Page 12 of A Good Egg

My order arrived, and I took a moment to take a bite of my bacon, lettuce, and tomato, chewing slowly while I considered my next approach. "Converting a structure into a commercial kitchen is quite an undertaking. Permits alone can take months."

"We have connections in town," she countered. "And Carter Beckett knows every inspector in the county."

"Even so, the timeline is ambitious. Easter is what—three weeks away?"

"Twenty days," she corrected, a hint of anxiety flashing across her face before she masked it.

"And you're planning a grand opening then?"

She nodded, her chin lifting with that same defiance I'd witnessed on the porch. "Easter Sunday brunch. It seemed fitting."

Something about the look in her eyes touched me unexpectedly. I'd seen the same look in my own eyes years ago, when I'd vowed never to be vulnerable again.

"It's a meaningful concept," I admitted. "But banks aren't typically moved by symbolism, Ms. O'Malley."

"Maisie," she said suddenly.

"Pardon?"

"If we're going to keep having these discussions, you might as well call me Maisie. 'Ms. O'Malley' makes me feel like I'm being called to the principal's office."

I felt a smile tug at my lips. "Maisie, then. And I'm Logan."

A small but significant shift had occurred between us—not friendship, certainly, but perhaps a truce of sorts. I found myself unexpectedly pleased by this development.

"Look, Logan," she continued, "I appreciate that you're just doing your job. But this farm means everything to my grandmother—to me. We're not going to surrender it without a fight."

"I never expected you would," I said honestly. "Your grandmother struck me as formidable from the start. And you..." I hesitated, then finished, "Well, you're clearly cut from the same cloth."

A hint of a smile—the first I'd seen from her—transformed her face momentarily. "Is that a compliment or an observation?"

"Both, perhaps." I sipped my coffee, surprised by how much I'd enjoyed that fleeting smile. "Just because we're on opposite sides of this situation doesn't mean I can't recognize grit when I see it."

"We're definitely on opposite sides," she agreed, though some of the hostility had left her voice. "Which begs the question—why are you being almost nice right now?"

"I'm always nice," I protested lightly. "It's part of my sinister charm."

She snorted, but there was a reluctant amusement in her eyes. "Is that what they teach in business school these days? Charm 101, followed by Advanced Property Acquisition?"

"Actually, it's the other way around," I deadpanned. "You need the charm to recover from the acquisition tactics."

This earned me a genuine laugh, the sound warm and unexpectedly captivating. I found myself wanting to hear it again, a desire that sent warning bells ringing in the analytical part of my brain.

Her phone buzzed, breaking the moment. She glanced at the screen and began gathering her papers. "I need to go. Piper—my best friend—is waiting at the paint store."

"Picking out colors for The Little Red Hen?" I asked, rising as she stood.

"Among other things." She tucked the folder under her arm, regarding me with renewed wariness. "This conversation doesn't change anything, you know. We're still not interested in anything you have to offer."

"I didn't expect it to," I assured her. "Though I still think you should at least read my offer before dismissing it entirely."

She paused, then extended her hand. "Fine. Let me see it."

Surprised by the sudden concession, I withdrew the envelope from my jacket pocket and handed it to her. She tucked it into her bag without opening it.

"I'll read it," she promised. "But don't get your hopes up."

"I never do," I replied automatically, though in truth, something dangerously close to hope had begun stirring within me during our conversation—not for the deal, but for... what, exactly? I wasn't sure.

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