New Partnerships

“Every handshake writes a contract you can’t always read on paper.” — Nathan Cowdrey

A sharp knock at the front door cut through the quiet industry of their festival preparations. It wasn’t the uncertain tap of a neighbour or delivery, but the confident, metronomic rap of someone who expected to be let in.

Rowan looked up from her tangled string of solar lights, brow furrowing. "I’ll get it," she said, rising with the casual precision of someone used to multitasking mid-chaos.

Daniel paused over the signage he’d been arranging—boards Maeve had designed in flowing script and subtle leaf motifs, still smelling faintly of ink and varnish. For a heartbeat, something flickered across his face. Not quite worry. Not quite expectation. Just a shift in the air around him.

At the door, Rowan opened it with the wariness that came from recent experience, though her expression schooled itself into neutral curiosity.

Calum McKenzie filled the threshold like someone walking into a room already convinced of his welcome. One of Edinburgh’s most respected artisan roasters, he wore his reputation lightly, but with the unmistakable confidence of a man who had earned it—bean by bean, roast by roast, forging his place in the city’s fiercely competitive coffee scene with the quiet relentlessness of a cartographer etching a new coastline.

His dark hair was touched with grey at the temples, and the sleeves of his pristine white shirt were rolled up to reveal forearms marked with the badges of his trade—small burns and scars from years of pursuing the perfect roast, each one a testament to lessons learned through fire and dedication.

He gave Rowan a brief nod—acknowledging her, but already moving past her into the heart of the house. His entrance was smooth, confident, as though he were walking into a cupping room rather than someone else's home.

"Afternoon, all," he announced, his rich voice carrying traces of Highland ancestry beneath its Edinburgh polish, vowels that stretched just slightly toward the north when he wasn't being careful. "Smells like hard work in here."

His eyes swept the room with professional assessment, taking in the organised chaos of festival preparations—the stacked bags of specialty coffee, the hand-lettered signs, the plants carefully arranged for tomorrow's display. Nothing escaped his notice, his gaze lingering fractionally longer on certain items: the special blends positioned separately from the standard offerings, the notebook filled with Daniel's precise formulations, the glimpse of the greenhouse through the kitchen window.

Daniel moved forward, extending his hand in greeting, his posture adjusting subtly—shoulders squaring, chin lifting, the unconscious preparation of someone entering a negotiation rather than welcoming a friend.

"Calum, thanks for coming. I know you're busy with your own festival preparations."

There was something careful in his greeting, a measured warmth that Nathan noticed from his position by the counter, where he had been sealing bags of the festival's showcase blend.

"Never too busy for a good partner," Calum replied, his handshake firm and practiced, the pressure calibrated to convey confidence without aggression. His attention shifted to the group gathered around the table, curiosity dancing behind his easy smile as he took inventory of the Campbell operation's inner circle. "And this must be the famous Campbell crew I've heard so much about."

Daniel made the introductions, gesturing around the room with the precise movements of someone creating boundaries even while appearing open.

"My eldest, Isla; Maeve in the middle; and Rowan, my youngest. Nathan's one of our baristas, and Kelly's been with the café for years."

Each name carried a subtle inflection—pride for his daughters, professional acknowledgment for the staff, all contained within seemingly casual presentation.

Calum acknowledged each with a nod that somehow managed to feel both casual and carefully calculated, like moves in a chess game disguised as social niceties. His smile widened notably when Maeve stepped forward, her artist's curiosity evident in her direct gaze and the slight tilt of her head—a gesture so reminiscent of Eloise that Daniel's expression flickered briefly with recognition.

"You're the roasting guy, right?" she asked, earning a subtle eye-roll from Isla at her informal address of one of Edinburgh's coffee elite. Isla's clipboard seemed to rise slightly, a shield of professionalism against her sister's unfiltered approach.

"That's me," Calum confirmed, patting the weathered leather satchel at his side. Its scuffs and stains spoke of years traversing the globe in search of perfect beans—Colombia, Ethiopia, Indonesia—each mark a story of origin trips and direct trade negotiations. "I've brought a few samples to prove it. Care to try?"

The offer was directed at Maeve but his eyes included everyone, watching for reactions, gauging interest and resistance with the practiced eye of someone who read people as carefully as coffee cupping notes.

Maeve's eyes lit up as she glanced at her father for permission, her eagerness transparent in the slight bounce that entered her posture. Daniel nodded, though Nathan caught the slight tension in his jaw, the minute tightening around his eyes that others might miss.

"Go ahead," Daniel said, his tone lighter than his expression, the discord between voice and face subtle but revealing.

Calum set his satchel on the counter with the reverence of someone handling precious cargo. He began unpacking small bags, each one labelled with precise details about origin, elevation, processing method, and roast dates—information that spoke to coffee professionals in a language as specific as wine terroir.

"This batch," he explained, holding up a bag marked 'Ethiopian Natural—Festival Roast', "is something special. Been working on it for weeks. Bright, fruity notes—blueberry, honey, touches of jasmine. Thought it might complement your... unique blends." His fingers lingered on the bag, treating it with the care usually reserved for far more valuable items.

The slight pause before 'unique' was almost imperceptible, but Nathan noticed how Daniel's shoulders tensed slightly, how his weight shifted to the balls of his feet in the subtle preparation of someone who senses a potential challenge.

Maeve, however, was too engrossed in the coffee to notice anything amiss, her artistic sensitivity drawn to the sensory experience rather than the subtext. She leaned over the bag Calum held, inhaling deeply with closed eyes, fully present in the moment of olfactory discovery.

"That smells amazing," she breathed, catching subtle nuances in the aroma that others might miss. "Do you roast everything yourself?"

"Every batch," Calum confirmed, clearly enjoying her enthusiasm while his eyes continued their careful assessment of the room, noting the arrangement of equipment, the organisation of supplies, the relationship dynamics between family members. "Small batches, carefully monitored. Quality control is everything in this business. Can't delegate the heart of what you do, can you?"

The question seemed innocent, but carried an undercurrent that made Nathan pay closer attention.

"What about sustainability?" Maeve pressed, her tone sharpening with genuine interest, revealing the depth beneath her artistic exterior. "Do you work with direct-trade farms, or do you go through co-ops?"

Behind her, Isla paused in her note-taking, clipboard momentarily stilled, clearly interested in the answer despite her attempts to appear focused on her administrative tasks.

Kelly, who had been arranging festival samples in wicker baskets by the window, turned slightly toward the conversation. Her fingers continued their work while her attention shifted, her expression revealing nothing but casual interest.

Calum's grin widened, though something calculated flickered behind his eyes—a momentary glimpse of deeper assessment, of recalibration.

"Direct trade where I can, co-ops where it makes sense. Transparency's important to me—same as it is to your dad, I hear." He glanced at Daniel with what might have been emphasis on the word 'transparency,' a verbal stone dropped into still water to see what ripples might return.

"She keeps me on my toes," Daniel said quietly, nodding toward Maeve. His tone was proud but guarded, like someone conscious of revealing too much, of allowing affection to overshadow caution.

"Good," Calum replied with a wink that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Every business needs someone who asks the tough questions." The words hung in the air for a moment, carrying weight beyond their surface meaning, a statement that could be read multiple ways depending on where one stood.

The kitchen settled into the familiar rhythm of coffee preparation as Daniel began brewing samples. He worked with practiced efficiency, treating Calum's beans with professional respect while preparing them alongside one of the café's signature blends for comparison. His movements were precise, almost ritualistic—the careful measuring of grounds, the timed pour, the attentive monitoring of temperature and extraction. Steam rose in delicate spirals, carrying complex aromas that seemed to shift and change: bright Ethiopian fruits mingling with deeper, more mysterious notes from the Campbell's own roast—berry and citrus dancing with something more elusive, something that hinted at the greenhouse's special plants without revealing their secrets.

Nathan observed from his position by the counter, noting how Calum's attention never quite settled. The roaster's eyes moved constantly, taking in details with the thoroughness of someone conducting an inventory. His questions, when they came, seemed casual but focused, designed to gather information while appearing merely conversational.

"Your setup here is impressive," Calum commented, accepting a cup from Daniel, his fingers positioning themselves precisely on the handle in the manner of someone who had judged thousands of coffees. "More comprehensive than most home testing stations I've seen. Almost professional-grade equipment."

"We like to be thorough," Daniel replied, his tone neutral, neither inviting further inquiry nor shutting it down completely—the verbal equivalent of a partially opened door.

Calum sipped the Ethiopian roast first, his expression thoughtful as he worked the liquid across his palate with the concentration of a sommelier.

"Your machine does it justice," he said, nodding at the cup in his hand. "Bright and clean. It'll stand out at the festival for sure." He paused, swirling the liquid gently, creating a thin film along the sides of the cup that revealed the coffee's body and viscosity. "Though your house blend has some... unusual notes. Something I can't quite place." His head tilted slightly, professionalism mingling with genuine curiosity. "Something botanical, but not like any coffee additive I'm familiar with."

The moment stretched, filled with the soft sounds of coffee cooling in cups and the distant hum of festival preparations from the next room. Rowan, arranging display plants by the window, glanced up, her hands stilling momentarily on a fern with subtly shimmering leaves. Isla's pen hovered above her clipboard, suspended in the interim between one note and the next. Daniel's response, when it came, was carefully measured, each word selected with precision.

"Family recipe. Been perfecting it for years." The statement was both true and incomplete, revealing while concealing—the verbal sleight of hand that had protected the Campbell legacy for generations.

Nathan found himself stepping forward, drawn by the subtle tension that had crystallised in the room, the sense of unspoken currents flowing beneath the surface of polite conversation.

"Are you introducing this roast just for the festival?" he asked, keeping his tone casual while watching both men's reactions, positioning himself subtly between Calum and the shelf where the most sensitive Campbell blends were stored.

"For now," Calum replied, his eyes meeting Nathan's with sharp assessment before his easy smile returned, professional charm sliding back into place like a well-worn mask. "But if it does well—and I think it will—it'll become part of my permanent offerings. Festivals are a great place to test new things. To see what people respond to."

The last sentence carried the faintest emphasis, as though referring to something beyond coffee preferences.

Kelly moved to collect the used cups, her movements efficient but unhurried.

"Your roast reminds me of something my mother used to make," she commented. "She worked with herbs, and there was this one blend that had a similar brightness but with hidden depths."

Her casual observation seemed innocent, but Nathan noticed how her eyes remained watchful, how she positioned herself near the Campbell family while appearing to focus on her task.

The conversation shifted to business as Daniel and Calum moved to the table, Isla joining them with her ever-present clipboard. The afternoon light slanted through the windows, catching dust motes in golden suspension, illuminating the serious faces gathered around contracts and proposals. Maeve and Rowan drifted to the far end of the room, though Nathan noticed how they positioned themselves to overhear while pretending to sort festival materials, their movements lacking their usual unselfconscious flow.

"You'll have the exclusive on this roast for the festival," Calum said, his tone shifting to polished professionalism, the Highland burr almost entirely suppressed beneath cultured Edinburgh cadences. "Once the event's over, we can discuss broader supply arrangements. Perhaps even some... collaborative blends."

The suggestion hung in the air like steam from a fresh cup, warm but ephemeral, potentially containing more than was immediately evident.

"Fair," Daniel agreed after a moment's pause, extending his hand to seal the arrangement. His decision seemed made, yet something in his posture suggested reservation—the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his free hand rested against the table's edge, steadying himself against some invisible pressure.

As their hands met, Nathan caught the briefest flicker of something in Daniel's expression—a shadow of hesitation, quickly masked by professional courtesy, like someone stepping onto unfamiliar ground while maintaining the appearance of confidence.

"Glad to have you on board," Calum said, standing and gathering his satchel with the careful movements of someone who valued precision in all things. He made a show of glancing around the kitchen one final time, his eyes cataloguing, measuring, assessing—lingering just a fraction too long on certain details. "You've got a good team here, Daniel. I'd say you're set for a strong festival showing."

"Here's hoping," Daniel replied, his tone warm but subdued, like someone carefully measuring their words, conscious of the space between what could be said and what must remain hidden.

As Calum headed for the door, he paused briefly beside one of the retail shelves where festival packages waited in neat rows, each one sealed with the distinctive Campbell insignia—a stylised leaf and bean intertwined in a pattern that suggested both growth and transformation.

"Beautiful presentation," he commented, fingers brushing lightly against one of the sealed bags, the touch casual yet somehow proprietary. "Your special blend, isn't it? The one everyone's been talking about?"

"Just a seasonal variety," Daniel answered, perhaps a touch too quickly, the words flowing with the practiced ease of a prepared response. "Festival exclusive."

Calum's smile widened slightly, creating new patterns in the network of fine lines around his eyes—lines earned through years of squinting at roasting beans, assessing colour changes, reading subtle signs of transformation.

"Of course."

He offered a final wave to the room, his posture relaxed but his eyes still keenly observant. "Best of luck, everyone. I'll see you tomorrow."

The kitchen held its breath until the back door clicked shut behind him, the sound precise and final. Then, like a spell breaking, everyone seemed to exhale at once, tension releasing in small but visible ways: Isla's shoulders dropping slightly, Maeve's hands resuming their animated movement, Kelly's pace quickening as she returned to her tasks. Rowan, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during the entire visit, bounced back to life with the resilience of youth.

"He's really cool," she declared, reaching for one of the sample bags Calum had left behind, her natural enthusiasm reasserting itself now that the performance had ended. "Can we try more of his coffee?"

"Later," Isla said firmly, though her eyes were on their father, watching for signals, for guidance on how to interpret what had just occurred. "We need to finish the festival prep first."

Daniel stood at the table, staring at the partnership agreement without seeming to see it, his mind clearly elsewhere. The afternoon light caught the occasional silver in his hair, suddenly making him look older, more worn—a man caught between opportunity and risk, between business necessities and family protection. Nathan moved closer, keeping his voice low, pitched for Daniel's ears alone.

"You alright?"

Daniel started slightly, then nodded, pulling himself back to the present moment with visible effort.

"Yeah. Just a lot to think about." He began gathering the papers with movements that seemed more automatic than purposeful, his usual precision temporarily abandoned.

"It's a good deal," Nathan observed carefully, his tone neutral but his attention sharp, watching for the micro-expressions that often revealed more than words. "But you don't seem convinced."

The silence stretched between them, filled with unspoken concerns, with calculations that went beyond profit margins and market share. Finally, Daniel shook his head, the gesture small but definitive.

"It's not Calum. He's a good guy, knows his coffee. It's just—" He stopped himself, running a hand over his face in a rare display of uncertainty. "Never mind. I've got to get these numbers to match."

But Nathan had caught something in his tone, a note of worry that went beyond normal business concerns—the sort of fundamental wariness that came from protecting something far more valuable than coffee beans or profit margins. He glanced at the shelf where Calum had lingered, noting how the roaster's casual touch had left one bag slightly out of alignment with its fellows, the precision of the display disrupted by that brief contact.

Across the room, Maeve was explaining something to Rowan about coffee origins, her hands moving animatedly as she pointed to different bags, her knowledge and passion momentarily overriding the tension that had filled the kitchen during Calum's visit. Isla had resumed her position at the head of the table, but her pen moved more slowly now, her usual efficiency tempered by thought, by recalculation.

Nathan returned to his station, his mind churning with observations and questions, pieces assembling themselves into patterns that suggested both opportunity and danger. Calum McKenzie was exactly what he claimed to be—one of Edinburgh's most respected roasters, a skilled businessman, a charming partner.

But Nathan's years as a Guardian had taught him that people could be exactly what they claimed while still harbouring other motives, other interests. The most effective infiltrations were always built on genuine expertise, on real connections that provided cover for deeper explorations.

Tomorrow would bring the festival, with all its opportunities and risks—the controlled revelation of Campbell secrets balanced against the potential for unwanted discovery. But Nathan couldn't shake the feeling that Calum's partnership wasn't just about coffee, wasn't merely business expansion or festival collaboration. The roaster's careful questions, his too-casual observations, the way his eyes had lingered on certain details—it all suggested someone collecting pieces of a puzzle, someone assembling a picture with methodical patience.

The question was: did he already know what picture those pieces would reveal? And more importantly, who else might be waiting to see that image completed?

As the kitchen settled back into its preparation rhythm, the sound of paper rustling and bags being sealed creating a comforting background hum, Nathan made a mental note to watch Calum McKenzie very carefully at tomorrow's festival.

Some partnerships, he knew from bitter experience, came with hidden costs. And the Campbells had enough secrets to make those costs dangerous indeed.