Page 17 of Hottie on Her Shelf
Fitz almost choked. The eternal twenty-one-year-old in him wanted to indeed give her a bone. If she’d phrased it like that deliberately, he was in trouble.
But before he could say anything—not that he’d thought of a response that wouldn’t result in an immediate glass of juice in his face—the president of the club stepped up to the mic.
Then he tapped it, resulting in the inevitable thwomp and immediate screech of feedback. Gerald would never learn. “Welcome to the campaign kickoff for Swan Cove’s next mayor!”
Polite applause rolled through the room. Fitz would estimate at least thirty people didn’t bother to put down their forks and participate. He glanced at Hallie.
She wasn’t clapping. She wasn’t eating.
Every bit of color had leached from her face. Either she was about to pass out, or she was terrified.
Yes, she’d brought this on herself. Or, at least, her friend had. But Fitz still felt bad for her. You didn’t dip your toe into campaigning. It was more like being flung out of a helicopter in the middle of…whatever ocean had the most sharks.
With a casual nudge, he sent his knife off the table onto the floor in between them. Leaning down, he whispered, “It’ll be okay. Just be yourself.”
Maybe she heard him. Maybe not, since Gerald was still yammering away.
“Mr. Mayor, we’ll lead off with a question for you.” Gerald pointed at an elderly man practically vibrating with excitement. The club had a lottery every year for the honor of asking the first question of the campaign.
It usually terrified Fitz to think of how many tickets his dad probably bought.
“Mayor Montgomery, I’m Reggie Shaw.”
“Reggie, no need for introductions. You think I’d forget the man who taught me how to drive?” Reggie had already been ancient when Fitz took driver’s ed from him. It focused you, wondering if your teacher was about to slump over at any second.
He mimed putting his hands on the wheel. “Ten and two will get you through!”
Okay, Fitz had forgotten that old chestnut. He forced a smile and tried to share it with Hallie, but she only had eyes for her fruit. “What’s on your mind, Reggie?”
“What are your thoughts on the expansion of the downtown area?”
Fitz swallowed hard. Hell.
The old guy was leading off with a hot-button issue. The plans weren’t even official public knowledge—they’d only shared the proposal at a Chamber of Commerce meeting to gauge the response among businesses that would be the most affected.
There was a good chance Hallie didn’t know about it. Or anything more than a rumbling, a hint. Plenty of people wanted to keep the downtown area intact. No buildings over three stories. No official expansion away from the already delineated six-block area by the harbor.
Plenty of other people thought growth was necessary, not just to expand tourism and bolster the economy, but because the population of locals had grown. Cygnet Labs was one of the top genomic research facilities in the country. Once they’d based their headquarters in Swan Cove, the population spiked by an additional 1,500—plus their kids and spouses.
Sure, the sixty-eight-building lab campus had its own cafeteria and gym and cleaners. But the bottom line was that Swan Cove was now bursting at the seams, both with people and with the demand for more services. And all those new people got visitors, which was why the centerpiece of the expansion idea was a hotel and marina.
Fitz didn’t need to glance over the room to know that the split was probably fifty-fifty. Whatever he answered would piss off a good half of the attendees.
Number one rule of campaigning—according to Derek, anyway? If you have to tell people something they don’t want to hear, just don’t tell them. Pivot. Make a joke. Change the subject.
As his gaze skimmed over the silver strands atop his dad’s head, the answer came to him. Make a joke. “The obvious first thought is that my dad’s going to want his name splashed across whatever might get built.”
You couldn’t blink without seeing Montgomery in some form on at least one of the nearest three buildings. Plus, it was self-deprecating, since everyone thought Fitz sponged off his family’s trust fund.
Yep. The whole room chuckled. Crisis averted. The guy closest to his dad threw an elbow, and his dad tossed back a crumpled linen napkin. It was all jovial—until Gerald pointed his gavel at Hallie. “Miss Scott. If you would please give your answer to the same question.”
“Oh.” She blotted her mouth. Poked her glasses higher on the bridge of her pert nose. “Well, it can’t be just a single question. You can’t answer if it should be done unless you first assess how it should be done. Historical preservation is, of course, the delicate seesaw on which the whole thing balances. Do we preserve our history—and all the challenges that poses—to the exclusion of future growth? Do we find a middle ground, vis-à-vis rehabbing what is most pressing and pertinent to the historical sense of Swan Cove as a whole? Or do we embrace the fact that we have flourished as a community? Celebrate our successes by expanding accordingly for the betterment of all?”
Holy hell.
That was…a lot of words. All of which circled the generality of preservation vs. expansion, rather than diving into the specifics. It signaled to Fitz that this was the first she’d heard of the proposal.
He wouldn’t just have time to finish his breakfast while Hallie spoke. At this rate, he’d get a jump on lunch, too.
