Chapter 2 - Coffee Without a Price Tag
The café Naomi chose was the opposite of the Bellmont Grand.
Its front window was cracked near one corner. The tables didn't match. Someone had handwritten the menu on three chalkboards, and the espresso machine hissed like an angry radiator.
Marcus loved it immediately.
Naomi held the door while he maneuvered his wheelchair inside.
“You know,” he said, “this is where I'm supposed to say I can get the door myself.”
“I know.”
“Then why'd you hold it?”
“Because I was standing closer.”
Marcus smiled.
“Another good answer.”
They found a table beside the window.
Marcus transferred into a wooden chair because it was more comfortable for the angle of the table, leaving his wheelchair folded slightly beside him.
Naomi didn't watch the transfer.
Another detail he noticed.
After they ordered, she studied him.
“Marcus Carter.”
“Yes?”
“I Googled you.”
He sighed.
“There goes the mystery.”
“Founder of Carter Adaptive Technologies. Investor. Hotel redevelopment projects. Thirty-six years old. Estimated net worth—”
“Stop there.”
Naomi grinned.
“I was going to say the internet thinks you're either worth two hundred million or secretly broke.”
“The second one is more interesting.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
She laughed.
Marcus relaxed.
He couldn't remember the last time a first conversation had felt this ordinary.
Naomi stirred cinnamon into her coffee.
“What happened to your legs?”
It was direct, not invasive.
Marcus appreciated the difference.
“Transverse myelitis when I was twenty-eight. Spinal inflammation. I lost most movement for a while. Got some of it back.”
Naomi nodded.
“So you use the chair because walking long distances is difficult.”
“And because sometimes my legs decide they've resigned without telling management.”
She smiled.
“Reasonable labor dispute.”
He laughed.
Then his expression softened.
“You didn't react when I stood.”
“Was I supposed to?”
“Most people do.”
“I assumed you knew your own body better than I did.”
Marcus looked at her for a long moment.
Eight years of medical appointments, physical therapy, strangers' questions, inspirational comments and suspicion from people who believed wheelchair use had to be absolute had taught him how rare that sentence was.
Naomi changed the subject.
“So why were you meeting Madison?”
“My sister arranged it.”
“Your sister hates you?”
“Apparently.”
Naomi laughed again.
Marcus's phone buzzed.
Camille.
He ignored it.
It rang again.
Naomi raised an eyebrow.
“You should answer.”
“My sister has a supernatural ability to smell drama.”
He accepted the call.
Camille spoke immediately.
“What happened?”
“Hello to you too.”
“Madison called the matchmaker.”
“There was a matchmaker?”
“Not technically.”
“Camille.”
“Fine. I gave her your number.”
Marcus looked at Naomi.
Naomi covered a smile.
Camille continued.
“Madison said you humiliated her.”
Marcus nearly choked on his coffee.
“She left because I use a wheelchair.”
Silence.
Then Camille said very calmly, “I'm going to ruin her life.”
“No.”
“Her hair first.”
“Camille.”
Naomi laughed loudly enough for Camille to hear.
“Who is that?”
“The woman who told Madison what you would've told her if you'd been there.”
Another pause.
Camille's tone changed immediately.
“I like her.”
Marcus hung up before the interrogation could continue.
Naomi shook her head.
“She sounds protective.”
“She is.”
“That can be a good thing.”
“Sometimes.”
The answer came out more heavily than Marcus intended.
Naomi noticed.
“Family complicated?”
“Isn't everyone's?”
“Mine competes professionally.”
Marcus smiled, but Naomi's expression didn't.
“My mother died when I was nineteen,” she said. “My dad moved to Maryland a few years later. We talk, but we're not close.”
“I'm sorry.”
“She was an architect.”
Naomi touched the rim of her cup.
“She designed public buildings. Schools. Transit stations. Hotels. She believed architecture told people whether they were welcome before anyone said a word.”
Marcus looked around the cramped café.
“She would've hated this door.”
“She would've sued the threshold.”
They laughed.
Naomi's eyes brightened.
“She was relentless about accessibility.”
Marcus leaned back.
“What was her name?”
“Denise Brooks.”
Something flickered in Marcus's memory.
The name seemed familiar.
He couldn't place it.
“Why?”
“No reason.”
Naomi's phone buzzed again.
This time she looked at it.
Her expression tightened.
“Work?”
“Yes.”
“What do you do?”
“Senior project architect at Ellison Rowe Design.”
Marcus froze.
Naomi noticed.
“What?”
“Ellison Rowe is bidding on one of my projects.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Which project?”
“The Bellmont redevelopment.”
Naomi stared at him.
The café suddenly seemed quieter.
She placed her cup down.
“The Bellmont Grand?”
Marcus nodded.
“My family owns the majority interest.”
Naomi leaned back.
“You're kidding.”
“I wish I were.”
She exhaled slowly.
“I'm on the preliminary accessibility review.”
Marcus felt the easy chemistry shift.
Not vanish.
Complicate.
“We didn't know.”
“No.”
“We should probably disclose that we met.”
“Yes.”
“And maybe not discuss the project.”
“Definitely.”
Marcus nodded.
“Then we'll talk about terrible coffee.”
Naomi smiled, relieved.
“Agreed.”
His phone vibrated again.
This time it wasn't Camille.
It was his general counsel, Aaron Blake.
Marcus read the message.
CALL ME NOW. WHITMORE DEVELOPMENT FILED AN EMERGENCY NOTICE ON BELLMONT.
His chest tightened.
Naomi saw his face change.
“What happened?”
Marcus stood carefully and reached for the wheelchair.
“Something just changed.”
Outside, sunlight stretched across the street.
Marcus called Aaron.
The lawyer answered immediately.
“Charles Whitmore filed notice claiming his company holds an option to purchase the Bellmont Grand if your family misses the redevelopment deadline.”
Marcus stopped.
“That option expired twelve years ago.”
“Whitmore says it didn't.”
Marcus looked through the café window.
Naomi stood inside, gathering her bag.
Aaron continued.
“And according to the document he filed this morning, Marcus…”
“What?”
“It has your father's signature.”
Marcus felt the air leave his lungs.
His father had been dead for six years.
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