I thought about the community center—terrible lighting, echo chamber acoustics, the lingering odor of floor wax and old coffee. Then I thought about my kitchen—warm, familiar, good knives, space to spread out ingredients and supplies, music I could control.
The idea slotted into place with a quiet click.
My kitchen.
My territory.
Her and me and a pile of supplies and a couple hours of focused, low-key chaos.
It would be work.
But it would also be… time. With her. Outside the barn. Outside the forced proximity of co-chair duty. Just us, no onlookers, no town watching for sparks like it was prime entertainment.
My stomach did a slow, anticipatory roll.
“It’s not a date,” I said, more to myself than to them. “It’s a planning session.”
“It’s absolutely not a date,” Meatball agreed solemnly. “You are definitely not going to put on that one shirt that makes your shoulders look huge.”
“I don’t have a shirt that?—”
“You know the one,” Moose cut in. “You wore it to that baby shower, and three women dropped their cupcakes.”
“Cupcakes are unstable,” I muttered. “Top-heavy.”
“Uh-huh,” Moose said. “And their eyes were up here, right?”
I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Would you two stop breathing near this conversation?”
“Never,” Meatball said, grinning.
The thing was, they weren’t wrong. The little ember of want in my chest, stubborn and bright, tried to flare into something more every time I pictured her in my space—standing at my stove, perched on my counter, laughing at my playlist, licking frosting off her thumb.
Dangerous.
So damn dangerous.
“I’ll keep it simple,” I said, more firmly. “We need to test a few stations. I’ll offer my kitchen. If she says no, she says no.”
“And if she says yes?” Moose asked.
If she says yes, we spend an evening shoulder to shoulder, building something together.
If she says yes, I get to see if the sparks I felt in the barn survive under softer light.
If she says yes, I get one more chance to show her I’m not the guy she decided I was in high school.
“If she says yes,” I said slowly, “we get the data we need. And the Twelve Stops doesn’t crash and burn.”
“Uh-huh,” Meatball said, clearly hearing everything I didn’t say.
I stood, closing the notebook and tucking it under my arm. “I’m going to grab coffee. Then I’m heading out to the barn.”
Moose saluted with his protein bar. “Good luck with your very serious, not at all romantic logistics meeting.”
“Yeah,” Meatball said. “May your timing be accurate and your cocoa not scald anyone.”
I flipped them both off as I headed toward the kitchen.
