“Yes.”
“In my bar.”
“In your bar,” she repeats calmly. “Like you asked me to do. When you hired me, remember?”
I drop the papers back on the table.
“You’re putting a spotlight on us when we don’t really need it.”
“We’re already under one. This is the perfect time.”
“That’s different.”
“How?” she fires back immediately.
“Because I control the angle.”
She pushes to her feet.
“You control everything,” she snaps. “That’s the problem.”
My eyes narrow. “Careful.”
“Oh, please,” she says, stepping around the table. “Don’t do the low voice thing.”
“The what?”
“The ‘I’m about to intimidate you into backing down’ voice.”
I step closer. “You think I’m trying to intimidate you?”
“I think you hate that I didn’t ask permission. Just like with the paint.”
I roll my eyes. “I just didn’t like the color. Now, I hate that you’re making decisions that affect my people without understanding the consequences.”
Her chin lifts. “Your people?”
“Yeah.”
“And I’m what? A tourist with a clipboard?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You didn’t have to.”
There it is.
The edge.
The spark.
She steps into my space instead of backing off.
“You want to talk about consequences?” she says. “Let’s talk about consequences. Let’s talk about letting a man in a blazer define you in front of the entire town.”
“He doesn’t define me.”
“Then act like it.”
