"Devon thinks everyone operates the way Devon operates." Roz's voice had the flat quality it got when Devon came up, like a door closing. "What does Tomato Guy think?"
"His name is Finn. He's into it. There's a prize. Real money. And lots of exposure. Maybe even nationwide. This could launch me, Roz. Really launch me."
Ivy looked at the bench slats. They were painted green, the old municipal green that Valor had apparently been using since sometime in the Eisenhower administration. "I'm meeting him tonight to go over the ground rules. He has a format."
"A format," Roz said.
"For the ground rules. He — yes."
"Ivy."
"Don't."
"I just need to tell you not to fall for another guy you work with. It didn't end well the first time."
"I know that. Don't you think I know that?" Ivy was the one with the broken heart, after all.
"Okay, babe. But the thing on your face in the clip?—"
"Goodbye, Roz."
She hung up, not unkindly, and sat on the green bench. Her phone was silent in her hand. The social media app blinked with dozens of notifications. She opened the comment section on the viral clip, which she knew was a poor use of her time, and did it anyway.
They were mostly affectionate. That was the thing: the comments weren't prurient or mean; they were warm.
-…the way he almost smiled, though…
-She knows exactly what she's doing.
-Has anyone figured out if he's single?
-This is an enemies to lovers origin story, and I will not be taking questions.
There was a whole thread analyzing the Edison lights, their color temperature, the way the Cherokee Purples read in the background. A food writer in the comments had identified the variety correctly and gotten three thousand likes.
Most of the comments were about Finn. They were kind, mostly. Funny in ways that were not malicious. But they were also, she thought, wrong. Not wrong about the facts but wrong about the texture of it, flattening him into a type, the grumpy foil to her sunshine, and she found herself reading with a growing irritation on his behalf that she put her phone away rather than examine.
She and Finn kept their distance all afternoon. They were too busy for anything else. The lunch rush went straight into rush hour. Ivy still had a line five minutes after her official closing. It took Finn ushering people away before she could start her closing procedures. Once she was done, he was waiting for her,leaning against his closed truck. He waved her in the direction of the Millstone, the bar where they had decided to talk.
The Millstone was the kind of bar that had been exactly what it was for forty years and felt no obligation to update this assessment. Dark wood, good lighting, a chalkboard menu that changed weekly and always had one thing on it that shouldn't have worked but did. She'd been here twice in her childhood; once at someone's graduation party, and once when she was seventeen and had gotten in with a borrowed ID that the bartender had pretended to believe and only served her soda.
She sat down across from Finn, who handed her a list.
"The ground rules. I drafted them as a starting point."
She looked at the list.
1. The Purple Heart Ranch is off-limits for content without explicit prior approval, specific to each visit and each piece of content.
2. Neither party uses the partnership in individual content without advance notice to the other.
3. Competition recipe development is collaborative, and credit is shared equally in any public representation.
"These are reasonable," she said.
Something shifted in his expression. He made a small mark on the pad. "The ranch visits need to be scheduled in advance. I have a rotation schedule and I can't?—"
"I'll give you a week's notice."
