“I removed twelve chairs from the seating area.”
“Which helps. But you’re still talking about wanting to host thirty people in a space rated for fifteen.”
She turns to face me, and suddenly we’re very close. Close enough that I can see the exact moment her breath catches. Close enough that I’m fighting the urge to reach out and tuck the strand of hair that’s escaped her ponytail behind her ear.
“What if I promise everyone stays seated?” Her voice has an edge of desperation now. “No mingling. Just sitting.”
“Jo—”
“What if I hire additional security? Put up barriers?”
“That’s not?—”
“What if I sell fewer tickets? Twenty-five people. That shaves off five.”
“Jo.” I do reach out then, catching her hand before I can think better of it. Her skin is exactly as soft as I imagined, and the contact sends heat racing up my arm. “Stop.”
She freezes. Stares at where my hand is wrapped around hers, then slowly lifts her eyes to mine. The air between us thickens, charges. I should let go. I don’t.
“You’re not listening,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than intended. “This isn’t about furniture arrangement or seating charts. Your building has structural limitations. The exits, the ventilation, the maximum safe occupancy—these aren’t suggestions. They’re life-safety requirements.”
“But nothing bad would actually happen?—”
“You don’t know that.” I step closer without meaning to, still holding her hand. “In a fire, every second counts. Every body blocking an exit is a potential casualty. I’ve seen what happens when people ignore capacity limits, Jo. I’ve pulled bodies from buildings that were ‘just a little over.’ I’ve told families their loved one didn’t make it out because there were too many people blocking the only clear exit.”
Her face pales. “I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking about it like that.”
“I know.” And I do know. Savannah was right—this isn’t malicious disregard. It’s passionate optimism meeting harsh reality. “You’re not trying to be reckless. You just don’t understand the stakes.”
“Then help me understand.” She turns her hand in mine, her fingers threading through mine in a way that makes my pulse stutter. “Explain it to me instead of just saying no. Help me find a way to make this work.”
The way she’s looking at me… Like I have answers, and I’m not currently struggling to remember my own name because her thumb is brushing across my knuckles and it’s taking every ounce of control not to pull her closer.
“I’m trying to help,” I manage. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Are you?” The question is soft, almost vulnerable. “Or are you here because you have to be?”
Both. Neither. I’m here because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since yesterday and it’s driving me insane.
I don’t say any of that. Instead: “I’m here because this matters to you. And I’m starting to understand why.”
Her expression softens. For a moment, we just stand there, hands clasped, breathing synchronized, suspended in possibility.
Then reality crashes back.
I drop her hand. Step back. Put professional distance between us even though everything in me protests. “Here’s what I can offer. Use a different venue—somewhere with proper capacity for your numbers. The community center, the beachfront pavilion. Or drastically reduce your guest list. Twenty people maximum, and I’ll work with you on safety protocols.”
“But I want it here.” Her voice breaks slightly. “This is my space. My dream. I want to show people what I’ve built, what’s possible. If I have it somewhere else, it’s just another event. Here, it means something.”
I understand. More than she knows. The need to prove yourself. To show that you’ve survived, thrived, rebuilt. To create something meaningful from the ashes.
But understanding doesn’t change the facts.
“Then I can’t approve it,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re sorry while you destroy everything I’ve worked for.”
“I’m trying to keep people safe?—“
