Chapter 2
Jeremy
Back outside, the heat hits harder, but I’m glad I stopped.
Dina’s always been the town’s mother hen, fussing without making it feel like fussing, and her counter is still the best place to take the pulse of Iron Ridge.
She pokes at me for answers the way only she can, casual questions wrapped in flour and coffee, but years of fending off journalists and lawyers have taught me how to talk without saying a thing.
She doesn’t know my father is pushing to retire, and no one here knows the so-called business deal is really a marriage contract with Clara at the center.
They still think it is about land and money.
What worries Dina is Clara herself. She says Clara is thinner than ever, worn down when the company is thriving.
She doesn’t understand. Neither does anyone else.
Bennett & Weston stands at the end of Main, a stretch of tall brick with black-trimmed windows.
Clean lines, nothing frilly, the kind of building meant to outlast seasons and scandals.
The door is glass etched with the company name, the letters cut sharp like the teeth of a gear.
Inside, the foyer smells of lemon oil and cold air.
A receptionist looks up, takes me in from shoes to shoulders, and recovers quickly, the way professionals do when they know they are dealing with a man who expects competence.
“Good afternoon,” she says. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I have a promise.” I offer my card between two fingers. She takes it without checking it and I clarify, “Jeremy Weston to see Ms. Bennett.”
The receptionist blinks when she looks up at me, eyes widening just enough to betray recognition.
“Mister Weston.” The words tumble out of her in a rush, her eyes going wide, almost cartoon-round. “We didn’t know you were coming. Ms. Bennett didn’t…” Her voice trails off as she scrambles to compose herself.
I give her the kind of smile that has closed billion-dollar deals and unsettled entire boardrooms. “Does she have company?”
“N-no, but—”
“Good. Then don’t announce me.” I lower my voice, calm, reassuring, as if we’re in on a secret together. “I know my way.”
Her hand hovers near the phone. “But, Mr. Weston, I really should—”
“Shh.” I tilt my head, still smiling, the kind of charm no one wants to resist. “It’s all right.”
And before she can find another objection, I move past her desk, my stride steady, purposeful, already carrying me toward the main office at the end of the hall.
Of course it is the last door. And of course, the hall floors are polished hard enough to reflect.
The walls hold black-and-white photographs of Iron Ridge.
The Bulls in a huddle. The parade that always turns too slow by the post office.
Women in the library sorting stacks of books with battlefield faces.
Clara did not hang these for nostalgia. She hung them for spine.
I unbutton my jacket, not because I need to but because I like the freedom of movement.
The cotton of my shirt pulls across my back as I cross the foyer.
The bitter edge of Dina’s coffee still coats my tongue, the kind of taste that lingers long after the cup is empty.
My heartbeat is steady, strong, just a shade quicker than usual.
Not nerves. Anticipation. Even the most seasoned quarterback feels the line hum before the snap. Only fools pretend otherwise.
Her door is solid wood, old and polished to a deep shine, the surface dark and glossy as if it has been touched a thousand times and never lost its strength.
Frosted glass set in the top half bears the name Bennett etched sharp enough to look permanent.
I rest my palm against the panel, the varnish smooth beneath my hand, and wait a beat.
Air hums faintly through the vent above, the sound caught in the quiet space between us.
My own breath ghosts back at me. Then I knock, three times. Not loud. Final.
“Come in.”
Her voice reaches me through the wood, low and rich, smooth as whiskey that’s been aged just long enough to carry heat without burn. Deeper than it used to be, tempered by time, but still with that smoky twang that can catch a man off guard.
The handle is cool beneath my palm. I push the door open and step into her world.
The office is large, every line deliberate.
A massive desk anchors the room, steel and wood polished to the same shine as the door, not angled to deflect but squared like she’s ready for whatever comes straight at her.
Behind it, tall windows divide the wall into panes of glass that frame Main Street below, every storefront and sidewalk caught in their reflection, as if the town itself were under review.
The shelves along one wall hold leather-bound ledgers, rows of industry manuals, and a few books worn at the edges, spines cracked from use.
Above them hangs a black-and-white photograph of the factory floor in its prime, men bent over lathes, and sparks frozen in the frame.
A clock ticks. The sound is steady enough to tell a visitor that every second she’s willing to spend on you is a gift.
On the far corner of the desk, a vase of white flowers stands tall and severe, stems and petals arranged like soldiers on parade.
The room carries her imprint, every angle sharpened to reflect discipline and control, but it is nothing compared to the woman herself.
Clara stands behind the desk. Hair in a strict bun.
Her jacket fits like armor, cut to project power, not allure.
Shoulders straight, posture so precise it makes the steel desk look softened by comparison.
Her mouth is a firm line that will not give you any softness without a reason.
Her eyes meet mine and hold. Something tightens under my ribs, too quick to control.
I blame it on being back here, on the memories that keep slipping through the cracks in my guard.
Clara’s eyes narrow, her fingers tapping once against the edge of the desk. “You should have made an appointment.”
I rest my hand on the back of the chair in front of me, leaning in just enough to close the space. “I did. When our grandfathers signed their pact twenty-six years ago.”
Her inhale catches, the smallest hitch, not fear but recognition.
She pushes back her chair and comes around the desk, hips swaying in a way that doesn’t match the sharp lines of her jacket.
It hangs too loose, like she’s dropped weight fast, and the sight sparks hot in my chest. She shouldn’t look worn down when her company is thriving.
She shouldn’t look like she’s carrying the whole damn weight of Iron Ridge by herself.
I step forward, closing the distance. Heat that’s pressed against me all day shifts inside my chest, locking everything tight.
A whisper of her perfume reaches me, light and expensive, laced with jasmine and bergamot, the kind of scent that will cling to my skin long after I touch her.
It curls into my lungs, clean and sensual, impossible to ignore.
Each strike of her heels is its own countdown, pulling me closer to the play I came here to finish.
“Mr. Weston.” Her voice carries the smoky depth of a late-night jazz singer, low and melodic, with just enough bite to catch a man’s attention. “You came a long way for a myth.”
“Jeremy,” I correct, closing the distance just enough that the citrus-and-jasmine of her perfume brushes my skin. The tiniest flyaway strand fights free from the severe knot of her hair, and my chest tightens. “I don’t chase myths. I finish plays.”
“Then let’s talk about the rules of your game.”
I smile without showing teeth. “There will be rules. You’ll like some of them.”
Her eyes stay level. “Try me.”
The silence holds for a heartbeat, taut as a snap count. I extend my hand, not as a truce but as a line of scrimmage. Her palm meets mine, warm and strong, no give she doesn’t choose. Heat runs from her skin into my nerve endings and straight to the part of me that decides.
The deal breathes between us. So does the town. So do the men waiting when I walk back out into the light.
I curl my fingers, just slightly, and feel her do the same. The field is mine now. Clara’s not walking off it without me.
She’s mine.
Let the game begin.