The Princess's Knight Complex

Chapter 2: An Offer, Not a Rescue

I spent the next twenty minutes helping the hotel staff find an electrician while Graham stayed out of the way.

When the lights came back on, the guests applauded. Tessa kissed Adrian beneath the restored chandelier, and the quartet began again as if the pause had been rehearsed. I had been halfway through texting the hotel manager when Graham appeared beside me with my coat.

"Your friend said you were leaving," he said.

"I am. The center opens early tomorrow."

"You don't have to explain."

"I know."

I took the coat. His fingers brushed mine, and I noticed how warm his hands were. The observation was inconvenient, so I stepped into my sleeves.

Outside, the rain had thinned to mist. The hotel sat above the harbor, and the wind pushed salt air through the open entrance.

"Can I call you about coffee?" Graham asked.

"You're asking for my number."

"I am."

I handed him my phone.

He entered his contact information and returned it. His name appeared on the screen without a title, foundation, or family crest. Just Graham.

"Don't let Tessa know you got it," I said.

"She'll find out."

"She will."

"Then I'll try to look surprised."

I walked down the hotel steps toward the parking lot, and I could feel his gaze on my back. It didn't feel like being watched. It felt like being noticed, which was worse.

The next morning I opened Harbor House at seven. The building had been a ferry warehouse before the town turned the harbor into a marina. Its brick walls were scarred, its windows were tall, and the heating system complained every time the temperature dropped. I loved it anyway.

By nine, the first students arrived. A group of teenagers filled the print studio, and a retired fisherman named Len set out the coffee urn. I spent the morning directing people toward supplies and keeping a boy named Mateo from using a glue g*n on his sweatshirt.

At noon, our building manager, Ruth, came into my office holding a letter.

"From the city," she said.

I took it. The paper was letter-size, the envelope stamped with the Bellweather Redevelopment Authority. A proposed waterfront plan would put a row of private offices and boutique shops where Harbor House stood. The lease renewal we'd expected in June was now under review.

I read the letter twice.

"Is it a notice to vacate?" Ruth asked.

"No. It's a public comment notice. They want to hear from us before they make a recommendation."

"That's something."

"That's not much."

I called the redevelopment office. I waited on hold, listened to recorded piano music, then learned that Harbor House was one of several properties being considered for redevelopment. I asked for the plans, the timeline, and the name of the committee chair. The woman on the phone gave me a public website and told me the hearing would be in six weeks.

After I hung up, I stared at my budget spreadsheet. We had enough money to keep operating for four months. If the lease changed, we wouldn't have anywhere to go. If we lost the building, our students would lose the only free studio in the neighborhood.

My phone buzzed.

Graham: Coffee still on the table. No foundation discussion unless you bring it up.

I looked at the message for a long time before replying.

Me: You can meet me at Harbor House. I have thirty minutes.

He arrived twenty minutes later carrying two paper cups. He paused in the doorway as a dozen children crossed the main room, paint on their hands and backpacks swinging.

"I didn't know it was this busy," he said.

"That's because you've only driven past."

He handed me one coffee. It was plain, exactly the way I drank it. I didn't ask how he knew.

We sat at a worktable covered in dried blue paint. I told him about the redevelopment letter. He listened without interrupting, his fingers resting around his cup.

"Have you seen the full proposal?" he asked.

"Not yet."

"Would you like me to find it?"

"No."

He waited.

"I'll get it myself," I said. "I don't want this to become your project."

"It's already your project."

"Then I need to handle it."

"I can respect that."

He took a sip of coffee. The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It made me want to tell him more, which seemed like a dangerous reason to trust someone.

"What brought you to the foundation?" I asked.

"Family."

"That sounds like an answer designed to avoid the question."

"It is."

"So what's the real answer?"

He set his cup down. "My sister died when I was twenty. She had been funding a small scholarship program. The foundation took it over, and I joined the board because nobody else knew what she wanted."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you."

His voice stayed level, but his thumb pressed against the paper cup. I didn't ask what had happened. He hadn't offered more.

At the door, one of the teenagers called my name. I stood, and Graham stood with me.

"You can leave the coffee," I said. "Or take it."

"I'll leave it."

"That isn't a donation."

"No. It's coffee."

He walked out without asking for anything in return.

For the rest of the day, the empty cup sat beside my computer. I couldn't decide whether it was a sign of respect or the first step in a campaign.