She looks up sharply. "I'm considering what Farmer Hank will think when he sees this number on paper. What Mrs. Rivera will think when someone offers her enough to retire in Florida like she's always talked about."
"We can fight it."
"With what?" Ivy's voice cracks. "Rogan, we don't have money. We have passion and locally sourced butternut squash. That's not a legal defense."
Maya pours coffee into three mugs. Slides them across the counter.
"Okay. Strategy time. What do we actually have?"
I force my brain into chef mode. Break down the problem like a complicated recipe.
"We have community support. Most of it, anyway. We have the festival momentum. We have Mayor Elsie's political capital." I pause. "We have proof that the bistro model works. That local sourcing creates value."
"And we have each other," Ivy adds. Her hand finds mine. Squeezes. "Explicit partnership now. No more hedging or half measures."
The touch grounds me. Reminds me that last night wasn't just heat and desperation. It was a choice. A commitment.
"Right. Partnership." I look at Maya. "Can you pull together our financials from the last two months? Sales figures, community engagement metrics, anything that shows growth and stability."
"On it."
"Ivy, we need to talk to the farmers. Face to face. Before these letters make them panic."
She nods. "I'll set up meetings. Today, if possible."
My phone vibrates again. This time it's a number I don't recognize.
I answer. "Thorn."
A smooth voice I've come to hate. "Rogan. Webb. I assume you've received the purchase offers by now."
"Just did."
"I want you to know there's still room at the table for you. The bistro parcel would make an excellent mixed-use anchor.We could preserve the building facade, incorporate some of your branding into the development?—"
"Not interested."
"The timeline's accelerated," Webb continues as if I haven't spoken. "Formal offers filed this morning trigger a sixty-day decision window. After that, willing sellers can close regardless of holdouts. I thought you should know."
The line goes dead.
Sixty days.
Ivy's watching my face. "What did he say?"
"We have two months. Maybe less." I set the phone down carefully before I throw it. "He's filed formal offers. Once the sellers accept, the deals close whether we're ready or not."
Maya swears. Creatively.
Ivy's jaw sets in that stubborn line I've learned to recognize. "Then we don't waste time. We organize. We fight. We show this town that there's another way."
"Together," I say.
"Together," she echoes.
But as we start making calls and mapping strategy, I can't shake the cold certainty settling in my gut.
Webb's already won the first round.
