"Smart woman."
Ivy pours coffee from a thermos. Hands me a cup. Our fingers brush and I feel it in my chest. This warm, dangerous flutter that has nothing to do with caffeine.
She notices. I know she notices because her cheeks go pink and she pulls her hand back too quickly.
"So," she says. "Maya texted me about the driver situation."
"Of course she did."
"I have a proposition."
"I'm listening."
"There's a back road that connects to the farm. Cuts twenty miles off the main route. I can call the driver and walk him through it."
"You know rural back roads by heart?"
"I know everything by heart. It's compulsive."
She pulls out her field notebook. Flips to a hand-drawn map that shows every dirt road, creek crossing, and unmarked turnoff in a fifty-mile radius.
"This is impressive," I say.
"This is practical. I got lost once doing seed collection and decided never again."
She's so earnest. So competent. So determined to solve problems before they explode.
I want to kiss her.
Instead I say, "Call him."
She does. Puts the driver on speaker and proceeds to give directions with the precision of a NASA engineer. Turn at the red barn. Cross the stone bridge. Follow the creek until you see the oak with the split trunk.
The driver sounds baffled but compliant.
"Twenty minutes," she says when she hangs up. "He'll be here by ten."
"You're a miracle worker."
"I'm a control freak with a good memory. There's a difference."
But she's smiling. And I'm smiling. And the kitchen suddenly feels smaller in a way that has nothing to do with square footage.
Maya clears her throat loudly.
"Right," I say. "Back to work."
Ivy lingers. Watches me prep vegetables with a focus that makes my hands slightly unsteady.
"You're nervous," she observes.
"I'm focused."
"You're gripping that knife like it insulted you."
I relax my hand. "Big event. High stakes. Totally normal stress."
"You're going to be brilliant."
