He looked at her. She looked back with the pleasant steadiness she'd developed over years of production meetings with people who mistook patience for weakness.
"The goal is the State Prize," he said.
"Yes," she agreed.
"And we're agreed that the dish?—"
"Or menu."
"Or menu — has to be genuinely good. Not good for market competition. Good."
Ivy became aware that a glass had appeared in front of her. She looked at it. Looked at the bar, where their server had moved on. Looked at Finn, who was writing something on his legal pad. It was a ginger beer with lime and a salted rim. It was exactly what she would have ordered. She did not say:how did you know that?She did not say anything about it. She picked up the glass and drank, and they moved on to talking about the competition format.
Finn's handwriting was confident in the way he was confident; broad strokes, no hesitation, letters that knew where they were going before he'd finished forming them. His hand moved across the page as if the decision had already been made and writing it down was just the confirmation. She watched his biceps flex slightly with each line.
Then he paused. Whatever he was working through had snagged on something, and he went still — not absent, just interior — and tugged his lower lip between his teeth while he thought it out. It was the most unguarded she'd seen him outside of his food truck.
They had been there for forty minutes and were discussing sourcing logistics when Ivy became aware of a presence at the edge of the table. Mrs. Patel sat down with a small smile and the fundamental serenity of someone who had not arrived at this moment by accident.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," she said. "You two in the competition is wonderful for the town. The interest has been — you've both seen the numbers. I wanted to raise something. Informally. As a member of the community who cares about the outcome."
Finn's brows narrowed suspiciously at the older woman and said nothing. Ivy, still new to the changed dynamics in her small town, followed suit.
"The internet loves you," Mrs. Patel said. "Both of you. Together. The clip — the comments, the coverage — it's because people see something when they watch you. Something—" she tilted her head as if searching for the precise word she had definitely already chosen — "real."
Finn went still. Ivy could see the tension roll off him. She didn't think he was breathing. She almost said something out of concern, but Mrs. Patel continued.
"The exhibition judges aren't just tasting the food; they're watching the story. The state board, the outside press — they're here because of the clip. They want to see the Tomato Couple. Not just a good dish." She paused, with the timing of someone who had done community theater at some point. "If you leaned into it. Not dishonestly. Just — let the cameras catch the moments. The warmth that's already there. The way you?—"
"Mrs. Patel," Finn said.
"I'm just saying that authenticity is?—"
"You're suggesting we perform a relationship for the judges."
Oh. The conversation with Eva came back to Ivy. Matchmaking. Is that what was happening here? Did Ivy want that to happen here? It was clear from the look on Finn's face that he did not want any part of this.
"I'm suggesting you don't underform the relationship that's already there." Mrs. Patel said it pleasantly, without a flicker. "The reach would be significant. The judges respond to what the internet responds to. You'd have—" she turned to Ivy — "the foundation for something much larger than a single competition win. And you'd have—" she turned to Finn — "the town behind you. Fully. Loudly."
She stood up. "Think about it. The competition starts soon."
They watched her cross the bar and go out the door with the serenity of a woman who felt good about how that had gone.
The silence lasted approximately ten seconds. Finn looked at Ivy. Ivy looked at Finn. They were regarding each other in what felt like one of those Western standoffs. Except there were no guns. Just the bullet of a fake relationship being fired into the atmosphere.
Ivy said, "I'm not saying yes."
Finn said, "I'm not saying yes either."
The bullet stalled between them. Neither ducking. Neither dodging. Both just holding still and letting the bullet decide.
Finn picked up his pen. Set it down again. Looked at the legal pad with its three working ground rules and the notes beneath them, all of which now existed in a slightly different context than they had forty minutes ago.
CHAPTER TEN
The Brandywine numbers were final by Thursday. Finn had been running the estimates since August, adjusting as the heat stress data came in. The final yield was worse than the worst estimate. The restaurant math had been tight before. Now it didn't close.
He put the yield sheets on the workbench and looked at them for a while. The prize money would close it. That was the fact in front of him. Not approximately close it, not close it with adjustments — close it, with enough remaining to cover the first season's operating risk, which was the number he'd never been able to build to. He'd run the restaurant figures so many times they'd stopped feeling like projections and started feeling like a language he thought in. He knew what enough looked like. The State Prize was enough.
