Page 39 of Knot Her Beta

“Maybe,” I concede, leaning forward despite myself.

No one else in my life enjoys this kind of work except Dominic, and we rarely have time to sit down and talk.

“The indie space moves faster than traditional publishing,” I say. “It takes a completely different skill set.”

“Which we need at Bennett Media.” She sits back as a servant brings in the first course, a cold plate of simmered beets. “Adaptability. Niche audience building. Direct reader engagement. All of it.”

My father clears his throat from the head of the table. “The acquisition timeline’s moved up. Bennett’s board wants everything signed by June, which means integration planning needs to start next week.”

He turns to me. “Grady’s been tracking the subscription metrics. His read on the retention numbers has been spot-on.”

Pride, warm and complicated, spreads through me. My father doesn’t hand out compliments often.

My mother turns to Caroline. “Your sister’s wedding was in Newport, wasn’t it? How did the renovations turn out?”

Caroline’s focus shifts without a hitch. “Beautiful. They expanded the east terrace. You can see the harbor from every table now.”

The conversation flows, my father outlining the acquisition structure, and when I offer a thought on the digital asset integration, he listens without interrupting.

My mother draws Caroline into a discussion about coastal property values, and Caroline answers with the same insight she brought to the literary agent questions.

When the conversation circles back to Bennett Media’s expansion plans, I mention a gap in their regional coverage, where the stretch between Portland and Bar Harbor gets treated as a tourism corridor when it’s three distinct markets with different reader habits.

Caroline sets her fork down, her face brightening as she latches onto the topic. “That’s the blind spot their editorial team has. They’re working from a Boston-centric model.”

She turns to my father. “The subscriber data backs that up. Retention drops twenty percent north of Portland.”

My father jots down a note on his phone without looking up. “We’ll address it in the integration doc.”

The ease of everything should be comforting. The debriefs I studied during the long flight helped me carry through the various conversations. Instead, it sits heavy in my stomach, like a meal eaten that turns sour once it’s swallowed.

“Grady’s journalism work has been a productive outlet during his recovery,” my father says when the conversation turns to my long absence. “It’s given him a creative channel while he’s been getting back on his feet.”

My mother reaches for her wine glass. “It’s been wonderful to see him using his mind for more than flights of fancy.”

“Negotiating multi-million-dollar book deals is hardly a flight of fancy,” Caroline murmurs, the reproach couched in a demure smile, before she turns to me. “What article are you working on right now?”

“The rise of monster romance and what it says about the current view of the male population,” I say, taking a dig at my mother for her comment.

“Grady,” she gasps.

Caroline throws back her head and laughs, putting the slender line of her throat on full display. “Oh, I can’t wait to read that one.” Her hand lights on my arm. “Though, I don’t think the entire male population should be written off just yet.”

I stare down at that point of contact, not disliking it, but not liking it either. Caroline is a beautiful, intelligent woman, but she doesn’t stir me at all. Not the way Emily does.

As the server appears with the next course, a rack of lamb with a rosemary crust, my father launches into a discussion of Q2 projections.

Caroline’s hand slips away as she turns to him and engages, asking a clarifying question about the Southeast regional numbers. When my father references a market analysis from three weeks ago, she turns back to me.

“That’s the one you flagged for over-indexing on urban centers, right? The demographic weighting issue?”

I stare at her. “Yes. That’s the one.”

She holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then returns to her lamb.

The dynamic works. She listens. She retains. She engages with the level of detail that matters. Across the table, my parents exchange a look I’ve seen a thousand times, the subtle, satisfied acknowledgment of people watching a plan unfold exactly as designed.

And that’s the problem. The path under my feet is already paved, and every step carries me farther down it. The terrible part is how natural it is. How easy.