back, and let out a frustrated groan.
Darkness has long since fallen. Helen is gone, and the café beyond my office door is locked up.
Hours later, the only result is a growing pile of coffee mugs and the tension knotting my shoulders.
The computer screen glares at me, displaying a half-finished paragraph of stilted words. It sounds nothing like Maddy’s Place.
How do you capture a community’s heart on paper?
How do you fight a landlord’s greed with just sentences?
I stare at the blinking cursor. My hand clenches into a fist.
This isn’t working.
Typing formal sentences on a screen feels sterile. It’s wrong for capturing the soul of this place.
I push back from my desk, grabbing a fresh sheet of paper from my printer and a pen from the holder.
I step out into the quiet café. Streetlights filter through the front windows, casting long shadows across the floor.
The chairs, stacked upside down on the tables, look like skeletal silhouettes in the gloom.
The carafe I filled a lifetime ago is nearly empty, but I pour the dregs into a fresh mug anyway. Placing it next to the paper on the countertop, I pick up the pen, hoping the drag of ink on paper can unlock things the keyboard can’t.
Maybe if I just start writing, one sentence at a time, something will click.
Maddy’s Place is more than just a café.
No, too cliché.
I cross it out.
For years, this café has served the community.
Too dry.
Mug cradled between my palms, I pace between the tables. My footsteps echo a lonely rhythm on the clean-swept floor.
Back and forth.
How can words feel so inadequate?
Frustration prickles behind my eyes. I stop, leaning my forehead against the cool glass of the front window. I stare out at the deserted street, feeling the weight of it all settle on my shoulders.
Tap-tap.
The sound is soft, muffled.
I straighten, holding my breath.
Was it the refrigerator in the back?
The dishwasher?
Tap-TAP-TAP.
Louder this time. Sharper. Coming from the locked glass door to my left.
My heart leaps.
What on earth…?
Cautiously, staying back where the shadows are deeper, I peer through the glass. The streetlight on the corner illuminates the figure standing just outside.
Tall. Broad shoulders outlined beneath a dark jacket. And in one hand…
Is that a white takeout bag?
My eyes strain against the dim light and reflections. Dark jeans, a simple T-shirt pulled taut across a broad chest, shoulders defined by a lightweight black jacket, dark hair…
“It’s me, Amy.” His familiar voice reaches me through the glass.
I rush over, unlocking the door and pulling it open. “Matthew?”
He fills the doorway, a solid silhouette against the light. A gust of cool night air swirls around my ankles before he steps inside. His sharp gaze sweeps past me, assessing the empty café and the stacked chairs before landing on the lukewarm mug clutched in my hand.
“Just as I thought,” he murmurs. His voice vibrates in the quiet space.
Before I can even process his arrival, his hand closes firmly over mine. In one smooth motion, he covers my fingers and slides the ceramic mug from my grasp, leaving my hand bare.
“You can’t run on caffeine alone,” he states, leaving no room for argument. “I brought real food.” He holds up the white takeout bag as he walks to the front counter, placing it beside the evidence of my failed writing attempts.
He shrugs the black jacket from his shoulders and places it neatly on the counter. I’m left standing by the open door, the cool air still swirling where he stood.
I shake off the daze, close the heavy glass door, and slide the deadbolt across with a decisive thunk.
I turn back to the counter. Matthew stands with his back partially to me.
Without the sharp armor of his suit, the simple grey t-shirt does little to hide the reality of his physique.
The broadness of his shoulders, the lean muscle in his arms flexing as he moves.
Seeing him like this, dressed down in jeans and a plain tee, makes him seem less like the imposing Senior Counsel and more. ..
Real.
And maybe, dangerously, even more attractive.
A sudden rush of warmth flares through me before I can suppress it.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, needing to break the silence. Needing to derail my train of thought.
Before I can stop him, he grabs the sheet of paper, looking it over quickly. “Well,” he holds up the incriminating evidence, “you clearly could use some help.”
“Thanks a lot,” I reply, swiping it from his hand as I round the counter.
“That came out wrong,” he says with a hint of apology.
“No, it’s exactly right,” I admit, taking down two dishes from the stack on the open shelf.
My stomach gives an appreciative rumble at the steam rising from the containers.
The intoxicating smell of garlic, ginger, and something spicy fills the air.
Matthew slides a tall wooden stool out with his foot and begins unpacking the white takeout boxes, setting them in a neat line.
The glistening noodles and plump dumplings look perfect.
“I hope you like Chinese. It’s the only place open this late.”
“Yes, thanks. At this point, I’ll eat anything that is not liquid caffeine,” I confess, placing the plates down and sliding onto the stool.
Matthew takes the one beside me, chuckling as he arranges the containers between us, passing me a plastic fork and knife.
“No chopsticks, mister lawyer?” I cock my head with a half smile.
He beams at me while serving noodles onto his plate. “Your day has been challenging enough.”
I gawk at him.
“I’ll have you know there’s nothing I can’t pick up with these sticks.” I nudge his shoulder, making him laugh.
“Then I’ll come clean. I’m not big on chopsticks. Or Chinese food, for that matter,” he tells me, twirling his fork in the noodles like it’s spaghetti.
“I can see that,” I point to his plate, laughing as I reach for a dumpling.
My gaze suddenly catches on that almost imperceptible knot in the wood grain.
This spot.
What used to be our spot.