He’s right. I don’t.
That’s becoming increasingly problematic.
The meeting lasts three hours.
We finalize the venue layout (staged area for reveals, seating for correspondents, mingling space for after). We debate food options (Amber advocates for “desserts that photograph well,” Scott advocates for “desserts that fit the budget,” I advocate for “desserts, all of them, immediately”). We assign responsibilities for the next few weeks.
Scott is handling logistics, venue coordination, and “anything that requires a list.”
I’m handling author communication, the reveal ceremony, and “anything that requires feelings.”
Michelle is handling promotion and making sure Scott and I don’t kill each other.
“Or kiss,” Amber adds.
“Why would we kiss?” Scott asks.
“Chemistry,” everyone says in unison.
“There’s no chemistry.”
“There’s enough to start a fire,” Grayson says. “I say this as your best friend and a man who has eyes.”
“Your eyes are wrong.”
“They’re perfectly functional. They’ve watched you stare at Jessica approximately forty-seven times since you arrived.”
“I was not staring. I was...observing.”
“Observing what?”
“The way she argues. It’s chaotic but somehow persuasive.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about anyone,” Grayson says. “I’m genuinely touched.”
The meeting wraps up around two pm, and people start filtering out. Jo leaves with her massive binder. Amber takes the leftover pastries. Michelle drags Grayson away with a meaningful look at me that clearly communicates “we’re discussing this later.”
And then it’s just me and Scott, standing in my bookstore surrounded by empty coffee cups and the aftermath of three hours of collaborative chaos.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.
“We’re meeting again?”
“We need to finalize the food details. And you still owe me your wild card items.”
“That’s not due for two weeks.”
“I like to plan ahead.”
“You like to have excuses to come back.”
He doesn’t deny it.
The same electricity sparks between us as from the fireworks, the boardwalk, and every conversation we’ve had that’s felt like a game where neither of us wants to win because winning would mean it ends.
“Maybe I do,” he says quietly.
“Maybe I don’t mind.”
