Chapter 6
Gabe
Groaning, I fumbled for my phone, desperate to silence the blaring alarm. But it wasn’t on the nightstand. Actually, there was no nightstand. Rather than a solid wood surface, I was met with air. Sleep-addled, I reached out farther and promptly found myself on the ground.
Disoriented and bruised. I lay flat on my back, staring up at the living room ceiling while my phone continued to blare from the kitchen island. But that was so far away.
How had I ended up on the couch?
Oh, right. In a fit of inspiration last night, I’d thrown my sheets into the washer.
But then Martha Lahey had called and I’d had to explain the permitting process to her, and I’d forgotten to put them in the dryer.
Hours later, I discovered them and had to wash them again.
This time they’d made it to the dryer, but by that point it was too late to make the bed.
I inspected my sad couch. It had seen better days. Mainly at my parents’ house, where it had lived the first decade of its life.
Sitting up, I surveyed the disaster that was my living room. The recliner was occupied by a stack of paperwork—the Voights’ estate planning, if memory served—and three empty cereal bowls sat on the counter, judging me.
From the outside, Mayor Gabriel Harding was the kind of man who had his life under control. With a law degree and a nice smile. I held the honor of being the youngest mayor in town history and was the guy who showed up early, shook every hand, and solved problems for anyone who asked.
Inside my house, I was losing a war against adulthood. And laundry. And grocery shopping. But I paid my property taxes and mowed the lawn regularly. That had to count for something.
Dragging my hand across my face, I noted how dark it still was outside. Why the hell was my alarm going off so early?
Ah. Once my brain cleared a little, it came back to me. Because in a couple of hours, I’d be at the Vermont Statehouse, trying to convince a roomful of bureaucrats that Maplewood was worth saving.
And I’d be there with Sabrina Monroe.
Her texts last night had been straightforward and concise.
Sabrina
We’re going to Montpelier tomorrow to try to unfuck this town. Pick you up at six. Wear a suit. Don’t embarrass me. Check your email.
Ten minutes later, a detailed itinerary for several meetings appeared in my inbox, including coffee with the agricultural secretary and a walk and talk, whatever that was, with state senator Tomlinson. Along with details about each person and talking points.
Fuck. She was infuriating.
After a quick and aggressive shower, I pulled out one of my many blue suits and snagged the first tie I found. Then I stepped out into the pale gray morning.
I’d just taken my first sip of coffee from my travel mug when a shiny black Mercedes SUV rolled smoothly into my driveway.
“Get in, loser,” Sabrina said through the open window. “We’re going to save the town.”
I blinked at her and the hundred-thousand-dollar car, stunned.
She groaned. “That reference was entirely wasted on you. Let’s go.”
“I’ll drive,” I said. It would help me reclaim my dignity. At least a little.
Wearing all black, her hair perfectly slicked back and her lips painted that annoyingly enticing shade of red, she looked like she’d been up for hours. Not a single wrinkle, not a trace of sleep.
I ducked, scanning myself. At least I’d picked my clothes up at the dry cleaner this week. Sure, one sock was thicker than the other, but no one would notice.
My mid-thirties were hitting me harder than expected.
Meanwhile, my nemesis looked like a Chanel-clad shark scenting blood in the water.
A Chanel-clad shark who was glaring at me. “Absolutely not. I’m driving.”
“In your G-Wagon?” I scoffed. “This car is a walking middle finger.”
Her face lit up. “I know. Isn’t it great?”
Annoyance surged through me. Her confidence was lethal. Meanwhile, I was shaken up from sleeping on the couch after an evening spent replaying the recall, the festival loss, and the town meetings in my head.
Defeated, I opened the door and climbed in.
Sneering at the Pop Tart in my hand, she asked, “Is that your breakfast?”
I took my second sip of coffee. “Yup.”
She faced forward and put the car in drive. “Good. I prefer my opponents malnourished.”
The drive to Montpelier was two and a half hours. Fuck.
“You sure I can’t drive? It’s supposed to snow later.” I held up my phone, showing her the town Facebook page, where several people had posted photos. “Betsy Ross was found on Founder’s Hill this morning, sleeping next to the cannon.”
“You say that like I’m supposed to understand.”
I ran my hand through my hair. “Betsy Ross? The bear?”
“Oh, the one that ruined my shoe? I still want to hunt her down and turn her into a rug.”
I snorted. After what the bear had done to my car, I had little sympathy for this woman’s damn shoe.
“Yes. It’s a sign that a big snowstorm is coming. Every time Betsy wanders up Founder’s Ridge and falls asleep next to the old cannon, we practically get snowed in.”
“Really? This bear predicts the weather?” She scoffed. “The app on my phone has only forecasted a light sprinkle.”
Settling in, I shrugged. “Ignore Betsy at your peril.”
“I’ll stick with science, thank you,” she said, turning up the music.
As she navigated through town, toward the highway, I willed my brain to wake up and prepare for what this day would bring.
The citizens of Maplewood were buzzing about Sabrina Monroe.
She’d been spotted everywhere and had talked to everyone.
Every person I came across couldn’t stop talking about was how smart and charming she was. About how she would save the day.
While I wanted nothing more than to let someone else take some of this responsibility off my plate, it ate at me that she was the only option.
For several minutes, I argued silently with myself about what I wanted to say to her. Then, probably against my better judgment, I blurted, “You shouldn’t have arranged these meetings without talking to me first.”
She humphed. “You shouldn’t have lost the State Maple Festival and endangered our town, but here we are.”
As I studied her—calmly focused on the road and wearing a pair of sunglasses that only made her more intimidating—my stomach clenched.
“We’re starting the day with the director of the Vermont Department of Tourism,” she said, moving on.
“He’s a typical bureaucrat. I plan to demand they turn over the data used to make this decision.
That way I can understand what kind of metrics they evaluate and figure out how much backdoor lobbying went into it. ”
She signaled, changing lanes without interrupting her lecture.
“Next are the co-chairs of the Vermont Maple Producers Association. That should be interesting. This is where the rubber meets the road. And then we’ve got the secretary of Economic Development and the director of Rural Economic Initiatives.
This department has the potential to do a lot for us, so we’ve got to build these relationships.
They issue the grants for innovation programs, revitalization projects, and infrastructure. ”
“And the walk and talk?” I snarked.
She glared at me quickly before turning back to the road. “State Senator Tomlinson. This was a big get. She likes to get her steps in between legislative sessions.” She checked her rearview mirror. “She could be a key ally for us in the chamber.”
I stared ahead at the stretch of I-89. This was borderline unbelievable. My staff had spent months trying to get someone from the tourism office to return our calls. Yet Sabrina Monroe had scheduled four meetings in one day and on short notice?
“How did you do this?”
“I have my ways. When people are worried you could become a problem for them, they’re motivated to listen.”
I sighed. Sabrina was already a problem for me. A competent, brilliant problem. One I wanted as far away from my beloved town as possible.
I’d built my entire life around Maplewood.
I’d stayed behind when, deep down, I thought maybe I wanted to leave.
That led to taking the jobs no one else wanted.
Trading in a big paycheck for homemade pies and hugs.
Sitting through endless meetings and fighting for budgets that barely stretched far enough to keep the town going.
I didn’t do this because it was easy. Or prestigious. Or lucrative. But because it mattered. To the people I respected and cared for.
Sabrina? Where I saw people, she saw leverage.
Maplewood wasn’t a situation to be managed. It was filled with people who looked each other in the eye day in and day out. Families, friends, colleagues. People who remembered my grandfather, my birthday, and my mistakes. People who showed up anyway.
“Are you going to pout all the way there or prepare? Grab that Redwell on the back seat.”
Craning over the console, I snagged the large accordion folder. As I straightened, I peered inside it, finding several color-coded folders. And tabs. Many tabs.
“You packed office supplies?” I scoffed.
She didn’t take her eyes off the road. “I came prepared. You’re welcome.”
Each folder had a title, Tourism Board, Maple Producers Association, Economic Development, and Politician Ass-Kissing.
In each folder were briefing notes, bullet points with names, and questions and possible objections.
I blinked at the carefully curated pages, then at her. “You did this all this morning?”
“Last night,” she said.
I couldn’t get a call back from a single one of these departments, yet on top of the meetings she scheduled in the last twenty-four hours, Sabrina had created half a dozen strategy binders.
My impostor syndrome reared up inside me.
Blowing out a breath, I focused on the pages in my hands and reframed the situation.
This kind of planning could be useful.
Shit. What was I thinking? Sabrina wasn’t useful.
She was a hired gun who had made it her mission to defeat me.
She didn’t care about the town; she cared about results.
Wins and losses. Numbers on a spreadsheet.
There was no question she could get results.
But what would they cost? And in a place like Maplewood, costs weren’t theoretical.
They could damage the livelihood of neighbors, friends, and family.
And when she left town for her next opportunity, we’d all be paying.
“The deputy commissioner is going to claim the decision was based on attendance numbers,” she said.
I frowned, watching the scenery pass by. “That’s not what the letter they sent said.”
“He’ll claim it anyway. It makes them look less incompetent. Keep flipping.” She jutted her chin at me. “I need you to ask the questions highlighted in yellow.”
The page she directed me to was titled FORCE ANSWERS in all caps.
A sensation close to admiration flickered inside me.
Followed by a shot of irritation.
The handwriting was neat, the tabs were straight, and the information was spelled out clearly.
Damn her.
As I skimmed, a battle raged inside me. This was good. Impressive.
But it could easily make things worse. It we played this situation too aggressively, we’d lose the festival forever. If we were too demanding, we could say goodbye to any chance of snatching up whatever opportunities came next.
“What?” she asked after several quiet minutes.
Head bowed, I turned another page. “Nothing.”
“You’re staring really intensely at those pieces of paper.”
“I’m not staring.”
She huffed. “It’s the look of a man who knows he’s the weak link on this team. And that’s okay. I’m used to carrying mediocrity on my back across the finish line.”
Aggravation sparked inside me, overpowering the impostor syndrome. “I’m reviewing this helpful information. Your organization is…” I exhaled through my nose. “Sufficient.”
She barked out a laugh. “Don’t worry. You’re still allowed to hate me.”
“Oh, I do.”
But I didn’t hate these files.
Color coded.
Tabbed.
Strategic.
With many threads to pull. Connections and grants and avenues we’d never considered for Maplewood.
And the worst part? The irritating, horrific part of this was that a tiny, traitorous fraction of my brain found it… attractive.
I cleared my throat and focused on the road ahead. Only an hour and a half left.