Page 53 of Unlocking Melodies

“He has strong opinions about most things. Very judgmental for someone who lives on a pond.” His smile softened slightly. “And yes.”

“Yes, my suit is inappropriate for waterfowl encounters?”

“Yes to dinner.” He watched my expression with something between amusement and fondness. “Though maybe somewhere without dress codes. For Mr. Quackers' sake.”

My heart did something completely unprofessional in my chest. Before I could respond, my phone buzzed yet again. This time the screen showed my father's name.

Jimmy caught my instinctive glance. “You should probably get that. Before the entire business world implodes from lack of attention.”

“They can wait.” The certainty in my voice surprised even me. “Some things are more important.”

His smile then – quick and genuine and achingly familiar – made every ignored message worth it. Mr. Quackers, apparentlysatisfied with his role in facilitating human interaction, waddled off to terrorize another jogger.

“So,” Jimmy said, watching me try to salvage what remained of my suit's dignity, “is this dinner a business meeting? Should I prepare a PowerPoint about duck-based economic theories?”

“I think Mr. Quackers has that market cornered.” I found myself really smiling for what felt like the first time in ages. “No, this is... just dinner. If that's okay.”

“Just dinner,” he repeated softly, like he was testing how the words felt. “I'd like that. Although,” Jimmy added, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “you might want to change first. You're a bit... damp.”

“Your criminal mastermind of a duck friend did that on purpose.”

“Probably. He's very protective of my virtue.”

The laugh that escaped me felt foreign – too real, too unguarded. But Jimmy's answering smile made me think maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

My phone buzzed one more time, then fell silent. Through the screen, I could see my father's message.

Fatherly Figure

Some things matter more than business, son. Don't mess this up again.

For once, my father and I were in perfect agreement.

A suspicious amount of activity suddenly erupted around the duck pond. Mrs. Henderson appeared with her eternally exhausted pug, Winston, who looked about as interested in their “casual evening walk” as he was in actually walking. They made three increasingly slow passes by our bench, Winston being practically dragged along in his owner's enthusiasm for surveillance.

Riley materialized behind a nearby tree, armed with binoculars and what was probably supposed to look like a birdwatching notebook but definitely had “DUCK POND DEVELOPMENT???” written across the top in large letters.

Even Officer Dawn got in on the action, performing what had to be the most thorough patrol of a duck pond in law enforcement history. She spent a suspiciously long time examining a bush that happened to be within perfect eavesdropping distance.

“I think,” Jimmy said, fighting back a grin, “we've drawn an audience.”

“What gave it away? The pug's fourth lap or Riley's completely subtle note-taking?”

“You know,” he added thoughtfully, “if I say no to dinner, Mrs. Henderson might never make me her famous cookies again. The stakes are surprisingly high.”

“Ah yes, the cookie leverage. A classic small-town negotiation tactic.”

Winston the pug chose that moment to stage what appeared to be a protest sit-in, forcing Mrs. Henderson to pretend intense interest in a nearby flower while trying to convince him to move.

The absurdity of our completely unsubtle audience finally broke whatever tension remained. Then my brain, apparently deciding I hadn't embarrassed myself enough for one evening, kicked into default planning mode.

“I could have my helicopter here in an hour,” I heard myself say. “There's this amazing place in Manhattan that?—“

Jimmy's eyebrows climbed steadily higher.

“Or,” I course-corrected rapidly, “I know an excellent private chef who could?—“

The eyebrows remained skeptical.

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