Page 8 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

Ash takes the last few bites of her food, and I settle our bill.

“You know you don’t have to pay for me every time, right?”

“You tryin’ to take my man card? This is the South, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” She sticks out her tongue.

“Would you prefer missy? Or maybe dude? Brosef?”

She snorts, and I catalog that, too. I love making her laugh.

Now if I can only make her swoon.

CHAPTER THREE

RUSTY

An hour later, Ash and I are in the Sugar Maple Town Hall, where the mayor's office is, and where the town council and chamber of commerce both meet. It's a small colonial style building with impeccable landscaping. The mayor cares a lot about appearances.

We're in the large conference room along with a couple dozen people on the town council and chamber of commerce. I've never seen so many members attend a meeting, and as much as I want to believe it's because they're excited about our presentation, I have a feeling something else is afoot.

The owner of the diner is here. Bill Buckner hasn't come to a meeting in a few years. He lives in Charleston and runs a much bigger restaurant there. He's become totally hands off, leaving everything to his head server and de facto manager, Tia. Everyone keeps waiting for him to sell it to her, considering he’s never in Sugar Maple. He doesn't seem to care about the diner as long as it makes him money.

The chamber of commerce includes a few friendly faces, including the co-owner of Donegal's bar, Sean. I've been friends with Patty and Sean for years. Patty wouldn't be caught dead in a meeting like this, but Sean's all about community. Ash’s friends Lou and Parker are both here representing their marketing firm, Jane & Co., so named because the four of them all share the same middle name (except their CEO, Jane, who doesn’t have a middle name).

My boss and best friend, Tripp, sits next to them. Tripp is Jane’s husband and the owner of Sugar Maple Farms, one of the biggest commercial orchards in the country.

Ash and I are eight minutes into our ten minute presentation, and we've gone through all the benefits of our proposal, including projected figures based on increased traffic other southern towns have seen when they'd adopted similar plans.

A fair amount of people are nodding and smiling. A few look steeped in thought.

Some faces aren't so friendly, including the Chicks.

I swear I'm not being sexist. I'm using their names: Chick Hanks, Chick Allen, and Chick Parkinson. The three men all grew up in a time when Chick was an acceptable nickname for Charles, and they're old enough and stubborn enough to make it sound intimidating.

At least, they were intimidating when I was a kid. Now, they're more surly and cane-shaking.

Chick Hanks has a mean swing, too.

Standing up here with all eyes on me is miserable. My mouth is dry, and I almost stutter every time it's my turn to talk. I've never had a stuttering problem. But the stakes are higher than any other time I've presented anything. And it's because this isn't about me; it's about Ash.

I watch her with a mix of awe and apprehension.

"And of course, I don't have to tell you the value of using a font from this century, but I will anyway," she's saying.

She is undaunted. No matter how blank a stare she gets or how dumb a question, she soldiers on, all quirky and gorgeous and flipping her hair to make points in a way that almost mesmerizes me.

With every glance around the room, though, I take note of the people who are scoffing or rolling their eyes. I catch Parker glaring at some of those same men. One of them recoils and sits straighter. I get it. She'll rip them a new one faster than a honey badger. Only a fool messes with Parker.

Only a fool messes with Ash, too, but it's not because of what she'll do to them.

"It's just so much money for something that matters so little," Bill Buckner says, and Parker, Lou, and a few others snap their heads toward him.

"Your other restaurant is in Charleston," Ash says, sounding confused. "It's the poster child for urban design. We don't even have visual cues that tell tourists about the riverwalk."

"Because Sugar Maple is not Charleston," he argues.

"And it won't be with that attitude."

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