Page 46 of That Conflicted Feeling

Thegrowing crowd behind her is in full chant mode. “One, two, three, four.YellowBarnmust shut its door.Five, six, seven, eight.Mass-produced is what we hate.”

That’sit.Enough.Ineed to get there, and get there now, before the news crew leaves, soIcan set all this straight.IfonlyGeorgewere here and sitting outside with the engine running.

IgrabMrs.Lovewell’ssoft upper arm.Shelooks down at my hand.

“Sorry.”Ilet go. “Couldyou call me a cab, please?”

Shecasts her eyes over my food and pulls a sad face. “Butyou haven’t touched your breakfast.”

JesusfuckingChrist.

ButIneed her help.Mustremain polite.

Iscoop up a spoonful of oatmeal and shove it in my mouth.

“It’sdelicious.”Itry not to shower her with bits of oats asItalk. “ButIneed to get to that protest right now.”

“Idon’t think you’ll be popular if you show up there,” she says.

ThatIcan deal with.Winningpeople over is my forte.

Ijust need to get the hell there. “Please,Mrs.Lovewell.”

Myhands are in a prayer position.Ihaven’t begged this much since my top hat landed on my brotherConnor’srow of hotels onBoardwalkwhenIwas eight.Ihated losing atMonopoly.Oranything.Stilldo.

“CouldIpossibly have a cab?Please?Sortof…now?”

14

MAX

Thatwas the longest ten-minute car ride of my life.Andit should only have been five, but the driver had about as much urgency as a sloth having a slow day.

Ifhe’d concentrated more on hurrying up, and less on telling me howWarmSpringsused to be calledWarmSpringuntil they found the second spring,Imight not be leaping out of the back seat, blood pumping in my ears, right as theTVnews truck pulls away.

“Shit.”Islam the car door shut with such forceIspin around asMr.Slow-and-Chattypulls away.

“Fuck.”Ikick a stone, sending it veering off into the gutter.Allit succeeds in doing is reminds me ofPolly’sprecious potatoes rolling under the wheels of my car as she fell flat on her face.

Iram my hands on my hips and take in the scene.

Twotables are set up on the sidewalk with aStopYellowBarnbanner strung across the front.Passersbystop to chat with the two women behind the tables before writing something on papers attached to a clipboard.Theremust be a petition.Ora sign-up sheet for more protests or something.

Behindthem, the campaigners are gathered on the empty lot, chilling out after all the excitement and the departure of the news crew.Twoguys with beards wander around handing out coffees.

And, over to the side, there’s the pink hat.

Andthe blue boots.

Andthe most adorably hot nemesis anyone could wish for.

I’dlike to tell myself the quiver in my belly is from the thrill of a business battle.ButIknow it’s because of the way the blonde ponytail sticks out the back of her cap, the way she hitches the fallen overall strap back on her shoulder, and the way she smiles and hugs the woman handing her a donut.

Ineed to get a grip.I’min charge here.Thereis no reason the plans for our store should be refused.We’redoing nothing wrong.Businessis business.

Ifill my lungs to calm my pulse and do my best casual, couldn’t-give-a-shit stroll over toPolly.

Sheholds the donut, which now has a bite out of it, in one hand, her phone in the other.Withher head down over the screen, she doesn’t notice me approach.