WELLS
This godforsakenpie is a crime against butter and fruit.
Compared to the other offerings at the late-winter market on Main, it looks like a failed science experiment—sunken in the middle, overbaked at the edges, and leaking an alarming amount of cherry juice from a poorly pinched seam.
“I hope no one is entering that,” Isla says, eyeing the cracked crust with open horror. “It looks like it fought in a war.”
“It did,” I say, peeling back the foil. “A war against our oven. Elsie made it.”
She blinks. “Ohh. Oh.”
I glance sideways. Elsie’s down the row at the quilt booth, talking on the phone, her scarf slipping loose around her neck.
“She’s taken up baking lately,” I explain. “Says it’s the first thing in a while that feels easy. Safe. No pressure, only flour and sugar and the occasional charred pan.”
“Mmm,” Isla hums. “Jack took some of her scones after your first committee meeting. Said they were ... structurally creative.”
“Scary-looking. And hard as a rock.”
“That’s the one. Are we sure she should be allowed near an oven unsupervised?”
“She can do whatever the fuck makes her happy.”
Isla gives me a knowing look. “And what if what makes her happy is hooking up with the first out-of-towner who books a room at the inn?”
It takes a second for the words to land. When they do, my elbow clips the jar of marmalade. It hits the floor and shatters, golden syrup bleeding into the concrete.
“Jesus,” I mutter, crouching down.
Isla winces. “I was kidding.”
“Hilarious. I’ll be sure to return the favor next time Jack brings up the girl from the co-op.”
She huffs, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. Bullseye.
I toss the broken lid into the trash, wiping my palm on my jeans. My pulse is racing. I know it’s irrational, but she makes me feel unsteady. When it comes to her, I have everything to lose.
We agreed to take it slow. Let the house breathe. Letherbreathe. Give the inn a full year to come back to life before we open the doors again. Until then, she’s allowed to rest. To make pies that collapse in the center. To fall asleep in the Wisteria Suite with her toes stealing all the covers and her hand curled on my chest.
I want that for her. A year of soft experiments. Of doing what she wants, whether or not it makes sense to anyone else. We don’t have to define our relationship out loud, though I would. We don’t have to promise anything yet, though I already have.
So, the thought of some stranger staying under the same roof, brushing her hand at the coffee pot, asking what brought her home—
Well, she’d never entertain that shit.
Not with the way she looks at me in the mornings, still sleepy, like she’s not sure if she dreamed me up. Not with the way she always ends up wherever I am, hovering while I fix something.Not with the way she reaches for my hand at night and doesn’t let go.
She’s choosing me. Even when she’s tired, even when she’s healing.
Still, I might have to banish the first guest who flirts with her.
“You’re spiraling,” Isla says lightly, handing me a cup of cider. “Drink this and pretend you didn’t threaten a fictional man over your very real girlfriend.”
“Is she my girlfriend?”
Isla raises both brows. “You live with her. You’re in love with her. You’re definitely sleeping together regularly, based on the way your entire personality softened over the past two weeks.”
“I don’t appreciate the implication that I haven’t always been charming.”
