I scowl at him. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t say she did.” He lifts a brow. “Damn, Rourke, it’s only been a few days, and you’re already ready to bite heads off on her behalf. I figured you’d be furious she’s here, trying to sell Elspeth’s inn.”
He’s right; I am. I think back to that first day, when all I wanted was to barrel through her excuses, shut her down beforeshe could turn the inn into a real estate listing. But I’ve already caught myself giving her too much. Compliments she hasn’t earned. Defenses she didn’t ask for.
That isn’t me. Sweetness for the sake of being sweet to someone I shouldn’t be is worse than dishonesty.
“I am angry,” I say finally. “If she can’t see the magic of this town for what it is, then she doesn’t have a right to make decisions. And she sure as hell shouldn’t be able to give away the rights to the inn. It’s on my agenda for town hall.”
Jack gives a low whistle. “We’ll see how that goes over.”
“I’m not looking to start a fight. I just want to protect the town.”
“Uh-huh,” he says. “Protect it from the big bad wolf that is Elsie Hart.” I shoot him a look. He holds up his hands, smirking. “I’m just saying, maybe ease up a notch. You’re not exactly neutral.”
“I care about the place.”
“And you kinda care about the girl, too,” he says plainly. “Or you’re starting to, despite your grievances. Doesn’t take a genius.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. Jack’s known me too long to bluff.
He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Listen. Blue Willow loves its traditions, yeah, but it’s not frozen in time. We make room. We evolve. You’ve been here what—six years now? You think that doesn’t count? You’re not some outsider waiting for a gold star.”
I shake my head, half-amused. “Tell that to Dr. Torres.”
He snorts. “The doctor still calls me ‘that boy with the earring,’ and I’m nearly thirty.”
He starts to turn away, then pauses. “You know what else Blue Willow loves? Its families. Its founders. The Harts built a quarter of this town, and like it or not, Elsie’s one of them.”
“She hasn’t even tried to understand the place.”
Jack shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s just trying to figure out whether it wants her to.”
He peels off toward the square, whistling something low and aimless, and leaves me standing there with the salve jar warm in my pocket and a pulse in my hand that has nothing to do with the cut.
Fucking hell, I have to invite Elsie to town hall, don’t I?
Here we are,hours later. My hand throbs, and my other problem—sitting thigh to thigh beside me on these hard wooden benches—is fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. I shift, restless. I don’t want anyone here thinking I’m her ally. I don’t want her thinking it, either.
I respected the hell out of Elspeth, and the last thing I want is someone speaking for her who clearly doesn’t have her best interests in mind. I only invited her, last minute, because Isla and Jack made me feel guilty. And because I didn’t want the whole town thinking I was trying to shut her out.
The hall hums in that winter-evening way. Wet coats steaming along the back rail. Coffee in foam cups that squeak when squeezed. Pine cleaner baked into the floorboards, paper signs curling at the edges.
Bobby shuffles papers at the front table, baseball cap set aside. A little brass bell rests by his elbow, though he only rings it when things get rowdy. About thirty people fill the room—more than usual. Most months, these meetings barely draw a dozen. But word travels fast in a small town, and tonight, curiosity’s packed the benches.
He clears his throat. “All right, uh . . . last month’s minutes. Plow schedule, bake sale, gazebo paint.” A few nods. Dull mumbles of “aye.”
It moves like this for a while: a lost mitten, someone griping about salt on Main, Ms. Quinn’s yarn squeaking on needles she isn’t really knitting with. The rhythm settles everyone down. Even me. Almost.
Then Bobby flips a page and frowns. “New business. We need bodies back on the historical designation committee if we’re gonna handle applications.” He doesn’t directly mention the inn, but everyone knows. Heads turn.
Elsie shifts beside me, knee brushing mine. She’s trying to disappear into that sweater, and she’s failing miserably. All eyes are on her.
I hadn’t come here with a strategy, only a vague plan to throw up as many obstacles as possible. Maybe argue the place was too old to meet modern safety codes. Maybe call for another inspection. Nothing that would hold forever, but enough to buy time.
But as Bobby talks, something clicks. The committee is better than delay tactics. It’s legitimate, public, structured. If I’m on it, I can keep every decision close. Every nail. Every ledger.
I stand. “Put me down for the committee. I’ve worked on the inn for years. I know its bones better than most. I’ll do the work.”
