“Communities,” Ortiz said. “Businesses with deep local connections. Places people rely on. Like your bakery.”
Reagan’s coffeepot paused for half a second behind him.
Cara smiled. “That sounds very flattering.”
“It is.” Ortiz folded his hands loosely over the notebook. “Small towns are interesting. People get attached to routines.”
“Routines make people feel safe.”
“They do.” His smile stayed pleasant. “Until something interrupts them.”
There it was, soft enough to deny later, clear enough that she couldn’t mistake the threat.
Cara rested one fingertip on the edge of the business card. “Well,” she said lightly, “that would certainly hurt the pastry economy.”
Ortiz laughed, but his eyes didn’t. “We’re about preserving communities. We try to identify vulnerable anchors before problems develop.”
“Vulnerable?”
“Every business has pressure points.” He lifted a shoulder. “Staffing. Supply chains. Family obligations. Security gaps. Informal networks.”
Informal networks.
Cara kept her face easy while something cold and precise clicked into place inside her. He wasn’t asking about Sugar & Salt. He was telling her Neptune knew about Sweet and Sawyer.
She forced a shrug. “We’re pretty ordinary.”
“Are you?” The question landed softly. Its message didn’t.
Cara tilted her head. “Most days.”
Ortiz watched her for one beat too long, then smiled again and opened his notebook.
“Northwest Community Conservancy sometimes provides grants to help businesses strengthen their community role. Improvements. Programming. Employee support. Things like that.”
“Generous.”
“We believe stable communities are worth protecting.”
“So do I.”
Reagan set the coffeepot down behind him.
Ortiz’s gaze moved briefly toward the sound, then returned to Cara. “You’ve built something special here.”
“I inherited a lot of it.”
“And improved it.” He tapped his pen lightly against the notebook. “People talk.”
“People do love to talk.”
“Especially when they’re worried.”
Cara’s smile did not move. “Are people worried?”
“Some are.”
“About pastries?”