“It’s a sesquicentennial. Not like it comes around every day. The townspeople expect something.”
“Let me get this straight. You want me to go to my investors and ask for a hundred grand to bail out your shindig with absolutely no guarantee we’ll even be here to conduct business the day after?”
“The marketing potential is tremendous.”
“For a business with established roots, maybe.” His laugh had snuck its way back into his speech. “You gotta give me more than a black hole of advertising.”
Lines pinched between her brows. A frown tipped the edges of her apricot-colored lips. The sadness of all those years past raced back: plaid shoes, alone atop some monumental impasse, unable to move past her ideals, her hurts. Chase hadn’t spoken to her then; he hadn’t known what to say. This time, he would let her off the hook. A good-faith horse trade. Fifty-thousand and you don’t have to promise me anything. He opened his mouth to say as much, but she beat him to it.
“I’ll give you my rezoning vote on three conditions.”
His heart nearly tumbled free of his chest, but it did nothing to rope in his sarcasm. “Only three?”
“One, you bring in enough tourists for the event to surpass our goal of twenty thousand attendees. Two, I have to approve every aspect of the event to ensure Close Call is represented in a good light.”
Laying out her case, Gretchen was something to behold. She didn’t tick off conditions on her fingertips or make sweeping, emotional gestures with her arms or hint at anything to come past the hard-line narrowing of her eyes. Her control, her strength, her inner fire was never more on display than when she was fully in her element—spine straight, speech direct, hands joined behind her—negotiating whatever complex structure she constructed between her brilliant mind and her fractured hurts. Wes was right. She was so far out of Chase’s league. But for one glorious moment while she laid out a path to possibilities, he visualized eight seconds into the future, the way Yancy taught him when he gloved up and lowered himself into the chute, and she was his.
Savage kiss, nothing but skin and aching tenderness, a lifetime beyond eight seconds.
His.
She had stopped talking. Christ, where had she left off?
“And three?” He hoped.
“You come up with a family-friendly side to your distillery.”
“Definition of family friendly?”
“Don’t think you can put up a crosswalk on main and call it done. Something that gives families and children something besides illegal spirits to look forward to. Think DARE nights and alcohol education.”
And just like that, the eight seconds evaporated, and he was left with the most infuriating redhead to ever cross his path.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Because nothing went down the gullet better than a shot of warm, smooth bourbon and a chaser of guilt.
“You’ll think of something.”
“And then you’ll allow the rezoning?” His tone leaked skepticism.
“As it stands now, given the rest of the council are card-carrying members of your fan club? Yes. I’ll pass the motion at the next city council meeting.”
He, too, could be decisive. He’d figure out the rest later. Chase extended his hand before she could change her mind. “You have a deal.”
She studied his hand for a heartbeat, one suspended wallop of a haymaker to his sternum, before she slid her soft palm into his and shook. Tense, confident, one pump of her hand, a not-so-understated way of saying don’t let me down. He wanted to hold on as if she was his greatest challenge, most likely to toss him clear on his ass and break everything inside him, but she caught herself holding on too long, and her cheeks turned the color of her hair and she took back her hand and squeezed it tight. Her gaze fell to the debris around them, all pretense of control and strength crumbled by an inner fire of a very different sort. He would have bet the entire purse from his final ride on it.
“Look, Chase, I know in all your travels and fame, you may have forgotten some things about what makes this town so great.”
“What are you saying?”
“This celebration should respect the people, our way of life, our ideology.”
“No strippers on the town square light poles. Got it.”
She laughed then, a tiny hiccup of release that seemed to surprise even her. It was an adorable detour from the tightrope of perfection and public official she usually walked.
“Why do I feel like I just made a deal with the devil?” she said.
“That’s my reputation. That’s not who I am. You forget, I’m part of this town, too. I remember it all. You included.”