The mixer lasts two hours.
Lacy introduces me to approximately seventeen different people. I remember maybe six names. My brain is too busy being hyper-aware of how close she stays. How she explainsEllis Books & Brews with pride. How she includes me in that explanation.
"Stone's handling our cultural programming," she tells a coffee roaster from three districts over. "Heritage Festival demonstration. Cooking and community education."
The roaster, Marcus, nods with interest. "What kind of cooking?"
"Orc preservation techniques," I explain. "Smoking. Pickling. Traditional spice combinations."
"That could be really popular. People love that rustic, old-world stuff." He hands me a card. "If you need quality coffee for the cafe, call me. I'll give you the cultural programming discount."
He walks away.
Lacy looks at me. "You're accidentally collecting business cards now."
"This is very strange."
"Welcome to networking." She plucks the cards from my hand. Tucks them into her bag with efficient care. "You're doing great."
"I brought a net."
"And it worked." She's still smiling. That unguarded expression I'm starting to crave like the first coffee of the morning. "You're unexpectedly good at this."
"At misunderstanding instructions?"
"At being genuine. People respond to that."
Something warm spreads through my chest. Not embarrassment this time. Something else. Something I don't have words for.
We circulate more. Lacy introduces me to a bookbinder. A small press publisher. A woman who runs writing workshops out of a reclaimed warehouse.
Each conversation flows easier than the last.
By the time we leave, the net has been photographed four times. I have a dozen business cards. And Lacy hasn't let go of my arm.
We walk back to the shop in the cooling evening. Street lights flickering on. The city settling into its nighttime rhythm.
"Thank you," I say when we reach Ellis Books & Brews.
"For what?"
"Not firing me when I showed up with a net."
She laughs. That sound I'm collecting. "The night's still young."
But she's smiling when she says it.
And when she finally lets go of my arm, I can still feel the warmth where her hand rested.
I walk home thinking about cardamom and coffee and the way she says my name like it matters.
Mrs. Kowalski is waiting in the kitchen when I get back.
"Good day?" she asks.
"Strange day," I correct. "But yes. Good."
I pull out the business cards. The diagrams I forgot to give Lacy. The small notebook where I write bad poetry and worse business plans.
