Caleb called the event "The Artisanal Micro-Economy Networking Summit," but Eliza knew it for what it truly was: an overly pretentious food blogger convention held in the ballroom of a high-end hotel. The air was thick with the scent of organic lavender and artisanal pretension.
They were there to secure valuable Blogger-to-Customer Conversion Channels (Caleb's term for getting famous people to post about them). Eliza was holding a basket of freshly baked mini-scones, each labeled with the name of the starter that birthed it—Stoic, Tragic, Maverick—and Caleb carried a tablet displaying their real-time growth metrics.
"We must adhere to the plan, Eliza," Caleb whispered, his voice tight as he adjusted his custom-fit name badge. "You initiate the qualitative engagement, focusing on the narrative. I provide the quantitative justification. Do not, under any circumstances, allow them to touch the product packaging—the perceived value decreases by 5% upon surface contamination."
"Got it: charm, no touching, and for the love of bread, don't talk about EBITDA," Eliza replied. She gave him a quick, encouraging pat on his arm—a gesture she knew now caused his internal systems to spike, and one she deployed purely for amusement.
They quickly found their target: the infamous 'Gourmet Grump,' a food critic whose single positive review could launch a culinary empire.
"Mr. Grump, I'm Eliza Copley, and this is Caleb Vance of Vance & Copley Artisanal Microbial Assets," Eliza began, flashing her best smile.
Mr. Grump, a man who looked like he reviewed cheese for a living (because he did), examined them with the suspicion reserved for cheap margarine. "Microbial assets? Sounds like bacteria, not luxury."
"Bacteria that has been emotionally optimized for optimal customer fulfillment," Eliza purred. She offered him a 'Tragic Rye' scone. "This starter only thrives when exposed to Romantic-era poetry. It proofs with a profound sense of melancholy. One bite, and you feel the beautiful despair of a lost Duke."
Mr. Grump took a skeptical, tiny bite. His eyes widened slightly. "It is extraordinarily complex. Almost… offensively sad."
"Precisely," Caleb cut in, seizing the moment. "The data shows the Tragic Rye commands a 40% higher price point due to its capacity to leverage Emotional Scarcity. Here are the fermentation volatility charts supporting the existential dread."
Mr. Grump, momentarily thrown off by the charts, looked impressed by the sheer audacity of the business. "You've monetized ennui. Brilliant, in a deeply depressing way."
The meeting was a success. As they walked away, Caleb seemed almost giddy.
"Excellent conversion, Eliza! We achieved a 12% engagement time increase over the projected mean!"
Eliza laughed. "We just sold a scone based on its sadness. Let's ride the high, Vance."
The high didn't last. As they navigated the crowded room, a disastrous sequence of events unfolded.
Caleb, trying to avoid a collision with a man dressed as a giant broccoli, took a sudden, rigid step backward. Simultaneously, Eliza spun around to retrieve a dropped flyer.
They collided. Hard.
Caleb's elbow jammed into Eliza's side just as her hand, holding the basket of delicate, highly-valued scones, flew up. The basket flipped, sending a dozen perfectly baked pastries soaring through the air.
And then, in a moment of sheer, involuntary reflex, Caleb's arms shot out, not to save the paperwork, not to save the basket, but to clamp tightly around Eliza's waist, pulling her flush against his chest to ensure she didn't fall.
The basket of scones, however, continued its unoptimized trajectory.
One highly resilient, beautifully melancholy Tragic Rye scone landed with humiliating accuracy directly on Caleb's forehead, sticking there like a tiny, baked third eye. The remainder rained down on the heads of several prominent food bloggers.
The entire ballroom went silent.
Caleb and Eliza were frozen, pressed together intimately in the middle of the room, Caleb's hands locked around her waist, her chest against his starched shirt, and a melancholy scone clinging desperately to his forehead.
Eliza looked up at him. She could feel his heart hammering—a chaotic, rapid beat that registered at about 150 BPM, far exceeding the PCI event from the last chapter.
"Vance," she whispered, trying not to giggle, "you have a Tragic Rye attached to your primary data collection center."
Caleb stared down at her, his meticulously organized world shattering into a thousand buttery crumbs. His eyes, usually cool and focused, were suddenly dark, intense, and utterly consumed by her proximity. He wasn't looking at the scone, the audience, or the ruined inventory. He was looking only at her.
"The inventory is compromised," he murmured, his voice dangerously low, his breath hot against her ear. "But the Core Asset Proximity is currently at 100%."
Before the moment could fully break into a kiss—a move that would generate catastrophic data—a highly dramatic shriek broke the silence.
"My hair! That's an $8 scone on my artisanal highlights!" wailed a famous pastry blogger, who was now covered in crumbs.
Caleb snapped out of it as if hit by cold water. He instantly released Eliza and stepped back, his face flushing crimson. He reached up, snatched the scone off his forehead, and looked around at the mortified crowd.
"Unscheduled event. Loss of product estimated at $96," Caleb clipped out, reverting instantly to his coping mechanism.
Eliza, trying to appear professional despite her racing heart, stepped forward. "My apologies, everyone! Just a slight, highly passionate collision of core values! This is the passion you get when you mix a poet and an auditor! Now, who needs a flyer for the Stoic Spelt?"
Caleb, ignoring the broccoli man and the irate blogger, grabbed Eliza's hand—not her arm, but her hand—and pulled her urgently toward the exit.
"We need an immediate debriefing on the emotional fall-out," he insisted, practically dragging her out of the ballroom. "And I need to run a correlation analysis on the relationship between physical contact and product loss. I suspect the data is highly inverse."
As they rushed out into the cool air, Eliza realized her hand was still clasped tightly in his. And neither of them was letting go.
A successful, humiliating, and definitely romantic public relations nightmare! The question now is: did the scone collision change the dynamics forever?