Page 154 of Sugar & Shadows

“Yes,” I said with an aggressive smile. “You know how much I love economic posturing, weaponized incompetence, and emotionally repressed men in fleece vests.”

Gabe choked back a laugh.

Ethan stared at me for a moment. Then, without a word, he turned and walked away.

“I fucking hate that guy,” Gabe snarled.

I patted his chest. “You sound jealous.”

“More like homicidal.”

“Now who’s at risk of committing felonies?” I teased, waggling my brows.

We endured the meeting, which was nothing more than a bunch of bloated jerks congratulating themselves for existing. One guy got up and bragged about how some tech billionaire from California had bought a multi-generational family farm and was turning it into a compound, thus “elevating the brand experience.” Apparently the phrase meant evicting people and building a helipad.

“That sounds like a worst-case scenario,” I whispered to Gabe.

He squeezed my thigh. “We’d never let that happen to our farmers.”

Our farmers. The possessiveness hit me.

Next came several cracks at Maplewood and the most half-assed presentation I’d ever seen about how they were going to “dominate” the Maple Festival in a few weeks, along with several other examples of excessive mediocrity. They celebrated Maplewood’s “declining demographics” and our “negative public perception.” Which I could now say with certainty was a direct sabotage campaign. If they could get bimbo influencers to bad-mouth our town, who knew what else they were capable of.

When one woman lamented that Will McManus’s murder was “an unfortunate branding event,” I almost launched myself across the room.

Gabe clutched my arm, keeping me in place while we were forced to endure a very boring and uninspired presentation about their upcoming Maple Festival, which consisted of old drone footage, corporate sponsors, and more beige than any maple tree deserves.

We attracted several stares, and by the end of the meeting, most of the people in attendance were whispering about us. I didn’t care. I was used to having a healthy supply of haters. I even cupped my belly a few times, enjoying how some of the older women gasped in disapproval.

Near the end, a severe middle-aged woman with a tight perm from the economic development council was answering questions. “Several of you have asked me about social media. Apparently Maplewood has decided to lean into”—her face screwed up like she smelled something foul—“social media gimmicks.”

Around the room, chuckles went up.

I clenched my fists, keeping my anger safely under control.

“We won’t be lowering ourselves to spectacle. Birch Hollow values sophistication. Which is why we attract a more elite clientele.”

“But they keep going viral,” a woman from the crowd said. “They’ve got subscriptions and live streams and merchandise.”

The speaker waved a dismissive hand. “We know what drives tourism. And we’ve been preparing for this for years. This town is better than online fads. We are the pinnacle of regional luxury tourism.”

I looked at Gabe.

He looked back at me.

Then, suddenly, we were both laughing. And it wasn’t quiet, polite laughter either.

This was objectively hilarious.

“They wish they could achieve our authentic chaotic charm,” I said between giggles.

“Harper will eat them alive once we tell her.”

“She’ll be making edits dunking on them before the day is over.”

We got up to leave, our heads held high and my hand in his as every eye followed us out the door.

While Birch Hollow might have corporate money and asshole billionaires and helipads, Maplewood was blessed in so many more important ways.