The town hall is emptying. Chairs scraping. Voices fading. Outside, October darkness presses against the windows.
"Two weeks," Rogan says.
"To plan, organize, and execute a festival big enough to prove we don't need corporate investment." I laugh. It sounds slightly hysterical. "Sure. Easy."
"We've done harder."
"When?"
He grins. "That time we rescued seeds from a farm dog and a stuck trailer at midnight?"
Fair point.
I lift my notebook. Start a new page. Write "Harvest Festival" at the top.
"Okay. We need vendors. Entertainment. A central food pavilion. Educational programming. Parking logistics." My pen flies. "Permits for alcohol if we're doing wine tastings. Liability waivers. Waste management protocols."
Rogan watches me. Something soft in his expression.
"What?" I ask.
"You're already planning."
"That's what I do."
"I know." He takes the notebook. Adds his own scrawl beneath my neat lists. "And I'm going to make sure it's delicious."
His handwriting is terrible. Barely legible. Full of crossed-out ideas and arrows connecting random thoughts.
It shouldn't work.
But looking at our notes together, his chaos braided with my order, I feel something shift.
"We can do this," I say.
"Yeah." He hands back the notebook. "We can."
Outside, a car engine starts. Headlights sweep across the parking lot.
I recognize the sleek sedan.
Webb.
He pauses at the lot's edge. Window down. Looking back at the town hall.
Then he drives away.
But I know what that look meant.
This isn't over.
The Harvest Festival just became a battlefield.
And we have two weeks to prove we can win.
CHAPTER 11
ROGAN
