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“Scratch paper.” Griffin set down the coffees and slid the notebook out from under my hand, snapping the band back into place. The tips of his ears had gone red.

“That’s a lot of scratch.”

“It helps me think.” He tucked it into his bag. I didn’t argue, but I didn’t forget what I’d seen.

We worked until the garland crew reached the bottom stair. He quizzed me the way I’d once quizzed him, trading roles for the fun of it. “Walk me through your closing answer,” he said. “What if the council asks about Meridian’s statement?”

“I say our vendors signed paper, our budget hangs on the wall of the visitor center, and Holly Creek doesn’t take editorial direction from San Francisco.”

“You’re better at my job than my lawyers are.”

“I know. I charge less, too.”

He came around the table and tucked a loose tab back into my binder, and his hand settled on the cover beside mine, close enough that I could count the calluses I’d developed opinions about. “Nineteen days,” he said, quieter. “Then the festival opens, Crane gets bored, and I take you somewhere with no spreadsheets.”

“There’s nowhere with no spreadsheets.”

“There’s a sleigh.”

He leaned in. Cocoa lingered on his breath, and the table edge pressed into my hip because neither of us bothered to move around it.

His phone rang.

He checked the screen, and his face went blank. “My lender,” he said. “I have to take this.”

He stepped out the side door into the parking lot. I gave him ten minutes, then followed with his coat, because the man owned four kinds of insurance and no sense about December.

When I reached him, the call had ended. He stood beneath the parking lot light, staring at his phone. I held out his coat, and he put it on without looking at me. “Tell me.”

“Crane sent my bank a file designed to make me look like a bad risk.” His voice went flat. He kept staring at the screen.

“What did he send?”

“Photographs of the stalled Portland projects and a claim that I no longer meet the liquidity requirement in my loan agreements. The claim is wrong, but the bank has put tomorrow’s construction draws on hold until I prove it. Their credit committee meets in San Francisco at nine, and they want me there with updated financials.”

“On hold, meaning what?”

“Without those draws, my company has to cover costs the bank was supposed to reimburse. That leaves thirty-two employees short of payroll Friday and nearly three hundred subcontractors and suppliers waiting for checks. If the bank decides I no longer meet the loan terms, it can stop funding both projects. Then I default, and every building I own, including this block, is at risk.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “There’s a late flight out of Portland at eleven fifty. The airline held the last seat for ten minutes, so I booked it while you were inside. I called Rosie next. She’s already driving up.”

“You booked the flight and called Rosie.”

“The seat would have been gone.”

“I’m not asking you to miss the plane. Thirty-two people need their paychecks. Go.”

“The council meets at nine,” he said. “I’ll join by video. Rosie has every vendor file, every budget line, and every password I own. She can sit with you in the room.”

I held up a hand. “Stop.”

“You had time to make the travel plan, call Rosie, and decide how I would handle tomorrow. You didn’t have time to walk inside and say, ‘This happened. Help me.’”

“I had ten minutes and a bank freezing two projects.”

“I know. That’s why I’m trying very hard not to make this about the plane.”

“Then what is it about?”