Page 59 of Strawberry Moon

“It’s fine, dear,” Barbara said, returning to get a second plate for Ford. “We haven’t even started yet. And we don’t stand on formality around here.”

I accepted the call, but before I could even hiss out my displeasure at breakfast being interrupted, Andy’s voice came streaming over the line. “You have to get here, now. I don’t know how the hell they know, Archer, but they know.”

“Know?”

“About you being bitten. About you getting close to the Groves.” His voice echoed oddly, like maybe he was calling from the bathroom, and I had to stifle a hysterical laugh at the idea of it. Andy, excusing himself to call me from the bathroom, worried about... well, everything.

If it was too soon, the board knowing could ruin our plans.

I didn’t laugh. Didn’t cry. Just took a deep breath and let it out as slow as my lungs were willing to. “Okay. When are they meeting?”

“In an hour. There’s barely time for you to even get here, let alone—and they aren’t planning on calling you. They’re just going to—”

“It’s okay, Andy. Everything is fine. You go to the meeting, and do what you need to. I’ll make some calls, and I’ll be there when I can.” He agreed, and I hung up the phone, thinking fast. It made sense, really. If they knew I was all the way in Grovetown, an hour and a half from where the board would be meeting, they could safely call a board meeting for an hour off, and trust that I couldn’t make it.

And I couldn’t. But I did have to get there.

I looked down at my pancakes and sighed. I had so been looking forward to them.

That was when Barbara sat a plastic container in front of Ford instead of a plate of pancakes. At Ford’s raised brow, she shrugged and explained, “This’ll keep the apples from getting your pancakes soggy on the drive. Archer can eat while you drive, and you can eat when you get there.”

Ford didn’t even question, just nodded, set the fork at his place setting on the container, and stood from the table. “Best we get going, then. You want to bring a bottle of water?”

Barbara tucked one into my suit-coat pocket and handed me a glass of orange juice. “Drive careful, Ford. Don’t want him to get food on his nice suit before having to deal with people.”

Ford gave a short nod and led me out to his truck. I climbed inside when he held the door open for me, carefully balancing the plate of pancakes and glass of juice.

The truck was new enough that it had a cup holder, for which I was thankful, since I had calls to make on the way. First, Linden, to warn him that it was time. Then, my lawyer, praying that we were going to be ready.

* * *

The Sterling Buildingin Alexandria wasn’t much to look at, considering it belonged to one of the biggest food conglomerates in the world. Three stories and all square, gray concrete, it felt like an excellent symbol of what we were working against.

And the board meeting on a Sunday morning felt like an underhanded, clandestine attempt to preserve their positions from the consequences of their own behavior.

Maybe because it was.

My lawyer met Ford and I at the door. His clothes were a little rumpled, like maybe he, too, was wearing yesterday’s suit, but it was fine with me. I smiled at him, inclining my head and grabbing Ford’s free hand.

I’d have stopped and introduced them, just for the chance to call Ford “my boyfriend” out loud, but we needed to get to the boardroom before the attempted coup finished and broke up.

Not that it would change anything, but it seemed like a good idea to just finish the whole mess right then.

The walk through the building was tense, despite it being short, and only a single janitor was there to see us pass through, stopping to nod to me before he went back to his vacuum cleaner.

The whole thing would have felt anticlimactic, except for the boardroom itself.

It was like any boardroom. A long room with windows lining it on one side, and no personality whatsoever. Beige walls, a long wood table, and a dozen cushy leather chairs that each cost more than we paid most of our employees in a month.

Most important were the ten old men sitting around the table.

Eric, in a fit of arrogance I hadn’t seen matched other than by my grandfather, was sitting at the head of the table. My grandfather’s place, and technically, now mine.

From the shark-like smile on his face, I was sure he was about to tell me otherwise.

What the hell? I smiled back and decided to let him.

“Well, well, if it isn’t our prodigal son? Or should I say puppy?”

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