“We can definitely be friends, Emma. I’d be happy with that, too.”
The rest of our walk is pleasant, and we have a great time. Better than when there was this strange pressure to figure out if we could date. If we could be more. We walk until the sun goes down, and I accompany her back to Alma’s to make sure she gets back safely in the dark.
The light from Alma’s porch light illuminates her hair in a warm shade of gold. She lets Murphy in the house and then leans on the post at the top of the porch stairs, looking down to where I’m standing on the front lawn.
“What are your plans for the rest of the week?” she asks, no expectations behind the question.
“The public forum for the arts centre is coming up.” I scrub a hand through my hair.
“Yeah, Nan mentioned something about that.”
“Are you going?” I raise my eyebrows at her.
“Only if you want me to,” she says tentatively. I can tell that even though we’ve agreed to be friends, we’re still figuring out where we stand with one another.
“I want you to come. It’ll be a great way to get to know the town. And all the quirky personalities here.” I’ve attended several public forums throughout my career, and they’re always an interesting study in human behaviour.
“Okay, maybe I will.” Emma smiles softly. We say goodnight, and I make my way back to my apartment with Ruby.
There’s a chill in the air without the sun beating down and heating up the valley, but it feels good. For the first time in a few days, I’m unencumbered. I’m lighter.
I’ve been dreading the public forum. But now, without the pressure of trying to parse out how I feel about Emma, I’m not dreading it as much anymore. I might be looking forward to it. The only explanation I can come up with is that I’m looking forward to seeing Wren.
Every time Wren and I have seen each other in town, we’ve been at each other’s throats. And every time, it’s turned me on. I like competing with her. I always have. The other night outside her house, she was right about one thing.
I’ve always gotten off on teasing her until she fights back.
CHAPTER 12
WREN
Two more minutes,Landry, I think as I check my thin gold wristwatch. 6:58. People are almost finished filing into City Hall, taking their seats for the public forum.
Hudson has never been known for his punctuality, and it was always a point of contention between us. Apparently, it still is. Although now, I almost hope he’s late. I’ll have some material for the next e-mail thread, and I decide to spend the next two minutes coming up with a witty tally to sign off with next time.
The seats are almost full now and the loud chatter of individual conversations blends into a cacophony of noise echoing through the room. From my seat at the front of the room, I scan the crowd. Still no sign of Hudson.
I check the shiny mother-of-pearl watch face on my wrist again, and right as the second-hand hits the twelve, he strolls up to take his seat at the table. Seven o’clock on the dot.
“I beat you here,” I say out the side of my mouth. “Better not make it a habit to show up to everything at the lastminute, it won’t reflect well on theproject lead.” I emphasize the last two words.
“I’m right on time, Miller,” Hudson says, the corner of his mouth lifting into a cheeky smirk. “Eyes on your own lane, or whatever they say.”
“The saying is ‘stay in your own lane, eyes on your own—’” But before I can correct him, he’s standing in front of the crowd and using his deep, rumbling voice to get their attention. The sound of it sends a jolt through me, an unexpected flutter of something that feels a lot like attraction at the way he’s suddenly in command of the room.
A hush falls over the crowd as he welcomes them and begins explaining the purpose of the public forum. He points out the microphone in the aisle and explains that, after a quick presentation, everyone will have the chance to ask questions or make suggestions for the arts centre.
Against every one of my instincts, I agreed to let Hudson lead the public forum. The town is familiar with him, and he’s done these things before. I also secretly thought it would be an opportunity to watch him crash and burn in front of everyone. The last thing I was expecting was for Hudson be prepared, to get up there and stand with such presence, such confidence.
He clicks on the projector and starts by introducing the arts centre, the vision and purpose for it. He explains how beautiful Heartwood is, and how we should have a space in town to celebrate it’s beauty. He flicks through the slides, one by one, showing different angles of the lot, explaining where the building will be situated, details about parking, and other logistical considerations to be aware of.
When the presentation is over, he invites people to form a line at a microphone. I stand up, brush the wrinkles out of my dress pants, and prepare to take over the question-and-answer portion of the evening.
The first person approaches the microphone, a middle-aged man dressed in a brown argyle sweater vest, jeans, and leather loafers. He has aviator style reading glasses on which he pushes up his nose with one finger, before tapping on the microphone.
“My name’s Norm.”
“Hi, Norm,” I answer. “What’s your question?”
