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I take a small notepad and pen from inside my jacket and hold them out. She won’t tell me to go to hell in front of the whole room. At least, I don’t think she will.

Rachel stands and reaches for them, but I pull them back. “You’ll need to sit beside me.”

“I can take notes from over there.”

“How am I supposed to check them?”

Her eyes narrow. We both know I don’t care what she writes. She put me alone in front of this room to throw me off, and I intend to keep her beside me for whatever she has planned. Refusing would only draw more attention.

After a moment, she brings her chair over and places it next to mine.

I smile as if she agreed willingly. “There. Much better.”

Her mouth tightens as she sits. I hand her the notepad and pen. Her bare knee brushes mine before she shifts away. The brief touch brings back the fantasy I had before dinner—Rachel against a wall, her legs around my waist. For a second, I forget we have an audience.

I turn to face them as though I know exactly why I’m here.

“Where should we start?”

A pleasant-looking woman in a purple blouse raises her hand. “I’m Jenn. I own the florist.”

“Jenn from the florist. I’m Eric. Nice to meet you.”

Her smile tells me the charm is working. “You too.”

I lean back as if I know exactly what comes next and wait for her to explain why I’m here.

“The iron railings around the sidewalk planters are loose,” Jenn says. “One of my customers caught her coat on one last week.”

I pause. The railings belong to the city, so I have no idea what they have to do with me. Before I can say that, Rachel writes sidewalk planters on the notepad.

A man farther back raises his hand. “The streetlights near the theater are too dim. We’ve complained to the city twice.”

Rachel adds streetlights beneath the first problem.

I look from the growing list to the satisfaction on Rachel’s face and finally understand. She didn’t bring me here to discuss the service lane. She brought me here to hear every complaint on Hartwell Boulevard. I still can’t work out why.

The list keeps growing. Delivery trucks block the crossing during the afternoon rush. Rubbish bins overflow on weekends. Two paving stones outside the café are broken, and the bench near the theater rocks whenever anyone sits on it.

I let everyone speak. If Rachel expects me to grow bored or lose patience, she’ll be disappointed. I ask how long each problem has existed, whether it has been reported, and what the city has done about it.

Then Leo, the theater owner, raises his hand.

“There’s one bigger issue.”

Naturally.

“The storm drain outside the theater needs to be replaced. Whenever we get heavy rain, water comes through our side entrance. The city inspected it last year, but they said replacing the line would cost too much.”

“How much is too much?” I ask.

“The last estimate was around eighty thousand dollars.”

Rachel sits a little straighter. “Voss has gone to great lengths to show us what a generous neighbor it can be. I’m sure Eric will be happy to take care of it.”

There it is.

Every face turns toward me, and several people nod. Before I can answer, Rachel writes storm drain—$80,000 on my notepad.