Instead of unpacking, I’d run through the house to find Hemingway, her ancient orange cat, usually perched on a bookshelf or sprawled in the sun on the staircase.
After cookies and homemade soup, there’d be a quilt folded for me beside the fire. A stack of picture books on the ottoman. A mug of cocoa that never seemed to cool too quickly.
Now, there’s only an old, beige mug on the end table. I peer closer and find it half-full of black coffee. Frowning, I look toward the fireplace, where a low, steady flame crackles in the hearth.
For a moment, my breath catches. A small, foolish hope. The kind that used to live here, next to the quiet magic that would spark a fire on a cold day. But of course, Bobby must have come by and lit it before I arrived.
It’s thoughtful but unexpected. I hadn’t assumed anyone in town would care that I’m back, especially since I’m only here to pack up the past. Fix the place. List it. Sell it. I left Blue Willow for a reason, and staying longer than necessary has never been part of the plan.
I peel off my boots and line them up by the door. Scarf and gloves tucked into the wire rack beneath the hooks. My puffer shrugs off a few flakes before I hang it, too.
As I pass the coffee table, I pick up the half-empty mug and carry it with me.
The kitchen is a little chaotic, but in a lived-in way. Cabinets painted a soft, worn cream. Stained glass in the window scattering pink and gold across the counter. Jars everywhere—dried herbs, mismatched lids, two whole shelves of preserves.
I set the old mug in the sink and roll up my sleeves, already moving toward the cupboards. Tea first, then maybe I’ll drag my bag upstairs. Three drawers before I find the spoons. Nothing else is where it should be.
I open every cabinet twice. Everything’s been rearranged into something oddly practical. The mismatched teacups are gone. So are the rainbow tin of cookies I used to sneak from andthe overstuffed basket of napkins embroidered with lemons and lopsided hearts.
That leaves the tall, broken cupboard in the corner. My last hope. Sure enough, at the top, tucked behind a dusty crystal vase, is the mug I used every visit. Dusty, chipped ceramic with a proud orange fox painted in the center.
I stretch for it once, twice. Still can’t reach. Muttering under my breath, I climb onto the counter like I’m not nearly thirty (fine—twenty-six) and stiff from the cold.
My feet thump softly as I balance on the edge, fingers sweeping through the back of the cabinet until I find it. The little orange fox mug. I grin, curling my hand around the tail handle and giving a small, triumphant wiggle.
One small thing back where it belongs. One thing still mine.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” comes a gruff, unfamiliar voice.
I flinch. My knee slips. The mug clinks against the cabinet as I twist to look, heart in my throat. Before I can fall clear to my ass on the vintage tile, something catches my waist. Two large hands, steady and sure. I swallow hard as I’m set back on the counter like it’s nothing.
The man standing in front of me, hands on my waist, is tall and poised and far too handsome to be a local. Broad shoulders, tousled dark blond hair, sweatshirt worn at the collar. He looks like someone who builds things. Someone who fixes problems and doesn’t tolerate disorder.
I get the unsettling sense he sees everything.
He steps back and drops his hands to his sides, balling them into fists. I frown. His eyes flick from the mug in my hand to the counter, then to my boots by the door.
I should be terrified. I’m not. I’m furious.
“Who the hell are you?”
He crosses his arms. “I live here. I should be asking you that question.”
No. Absolutely not. There is no universe in which this stranger lives here in my grandmother’s house. When the inn was operational, tenants were mainly elderly widows or kindly oddballs who knit in the parlor, not men with forearms like lumber beams and faces that belong on renovation show posters.
“No.”
His snort is sharp. “You can’t just show up and ‘no’ your way out of the truth. I do live here.”
I stare at him, stunned into silence. My heart’s still racing from nearly falling, and now I’m trying to make sense of a stranger in the middle of my childhood refuge.
“I think you’re in the wrong place,” I say slowly. “This is my grandmother’s inn.”
He lifts one brow. “Was.”
What a heartbreakingly blunt thing to say. “I’m sorry?”
“Elspeth Hartwasmy landlord. I helped with repairs and upkeep. She let me stay here after—” He stops, then shrugs. “I’ve been here a while. Didn’t realize her granddaughter might drop in on me unannounced.”
