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I unfold the paper. Her phone number’s written beneath her name. I crumple it and drop it into the trash bin on our cart. Neither of my brothers comments. We’ve all been handed enough phone numbers over the years that there’s nothing much to say.

I collect my club from the grass. “I’m done.”

“Thank God.” Tom heads straight for the cart.

We put our clubs away and climb in. Daniel takes the wheel, then sets off toward the clubhouse at the speed of an old man pushing a shopping cart.

“You can go faster,” I tell him.

“I could.”

He keeps the same pace.

While I wait, I take out my phone and scroll through my emails. One from Good Morning Alton Hills catches my eye.

Rachel Hartwell is appearing on the show tomorrow to discuss the proposed Voss hotel. The producer wants me to join her for what he calls a friendly debate. He clearly hasn’t met Rachel.

I shake my head. That woman doesn’t quit. First, she got the application delayed. Then she gathered half the boulevard in one room and sent me home with pages of problems to fix. Now she’s taking her fight to television so she can get the rest of the city on her side.

That means I’ll have to get up at some ridiculous hour to defend a hotel I haven’t even built yet. I check the time they want me at the studio and sigh. If Rachel wants to do this, fine. I’ll be there.

She’ll almost certainly lose this fight, but she refuses to give up. That determination is one of the things I like about her, though I’d enjoy it more if she put some of that grit into working with me instead of against me.

I accept the invitation and put my phone away before either of my brothers can ask why I’m smiling.

11

RACHEL

Iarrive at the Good Morning Alton Hills studio at six forty-five with my notes printed, highlighted, and arranged in order. I read through them twice over breakfast. I know the facts, I know the street, and I know why a huge glass tower doesn’t belong there.

A production assistant meets me in the lobby and introduces herself as she leads me to a small green room. I leave my handbag inside, then follow her to makeup. As soon as the makeup artist finishes, the assistant takes me down another corridor to the set.

The host is waiting in a cream armchair. A crew member clips a microphone to my jacket and directs me to a sofa. Everything moves quickly, which suits me. I’d rather begin than sit backstage worrying about it.

I settle into my seat and look over the first page of my notes. I’ll start with the extra traffic, move to the years of construction, then explain how the tower will change the whole street. If I can help viewers picture what Voss is planning, they’ll understand why I’m fighting it.

The cushion shifts beside me.

“Good morning, Rachel.”

I turn, and every point I’ve prepared leaves my head. Eric’s sitting beside me, adjusting his jacket.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was invited.”

No one told me Eric would be here. He looks far too good for this hour in a navy suit and crisp white shirt. His dark hair is perfectly neat, and his jaw is freshly shaved. I was up before dawn too, but it took a makeup artist ten minutes to hide the shadows beneath my eyes.

His gaze meets mine, and for one unhelpful second, I remember how close he stood on Friday night.

“Ten seconds,” someone calls.

I face forward and straighten my notes. I came here to explain his plans to the city. I didn’t expect to do it with his knee a few inches from mine.

The theme music starts. The host looks into the camera, her smile widening.

“Good morning, Alton Hills. Today we’re joined by Rachel Hartwell, CEO of the historic Hartwell Hotel, and Eric Voss, CEO of Voss Hotels. Voss has proposed building a twenty-four-story hotel next door to the Hartwell, sparking debate over what it could mean for Old Downtown. Rachel, let’s start with you. What concerns you most about the project?”