Page 139 of Sugar & Shadows

He dipped his chin. “True. And between flannel companies and axe manufacturers, we’ll probably have fights for naming rights.”

“Excellent. Harper says violence is great for social engagement.”

“But…”

There it was. The roadblock.

My stomach sank, but I ignored the sensation. “Tell me. Every time you try to accomplish anything in government, there is always a but. Tell me.”

“We need a town vote.”

Groaning, I threw myself back against the fluffy pillows. “Fuck,” I growled at the ceiling. “Why does this town have to vote on everything? They take their democracy way too seriously around here.”

“Section 12 of our municipal charter requires two-thirds majority voter approval for any new budget initiative over a certain amount.”

I slapped the comforter with a huff. “Are you fucking kidding me? Who wrote this shit?”

“Mostly farmers around 1776.”

“Bastards. They were all white, land-owning men. We should not still be listening to them.”

His smile widened. My heart fluttered. That damn crooked expression caused me a lot of problems.

“But…” He held up a finger. “We only need twenty-one days to get it on the ballot.”

Excitement zapped through me. I sat up, snagging another cookie.

“So we could vote at the recall meeting?”

He nodded.

The meeting where the town would also vote on whether they kept Gabe as mayor. I hated the position they’d put him in. That these people had no idea what this man sacrificed for this town.

“Okay,” I said, mustering all my energy. It would be a wild twenty-one days, but we’d get it packaged and marketed to the public. I’d done more with less. “How do I get it added?”

He hummed. “There’s good news and bad news.”

“Be serious, Harding.”

“The good news,” he said, lips tipping up, “is that you’re kind of sleeping with the mayor.” He winked at me. “So you’ve got an in.”

I clutched my imaginary pearls. “The scandal. And the bad news?”

He scratched his chin. “The proposal has to be reviewed and approved by the chair of the town finance committee before it can go to a public vote.”

“Okay.” So I have to meet with and grease the wheels of some small-town bureaucrat. That’s barely a Tuesday for me.

“And the chair is Brooks Bramble-Rutledge.”

Reality hit me like a slap. “Bramble, as in related to Bitsy Bramble?”

He nodded. “Yes, Brooks and Bitsy have been married for more than forty—I assume deeply unpleasant—years. He hyphenated to show deference to her esteemed family history.”

Air wheezed from my lungs. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Afraid not.”

Eyes closed, I massaged my temples. I was not in peak form for the psychological warfare this would require. However, breaking Bitsy’s spirits would probably be healing. Practically therapeutic.