“Perspective noted.” I step forward until he has to ease back or risk cologne transfer. “Now give me perspective. Who’s fueling these rumors?”
He smirks. “Information’s like real estate. Location, timing, cash. What’s it worth to you?”
My laugh is ice. “Not enough to pay your commission.”
The barista finally calls my order — iced Americano, two pumps maple, hefty enough to double as a hand weight. I reach for my wallet; Simon blocks the card reader with his own.
“On me,” he announces, voice bright for the audience. “Consider it an olive branch.”
The glare I deliver could sand varnish. “I buy my own coffee, thanks.”
“Think of it as a reminder.” He slips the card in. “The right partnerships pay dividends.”
“I’ll alert Nasdaq,” I mutter.
Receipt prints. Simon pockets it like proof of chivalry, then offers a wink lethal enough to violate all sorts of codes. “Take care, Addison. Choose wisely. Age-appropriate is always in style.”
He strolls out, phone already to his ear, probably speed-dialing the gossip mill. The bell jangles and the shop exhales.
The barista steps over. “You okay?”
“Fine.” My voice sounds brittle.
She hands over two maple sugar shortbread hearts on a napkin. “On the house. For… iron levels.”
I laugh, tension cracking. “You’re an angel.”
“Anytime.”
Outside, sunlight slashes across Main Street, dazzling and unapologetic. I take a long draw of Americano, bittersweet and mercifully strong, then sit in the driver’s seat of my Civic for a minute, letting Simon’s words settle.
Cradle robber. Free labor.
Haven’t you been burned enough?
Maturity as code for too old.
The phrases circle like lazy buzzards. I power up the dash, cue my “Bad-Idea Detox” playlist, and pull onto the Highway.
Fields blur, green turning golden under the mid-September sun. Wind barrels through the open window, whipping my curls into a riot I decide not to tame. Nobody in Birch Harbor cares if my hair follows the town council noise ordinance.
I run mental triage.
Point A: Dylan is 29, an adult, a homeowner, a volunteer coach, a man who keeps emergency bandages in his glove box. He is not a kid.
Point B: He offered labor because he liked the project and maybe liked me. Neither motive is illegal.
Point C: Simon sells drama the way he sells colonials — dressed up, overpriced, and squeaking when you walk on it.
Still, the idea lingers. How many perceptions am I willing to manage? I’ve spent a decade polishing the reliable professional image until I could practically use it as a mirror. Clipboard angle perfect, blazer lines crisp. Clients trust me with their once-in-a-lifetime moments because I never flinch.
But sometimes the armor cuts off circulation.
The lake flashes between rows of poplars — sun glinting silver shards on charcoal water. I remember Dylan’s text last night: Hauling spare cedar — thinking another bench? Little offerings that said I’ve got you without a hint of a scoreboard.
If town chatter says I’m paying him in “perks,” they misunderstand the currency entirely. Dylan trades in laughter, elbow grease, and owning up to splintered boards. My contributions are spreadsheets, extra flashlight batteries, and remembering where he set down his hammer. That’s partnership, not payment.
So what if Simon’s circle calls it cradle robbing? They once called the farmers market “Instagram bait,” then posted selfies with giant pumpkins. The criticism is loud until a trend catches.
