I pour two glasses of whiskey. Slide one across the table. "For which part?"
"The blender. The soundbite. Not thinking before I spoke." He drops into the chair across from me. "Maya says I need media training."
"Maya's right."
"Yeah." He drinks. "Webb's been calling the bistro. Wants to schedule a lunch meeting. Discuss 'mutual interests.'"
"Don't."
"I won't." His jaw sets. "But he's got Farmer Hank. Mrs. Shay's wavering. The Kowalskis are taking meetings."
I wrap both hands around my glass. "He's using our mess as proof that local operations are unprofessional. Unreliable. That selling to him is the safe choice."
"So we prove him wrong."
"How?" The question comes out sharper than I intend. "I've got the university demanding documentation I don't have. Donors questioning my judgment. Farmers taking his calls. One cooking demo doesn't fix structural problems."
Rogan reaches across the table. His hand covers mine.
"Then we build the structures," he says quietly. "Write the protocols. Document everything. Show them professional doesn't mean corporate."
"That takes time we don't have."
"Then we buy time." His thumb traces my knuckles. "The Fall Feast is in two weeks. Big crowd. Media coverage. We make that perfect. Show everyone what local partnership looks like when it works."
I want to believe him.
Want to trust that charm and optimism can solve systemic problems.
But I've spent my whole life watching promises fail.
"And if it's not enough?" I ask.
His hand tightens on mine. "Then at least we tried together."
Outside, wind rattles the windows. October settling into November, frost coming soon.
I think about dwarf larkspur blooming in mud.
About seeds that wait years for the right conditions.
About the choice between safe failure and risky hope.
"Okay," I say. "We try."
His smile is tired. Real. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I finish the whiskey. "But we do this right. No more improvising. We plan every detail. Every word. Every dish."
"You want to script me?"
"I want to save us both."
He stands. Crosses to my side of the table. Cups my face in his broad, callused hands.
"We're going to be okay," he says.
Then he kisses me. Soft. Thorough. Tasting like promises I'm terrified to believe.
