Matinees With Miriam. Vicki Essex

wanted to give you this. It’s a portfolio containing the specifics of the Sagmar condo we’re proposing for the site—almost identical to the one I filed with city planning.”

      She glanced between him and the file warily. “I don’t need that. I already got all your emails. This won’t change anything.”

      “Maybe not, but you might find the information helpful for your deputation.”

      “Deputation?”

      “At the next town meeting. You submitted a formal complaint, so you’ll get to give a five-minute presentation to the council about why you don’t want a condo here.”

      She stared at him, feeling as though a trap were closing around her. She didn’t need to speak publicly about why she didn’t want the condo there. The Crown was her home. Not that anyone openly acknowledged it. Then again, Shane Patel probably didn’t know she lived there.

      “But...why would you give me this?” She nodded at the folder. In her experience, opponents didn’t try to help each other.

      Shane gave a light chuckle. The sound brushed against her senses with a featherlight caress, and her skin prickled. She liked that sound too much. “I don’t want to hide anything from you. I’m giving you this information so you can do your research properly. No one at Sagmar will hold any nonprivate information back from you, either. The company firmly believes in working with the community so that we can make sure we have the best fit, the best use of space, the best mix of business and residence. We don’t just drop concrete boxes into towns so people can spend years complaining about how they look or how terrible they are. We build homes.” He held the file out to her. “I want to work with you, Miriam.”

      Awareness shimmied through her. He sounded sincere, but she didn’t always trust the way things sounded. She couldn’t let him past her defenses. Not for a second.

      “I’m sorry—” his nose lifted as he looked past her “—but is something burning?”

       CHAPTER FIVE

      AT FIRST MIRA thought he was pulling some kind of ruse. Then she smelled it, too.

      “My soup!” She bolted inside, tripping across the worn carpets through the semi-darkness to the rear office. Thick steam and gray fumes billowed from the tiny pot on the hot plate and filled the room in two distinct layers like a miasma parfait. She reached for the pot, but snatched her hand back from the handle. The soup had boiled dry and the pot itself was red-hot. Bits of what had once been chicken and vegetables popped and flared briefly into tiny flames before becoming greasy black smoke.

      “Here.” Suddenly, Shane was there with his suit jacket wrapped around his hand. He picked up the pot and looked around. “Sink?”

      “Bathroom.” She pointed down the hall.

      He hurried out of the office, smoke blowing into his face. She yelled, “To the right!” when he hesitated, and he paused at the door to the ladies’ room. She pulled the door open for him, turned on the faucet and shouted at him to put the pot into the sink.

      A cloud of steam wafted up as the cold water hit the red-hot metal. Shane hissed and spun away from the superheated vapor.

      “Are you okay?” She looked between him and the mess in the sink.

      “Burned my hand on the steam,” he said, shaking his fingers. “My jacket isn’t as good as an oven mitt.”

      Crap. Visions of lawsuits danced in her head as she ran for the first aid kit in the smoke-filled office. The Crown’s building insurance had ceased coverage after Grandpa died and the theater closed. She’d have no way to pay for a lawyer or anything if Shane Patel—

      Mira froze, the blood turning to ice in her veins. For a moment, the hazy shape in the doorway looked just like Grandpa, rangy and powerful. He flapped his jacket as if it was a bullfighter’s cape, trying to clear the smoke, and the ghostly image disappeared.

      “The hot plate’s still plugged in.” Shane Patel’s voice cut through her momentary lapse. She dazedly went to unplug the machine. It was a lucky thing nothing else in her makeshift kitchen had caught on fire. “Leave the door open, let that air clear,” he said, using his jacket to waft the steam out.

      “I should look at your hand,” she said, agitated. “Run it under some cold water.”

      “It’s fine. It’s minor. Do you have ventilation fans? AC? Anything like that?”

      She bit her lip. “Grandpa had a bunch of fans to keep the lobby cool during the summer.”

      “Then let’s open the doors and get the air moving.”

      It took a few minutes to unlock and unbolt all of the front and rear doors—the first time they’d all been opened since Grandpa had died. Shane helped her lug out the heavy commercial turbo fans. Eventually, they got a strong cross draft blowing through the theater, and by the time they’d finished setting up the fans, the worst of the smoke and charred smell had dissipated.

      “How’s your hand?” she asked apprehensively.

      The real estate developer flexed his palm grimly. “It’ll pass.”

      She grabbed his wrist and turned it over. A blister the size of a dime had formed on the top of his right index finger. “Oh, my God. You need to get that under cold water right now.”

      “It’s fine.” He winced as she pulled him back toward the bathroom.

      “It’s not fine. You want it to get infected?” Was he trying to make it worse? Maybe he was hoping it’d get so bad it’d leave a lawsuit-worthy scar.

      Her first aid kit was the most complete one she could afford. She’d patched herself up several times when she’d cut herself on the stage rigs or hurt herself in the garden. It saved her from leaving the theater to go to the doctor’s office.

      “You seem to know what you’re doing,” Shane said as she applied the burn ointment.

      “It’s not rocket science. This is a small second-degree burn. You can go to the doctor if you think you need to, though,” she added hastily. “I don’t want you blaming me for any injuries you got trying to help. I would’ve been fine on my own. You didn’t need to come to my rescue.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      She let out a long breath, chastened. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

      “It was my fault. I should’ve used something other than my jacket.” He flapped it out and checked it over, then sighed as he held up the singed sleeve cuff. “Must’ve touched the element when I picked up the pot.”

      “I’ll pay for that.” Great. Now she’d ruined two of his suits. “This place is a curse on your wardrobe.”

      He chuckled again, and his laughter buzzed along her spine. They were standing close, and she was still rubbing ointment on his hand in soothing little circles...

      She let go abruptly. “Let that sit and breathe. I don’t want to bandage it just yet. You need to let the heat out.”

      They left the ladies’ room. The fans were now bringing fresh, cool night air into the theater. The Crown seemed to breathe deeply for the first time in years. Mira had a sudden flashback of double feature Thursdays during the summers when people would come to watch back-to-back classics and eat popcorn. They’d always kept the doors open then so the place didn’t get too hot. Grandpa would talk with his lips pressed against the fan’s grille and pretend he was a spaceman speaking to her from a spaceship far, far away. She’d reply in kind from another fan, shouting across the lobby. He’d made her believe for a long time that the fans actually made sound waves go faster.

      “Really, this was my fault,” Shane said, bringing her back to the present. “I distracted