Chapter 3: Fast-tracking
The fluorescents in The Bookstore were having one of their existential crises, flickering sporadically and casting a pulse of uncertain light over the towers of spines. Rebecca stood behind the counter, restacking a pile of travel memoirs that had been rifled through and abandoned. The familiar scent—old paper, lemon oil, the ghost of this morning’s coffee—usually soothed her. Today it just felt like the smell of a battlefront.
Her last customer, a woman named Elara who came in every Thursday, was lingering by the poetry section, holding a slim volume of Ocean Vuong like it was a holy text she was afraid to defile.
“It’s just… will it ruin me?” Elara asked, not for the first time. “I have to make lunches for the kids tomorrow. I can’t be a puddle on the floor.”
Rebecca smiled, the expression feeling practiced on her face. “Pretty sure it’ll ruin you in the best way. But the good ruin. The kind where you’re wiser and more tender afterward. The lunch-making will continue, I promise. Just maybe with a more profound understanding of the ham sandwich.”
Elara laughed, a bright sound in the quiet shop. “Okay, sold. You’re a terrible influence.”
“It’s in the job description.” Rebecca rang up the purchase, the mechanical ca-chunk of the old register a comforting sound. As she handed over the bag, she nodded toward the window. The day was gunmetal grey, threatening more rain. “Get home safe.”
With Elara gone, the shop settled into its late-afternoon silence, broken only by the faint, staticky crackle of the Billie Holiday record spinning behind the counter. Rebecca’s gaze drifted to the manila folder on the shelf beneath the register. Inside were the printouts: six months of sales data, foot traffic counts she’d manually logged, copies of her lease and vendor agreements. The ammunition.
Just the numbers, she’d said. A neutral coffee shop. She’d chosen The Daily Grind, three blocks over, a place all chrome and concrete where no one would care about two people having a tense conversation over spreadsheets.
She checked her phone. No new messages. Their meeting was in an hour. Her stomach was a tight knot of conflicting impulses. Part of her wanted to call it off, to tell him to fight his own battles. A louder, more pragmatic part knew he was right—he was the only leverage on the inside she might have. And then there was the traitorous, silent part that just wanted to see him again, to study the lines of his face in the flat coffee-shop light and decode what was real.
The bell above the door jangled, cutting through Holiday’s lament.
Rebecca looked up, a professional greeting on her lips. It died there.
It was Ridge.
He stood just inside the door, shrugging off a leather jacket spotted with rain. He hadn’t seen the shop in full light before. His eyes did a slow sweep—the high shelves, the reading nook with its sagging armchairs, the artfully chaotic display tables, the old record player. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of assessment and something else. Awe, maybe.
“You’re early,” she said. Her voice came out flat. “And this isn’t neutral territory.”
“I know.” He walked further in, running his fingers lightly over a shelf of New York Review Classics. “I was in the area. I wanted to see it. In its natural state.” He glanced at her. “You said I could have the data. You didn’t specify the handoff location had to be a sterile zone.”
“It was implied.” She didn’t move from behind the counter, using it as a barricade. “The whole point was to avoid…”
“This?” He finished, finally looking directly at her. “Avoid the place that actually matters? See, that’s the problem with my proposal. I can talk about square footage and revenue streams until I’m blue in the face. But to really argue for this place, I need to feel it. I need to be able to describe the way the air smells. The specific quality of the silence. The fact that you have a fucking record player.” He nodded toward it. “What’s playing?”
“Billie Holiday.”
“Of course it is.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “It’s perfect.”
His approval shouldn’t have warmed her. It did. She shoved the feeling down. “Flattery doesn’t get you the files faster. The coffee shop was supposed to keep this transactional.”
“This is transactional.” He leaned against the philosophy section, crossing his arms. His sweater was a deep charcoal grey, making his eyes look stormier. “I’m procuring intangible assets. Atmosphere. Character. The soul of the business. That’s your strongest argument, Rebecca. Not the quarterly numbers. The fact that if this place goes, something irreplaceable goes with it. Corinth doesn’t understand that. I have to make them understand.”
He was good. He knew exactly what to say to bypass her defenses and speak directly to her heart. It was infuriating.
“So this is research,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And the fact that we’re alone here? That’s just a coincidence?”
He pushed off the shelf and took a few steps closer, stopping at the edge of the counter. The distance between them was now just four feet of scarred oak. “No. That’s not a coincidence. I wanted to see you here. In your element. I wanted to remember what I’m fighting for.”
The record ended. The sudden silence was immense, thick with everything unsaid. The flickering lights seemed to hold their breath.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t blur the lines. You’re fighting to save your professional reputation and maybe score a moral victory. I’m fighting for my life’s work. They’re not the same thing.”
His jaw tightened. “You think this is just about my reputation?”
“I think it’s complicated. For you. For me, it’s simple. They want to take this from me. You might be the tool that stops it. That’s the only relationship we have.”
He studied her, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a heartbeat before returning to her eyes. “That’s a lie. And we both know it. What happened in your stockroom wasn’t a negotiation tactic.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “It was a mistake.”
“Was it?” He took another step. Now he was on the other side of the counter, close enough that she could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tiny fleck of gold in his left iris. “Because it didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the most honest thing that’s happened to me in years.”
Her heart was hammering. She gripped the edge of the counter to steady herself. “Ridge, you need to leave. We’ll meet at The Daily Grind in an hour. You’ll get your numbers.”
He didn’t move. “What if I told you I already have new information? That my ‘research’ today wasn’t just atmospheric?”
That stopped her. “What information?”
“Corinth is fast-tracking. The preliminary demolition hearing got moved up. It’s now in three weeks, not six.”
The floor seemed to tilt. “What? How?”
“Money. Pressure. They’ve got a city council member in their pocket. The usual.” He rested his palms on the countertop, his hands broad, capable. “My alternative proposal? It was always a long shot. Now it’s a Hail Mary. They’re not going to listen to a plea for soul and atmosphere. They will, however, listen to a lawsuit.”
“A lawsuit.” She blinked. “On what grounds?”
“Improper procedure. Failure to provide adequate notice to tenants. I’ve been through the city’s communications. Their notifications were deliberately vague, sent to outdated addresses. It’s a stall tactic, but a legitimate one. It could buy us six months, maybe a year.” He was talking fast now, leaning in. “But to file, you need a lawyer. A good one. Which costs money you probably don’t have.”
A cold dread was seeping through her, colder than the rain outside. “So you’re telling me it’s already over. Just in a different way.”
“No. I’m telling you the game changed. The friendly, creative alternative is off the table. It’s trench warfare now.” His voice dropped, intense and low. “I know a lawyer. She’s expensive, but she’s a shark. She’ll take the case on contingency if the cause is good enough. I’ve already spoken to her. She’ll meet with us.”
“Us.”
“You. Me. As your… consultant.” He finally reached for the manila folder, his fingers brushing against hers as he pulled it from her slackened grip. The contact was electric. “The numbers in here will help establish the financial viability they’re trying to erase. That’s part of it. But the lawsuit is the hammer.”
She was reeling. The chessboard had been upended, the pieces scattered. He was several moves ahead, and she was still trying to remember how the knight moved. “Why are you doing this? Really. This goes way beyond guilt or a professional hiccup. You’re talking about actively sabotaging your client. That’s career suicide in your world.”
He was silent for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. The flickering light caught the planes of his face, making him look older, weary. “Maybe my world is rotten,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Maybe I looked at a spreadsheet that calculated the profit margin on erasing this block, and then I walked into your shop and saw you hand-selling a poetry book to a woman because you believed it would make her life better. And the disconnect was so fucking vast, I couldn’t breathe.” He tapped the folder against the counter. “This isn’t about you and me. Not anymore. It’s about which side I’m on. I’m choosing a side.”
The raw conviction in his words left no room for doubt. This was his line in the sand. It was also an immense, terrifying risk he was asking her to share.
“The lawyer,” Rebecca managed. “When?”
“Tomorrow night. Her office, after hours.” He pulled a card from his wallet and slid it across the counter. Eleanor Vance, Land Use & Tenancy Law. The card was thick, elegant. “She’s expecting your call to confirm.”
Rebecca stared at the card. It felt like a point of no return. Filing a lawsuit against a hedge fund with city hall connections wasn’t a business tactic; it was a declaration of war. It would be public, ugly, and expensive even on contingency.
“What do you get out of this?” she asked again, needing to hear it one more time.
“A clear conscience.” He picked up the folder. “And maybe, if we win, a chance to start over. Without the lies in the room.”
He turned and walked toward the door. This time, she called after him.
“Ridge.”
He stopped, hand on the doorframe.
“The Daily Grind. We still have a meeting. I want to go over those numbers with you. I need to know exactly what you’re telling them.”
He looked back at her, and for the first time, she saw a flicker of the man from the bar, a hint of that dark, hopeful humor. “See? Purely transactional.” He pushed the door open, the bell jangling wildly. “One hour. Don’t be late.”
The door swung shut, swallowing him into the grey afternoon. The silence he left behind was different now—charged, perilous, alive with possibility. She looked down at the lawyer’s card, then at the empty space where he’d stood. He’d chosen a side. He’d brought a weapon to the fight she didn’t even know she could wage.
She picked up the phone, her finger hovering over the keys. The record player’s arm had auto-returned. The shop was utterly quiet, waiting. She took a deep breath, the scent of paper and history filling her lungs, and began to dial.
She took a deep breath, the scent of paper and history filling her lungs, and began to dial.
The phone rang twice before a crisp, professional voice answered. “Law office of Eleanor Vance.”
“Hi, yes, this is Rebecca Frome. I believe Ridge Carrington set up a meeting for tomorrow?”
“He did. Seven p.m. My office.” The voice was efficient, without warmth. “Please bring any documentation you have regarding your lease, correspondence with the city, and financial records. I’ll have a retainer agreement ready.”
“Alright. See you then.”
"And Ms. Frome? Ridge is a lifelong friend. Do you know the expressions 'Still waters run deep'? His waters are very still and very deep. I've never seen him so animated about anything." The voice paused. "Anything."
There was a moment of silence, then the lawyer said, "Right then. See you tomorrow."
An hour later, she slid into a cold metal chair at The Daily Grind, the manila folder a solid weight on the table between them. Ridge was already there, two black coffees steaming in paper cups. He looked up from his phone, his expression shifting into something focused and neutral. All business.
“Okay,” she said, flipping the folder open. “Let’s do this. The numbers.”
For forty minutes, they spoke in a low, clinical shorthand. Gross revenue, net profit, seasonal dips, customer loyalty program metrics. He asked sharp questions, his pen jotting notes in the margin of her printouts. She explained the silent partnership with the local roaster, the percentages from the poetry readings. It was a dissection of her life’s work, and it felt strangely vulnerable.
“This is good,” he murmured, tracing a line on a quarterly graph. “This upward trend in the last four months is vital. It shows growth, not stagnation. It undermines their ‘hardship’ argument.”
“I did a themed display for Noir November,” she said, a flicker of pride breaking through the tension. “Hard-boiled detectives and whiskey recommendations. It was a hit.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “See? That’s the stuff. That’s character. That’s non-replicable corporate strategy.” He took a sip of coffee, his gaze lingering on her. “You’re good at this. The books, the business. All of it.”
The compliment, delivered so matter-of-factly, disarmed her. She looked down at her own cooling coffee. “It’s just my shop.”
“It’s not ‘just’ anything.” He closed the folder gently. “You’re ready for Eleanor. She’s going to be blunt. Don’t take it personally.”
“What’s she like?”
“Imagine a hawk in a Prada suit. Brilliant. Cutthroat. She likes winning more than she likes money.” He paused. “She also doesn’t suffer fools. So be direct. Tell her everything, including how we met.”
Rebecca’s head snapped up. “What? Why?”
“Because Corinth will make it an issue if they find out. They’ll frame it as a conspiracy, a malicious plot from a jilted lover. We need to disclose it first, control the narrative.” His eyes were steady, acknowledging the ugliness ahead. “It’s a vulnerability. We hand it to her so she can armor-plate it.”
The word ‘lover’ hung in the air between them, stark and clumsy. It felt too soft for what had happened, yet too intimate for what they were now. She just nodded, swallowing hard.
The following evening found them in a minimalist office on the eighteenth floor, all cold glass and a breathtaking, detached view of the city’s glittering grid. Eleanor Vance was indeed a hawk—sleek, silver-streaked dark hair, eyes that missed nothing. She shook Rebecca’s hand with a firm, dry grip and gestured to a chair without looking at Ridge.
“Tell me,” Eleanor said, steepling her fingers. “From the beginning. Omit nothing.”
Rebecca took a sharp breath, the sterile office air tasting of lemon cleaner and ambition. She started with the notebook, him leaving it on the poetry shelf, him returning that same night. She kept her voice flat, recounting the flirtation over Neruda, the undeniable pull. She told it like a police report, stripping the emotion out.
“We had sex in my stockroom,” she said, the words blunt and heavy in the quiet room. “It was impulsive. Reckless. Before I knew who he really was.”
Eleanor’s expression didn’t change. She merely glanced at Ridge, who was staring at a point on the flawless glass desk, his jaw rigid. “And when did you ascertain ‘who he really was’?” Eleanor asked.
“The next day. I dug. I found his name on the Meridian proposal drafts.” Rebecca leaned forward, her palms pressing into the cool leather of the chair arms. “I confronted him. We agreed to share business data to build an alternative proposal. A professional alliance. That’s the relationship now. It’s strictly about the work.”
She emphasized the last sentence, locking eyes with Ridge for a second. His gaze was unreadable, a storm held behind grey glass. He gave a single, curt nod of confirmation.
“I see,” Eleanor said, making a note on a legal pad with a precise, scratching sound. “And the continued personal involvement?”
“There is none,” Rebecca stated, the finality in her voice surprising even her. “What happened before was a collision. A mistake born of not knowing. Now we know. Now we have a common enemy. That’s the only thing that matters.”
The lawyer appraised her for a long, silent moment, then shifted her hawkish attention to Ridge. “And you agree with this characterization? A mistake? A purely tactical alliance?”
Ridge’s voice was low, gravelly. “I agree that the alliance is what’s important. I agree that Corinth needs to be stopped. My motivations are irrelevant to the case.”
“They’re entirely relevant if they become a weapon,” Eleanor countered, setting her pen down. “But you were right to bring this to me first. It’s a fissure. We seal it up front.” She turned back to Rebecca. “So. You’re business associates. You’re sharing information to support a legal challenge against a mutual threat. Any further personal contact will be documented and related directly to this effort. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” they said in unison, the word hanging in the air like a signed contract.
“Good.” Eleanor opened a fresh file. “Then let’s plan. The fast-tracked hearing changes everything. A traditional, reasoned appeal is now a loser’s game. We need to create friction. We need to make you a public relations nightmare for them.”
She outlined a strategy that was both brutal and elegant. They would file the procedural lawsuit Ridge had mentioned, but simultaneously, they would launch a targeted campaign. “We need the story of the shop,” Eleanor said, pointing a finger at Rebecca. “Not the numbers. The story. The poetry-reading mom. The record player. The veteran who comes in every Tuesday for a new western. We weaponize sentiment.”
Rebecca felt a spark ignite in her chest. This was a language she understood. “I have customer emails. A mailing list. I know people. Local journalists, bloggers.”
“Mobilize them. But discreetly. Nothing public until we file.” Eleanor’s eyes gleamed. “Ridge, you’ll handle the internal sabotage. I need you to identify every procedural shortcut Meridian took. Every uncleared memo, every misplaced initial. The goal is to bury them in discovery delays and administrative appeals.”
“I can do that,” he said, his posture straightening, finally on solid ground. “Their paperwork is rushed. It’s sloppy. I’ve seen it.”
“And you?” Eleanor asked Rebecca. “You’re ready for the spotlight? They will dig into your life. They will try to discredit you. They will possibly trace your… previous connection… and spin it.”
Rebecca thought of the stockroom, the heat and the whisper of paper. She thought of her quiet, ordered shelves. “Let them try,” she said, her voice quiet and steady. “It’s just a story. And I’ll tell a better one.”
Eleanor smiled, a thin, razor-sharp expression. “Excellent.” She handed them each a list of actions, a calendar of brutal deadlines. “We file in one week. The war starts then. Until then, you’re ghosts. You communicate through encrypted channels I’ll set up. You meet only here, or in the open with clear, public purpose. Understood?”
They both nodded, the weight of the coming fight settling over them, a tangible thing. As they stood to leave, Ridge hesitated, looking at Rebecca. “You have the customer list on the shop computer?” he asked, his tone purely practical.
“Yes. At the store.”
“I’ll walk you back. We can discuss the best way to segment the data for outreach.” It was a flimsy excuse for them to be together, but it fit within the new, rigid rules.
Eleanor watched them, a faint, calculating tilt to her head. “Keep it professional,” she reminded them, not unkindly. “Your emotions are explosives now. Only use them where they’ll do the most damage to the other side.”
The city at night was a different beast, colder and more indifferent than the intimate, rain-slicked streets of their first walk. They moved through the crowds in silence for a block, the space between them charged with everything they’d just boxed up and labeled ‘tactical.’
“She’s intense,” Rebecca finally said, her breath forming a pale cloud.
“She wins,” Ridge replied, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. “That story angle is smart. It’s your strength. Corinth can’t fight a ghost. They can fight a spreadsheet. They don’t know how to fight a community.”
“I need to talk to people. Carefully.” She thought of Elara, of old Mr. Henderson with his westerns. “I hate using them.”
“You’re not using them. You’re giving them a way to fight for something they love.” He stopped at a crosswalk, the red light reflecting in his eyes. “It’s not manipulation if it’s the truth. And it is the truth, isn’t it?”
She looked at him, really looked, searching for the strategist, for the Meridian man. She saw only fatigue and a fierce, resolved focus that mirrored her own. “It’s the truth.”
They reached the bookstore’s dark awning. The CLOSED sign hung in the door. This was where he’d kissed her cheek. Where everything had changed again.
“The data segmentation,” she said, turning to him, all business. “I’ll pull the lists tomorrow. I can categorize by purchase history, frequency. You think we should prioritize the local residents?”
“Yes. And anyone who’s attended an event. They’re the most invested.” He was looking at her mouth, then quickly away. “I’ll draft a template for the email. You should be the sole sender. It has to come from you, not a lawyer, not a consultant.”
“Right.” She unlocked the door, the familiar click overly loud. She didn’t go in. They stood on the threshold, the warm, book-scented darkness at her back, the cold street at his. “So. We have our orders.”
“We have a plan,” he corrected. A hint of that old, dark humor touched his voice. “It’s slightly more sophisticated than me yelling about juice bars.”
A surprised laugh escaped her, sharp and brief in the night. “Marginally.” She shook her head, the reality of it all pressing in. “One week.”
“One week,” he echoed. His gaze held hers, and for a fractured second, the professional distance shattered. She saw the memory of the stockroom in his eyes, the chaos and the honesty of it. Then he blinked, and the wall was back. “I’ll be in touch through the secure line. Good night, Rebecca.”
He turned and walked away, not looking back. She watched him disappear, just like before. But this time, she wasn’t standing still. She stepped inside, flipped on the small desk lamp, and her shadow fell long across the poetry section. The work was already beginning. She sat down at the computer, the glow of the screen her only light, and opened the file labeled “Customer List.” Her first click was a declaration of war.