I blink. “You say that like you don’t believe in it.”
“Sure, I do.” She waves a flippant hand. “And I wouldn’t mind a miracle right about now.”
With a sigh, I grab her little fox mug off the drying rack and rinse it out slowly. The kettle clicks on. She pushes herself up onto the counter beside the stove, legs swinging.
I don’t want to talk to her. Don’t even want to look at her, really.
“Do you think you could give me a list of all needed repairs by the end of the week?” she asks, and I wince again. “That way, the house can be ready when the paperwork clears.”
She wants to enrage me, I’m sure of it. Press every last button I’ve got.
“I don’t know what kind of arrangement you had with my grandma. Of course, I’d pay you once the sale goes through. Or were you working for accommodation?”
My jaw tightens. I turn toward the cupboard instead of answering and blow out a harsh breath. Maybe if I pretend she’s not here, she’ll vanish.Come on, house. Grant me this single reprieve.
“It’s not a judgment,” she says, softer now. “I just don’t know what you were—what this was.”
The kettle sings, shrill and sharp.
I pull it off the burner, pour water into the mug, and stir in the achehoney. My hand brushes hers as I pass it over. Our fingers hold for a beat. Her skin is soft, warmer than I expected. She doesn’t look at me, but something in her stillness shifts.
“It was both,” I say as I pull away. “Work and accommodation. Elspeth was fair to me that way.”
“Of course she was.” She glances down at the mug, then up at me. “Thanks.”
“For the honeyed tea?”
She tilts her head. “For not spitting in it, I suppose.”
I huff, dry. “Don’t give me any ideas, Elsie.”
She laughs, and I catch myself almost smiling.
“Look,” she says, “if you don’t want to make the list, could you at least do a walk-through with me? The whole place. I want to take notes. See what’s actually needed.”
I grit my teeth. “So you can throw me a few bucks, then hire some out-of-town contractor to finish the work?”
“As if I had the disposable income to hire anyone else.”
I blink and size her up. She’s wearing tailored jeans tucked into expensive-looking boots, a soft gray sweater that probably cost more than my truck’s last tune-up, her curls pinned up neat.
Minimal makeup. Perfect skin. She certainly looks expensive. But maybe our ideas of wealth are different.
“Is that why you’re so desperate to sell?” I ask, bitterness creeping in. “Because you’re hard up for cash?”
I’ve never had much, but I’ve always made enough. Repairs, carpentry, odd jobs around town. Elspeth insisted on paying me properly while she was alive, and after she passed, she left a yearly stipend in the will to make sure I could stay on and keep the place running.
Elsie’s situation is different. At least, I assumed as much. The Harts had old money, even if Elspeth lived modestly. I figured Elsie must’ve inherited a small fortune on top of the inn. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe it’s tied up like the house is.
Either way, I never pictured a Hart having to tighten the belt.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes,” she says through pursed lips. “Things have been tight.”
“Tight enough to sell a magical inn that’s been in your family for generations?”
Her nostrils flare. “Do you think this is easy for me? I grew up here.”
“Then you should know better than anyone it’s not the kind of place that wants to be gutted and flipped.”
