“Closing slide,” she says. “What are you saying here?”
I study the photo. Water catching light, worn stone edges, people sitting along the rim.
“This is what’s already here,” I say. “The Board isn’t funding a construction project. They’re investing in a place people already love.”
Sam closes the laptop.
“That’s your closing line,” she says. “Don’t change a word.”
I lean back in the chair. My throat’s dry.
“How long have we been at this?”
She checks her phone. “Hour and a half.”
It felt like twenty minutes.
She stands and stretches. “I’m starving. Let’s get lunch.”
***
The deli is chaos.
Bodies packed at the counter, voices shouting over the noise from the kitchen, pastrami and mustard thick in the air. Every table is taken.
Sam scans the room.
“There.”
She points to a tiny corner booth half-hidden behind construction workers waiting for orders.
We squeeze through the crowd. The booth is barely big enough for two people, the table shoved against the wall. The only way to sit is the same side.
I slide in first. Sam follows, her shoulder pressing mine as she settles.
“This is cozy,” I say.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She unwraps her sandwich. I take a bite of mine—pastrami, rye, mustard.
Sam’s eyes drift toward the counter while she chews.
“See how everyone’s stuck at the register?” she says, nodding toward the front. “If they moved the pickup window forward a few feet, the line wouldn’t block the door.”
“You’re redesigning the deli.”
“I’m just noticing.”
“You’re noticing in a very specific, solution-oriented way.”
She smiles faintly and takes another bite.
A small smear of mustard catches on her upper lip.
My hand moves before I think about it. I grab a napkin and reach across, wiping it away. My thumb lingers for a fraction of a second against her skin.
She goes completely still.
