Heat creeps up my neck. "We're collaborating better."
"Uh-huh." She raises an eyebrow. "And how's that collaboration feeling?"
Before I can formulate an answer that doesn't involve admitting I've been having increasingly vivid fantasies about my temporary office-mate, the phone rings again. This time it's WXKD-TV, wanting to schedule an on-camera interview for tomorrow.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of phone calls, interview scheduling, and strategic planning. By noon, we've secured coverage from four different outlets, all interested in the underdog story of a small town refusing to be bulldozed by corporate pressure.
"This is good," Savvy says, reviewing her notes. "Exceptionally good. We're controlling the narrative instead of reacting to it."
More texts come through from Mason.
Mason
Finished with the Millers. They've been trying to get their wills sorted for years. She's grateful.
A few seconds later he texts.
Mr. Thompson asked if I do divorce law. Told him that's not my specialty but referred him to someone who can help.
Each message carries an undercurrent of surprise and satisfaction that makes my heart do small flips. Mason's discovering what I've known all along, that helping people, truly making a difference, feels different from the cold calculations of corporate law.
"He's enjoying this," I say, reading the latest update.
"Of course he is," Savvy replies. "He gets to be the good guy for once. Must be a nice change."
We spend the next hour fine-tuning our media strategy, scheduling follow-up calls and mapping out talking points for tomorrow's TV interview. Savvy's in her element, transforming our grassroots festival into a compelling narrative about community resilience and positive change.
By late afternoon, my phone has been quiet for almost an hour, no updates from the legal clinic, which I'm choosing to interpret as a good sign. Either they're too busy helping people to text, or everything has gone catastrophically wrong. Given Mason's recent track record, I'm betting on busy.
The barn door opens again, and Mason steps inside, followed by Henry. Both men look overwhelmed but pleased.
"How did it go?" I ask, studying Mason's face for signs of stress or frustration.
"Better than expected," Henry replies. "We saw twelve people today. Word's spreading, Mrs. Russell's telling everyone about how we helped her set up a trust for her grandchildren."
Mason approaches me, and I catch that familiar flutter in my chest as he gets closer. "Mrs. Russell insisted I bring you this," he says, producing a wrapped slice of apple pie. A note in his precise handwriting reads.
She says to tell you that any woman who can tame a lawyer is worth knowing.
I laugh, too loudly. "Tame you? Clearly, she doesn't know about the drone incident."
"Or the fog machine," he adds, his eyes crinkling with amusement.
"Or the Great Dove Uprising of last Tuesday," I finish.
We're standing close now, so close I can see the golden flecks in his dark eyes, close enough to count the faint lines that appear when he smiles. The air between us pulls tight, charged by the same electricity building for days.
"So," Henry says, breaking the moment with characteristic timing, "what's next on the agenda?"
Savvy, who's been watching our interaction with undisguised interest, clears her throat. "TV interviews tomorrow, radio spot on Wednesday, and by Friday we should have enough positive press to counteract whatever damage Mrs. Patterson's newsletter managed to do."
"And the festival preparations?" Mason asks, though his attention keeps drifting back to me.
"Right on schedule," I reply, trying to ignore the way his focus makes my skin feel warm. "Vendors confirmed,entertainment booked, volunteer coordinator meetings start Thursday."
"Speaking of volunteers," Savvy says, "we're going to need all hands on deck. Mason, I hope you're prepared for manual labor."
"Define manual labor," he says cautiously.
