It wasn’t entirely my fault, but it still feels like mine. And maybe that’s why I keep trying to make myself useful now, while I still can. So that when I finally do leave, when I actually rest, it’ll be because I earned it. Not because I crumbled under burnout or dread, but because I did something right.
I close the notebook with a thud. “What am I supposed to do?”
Wells finally looks up, maddeningly calm. “The committee won’t expect you to have everything in order already. That’s why we’re meeting—to get it straightened out for the designation.”
“And how do you think we’re gonna straighten it out? Bobby hardly knows what day it is, let alone the procedure. He was supposed to file this mess last year.”
“We can go to town hall and have a look, if you want.”
I pause, suspicious. He wants the designation to go through because he thinks it’ll protect the inn, but he also clearly wants to stall it. He’s been slow rolling this process since the day I got here. So, what gives? Why offer to help now?
“Now?”
“Uh . . . sure?”
I shove back from the table. I won’t question a sudden change of heart if it provides me a little leverage. “Give me two minutes.”
I jog upstairs, pulling on whatever layers I can find: two sweaters, the thick coat from the back of the door, a hat that only half covers my ears. In the lounge, Hemingway has taken up residence on the windowsill, tail flicking slowly.
I bend down, kiss the top of his head. “Don’t disappear again while we’re gone.”
I say it lightly, but I’m holding my breath. Now that I know he’s still alive, it’s like part of me is waiting for the trick to end.Like he might dissolve back into the walls the moment I turn my back.
When I barrel down the hall, I nearly plow into Wells at the landing. He catches me by both arms, steady and warm, his hands anchoring me through the layers. It startles me, how solid he feels. My pulse trips over itself.
“The documents aren’t going anywhere,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth tipping up.
The winter light hits him just so. Hair rumpled from the hat he hasn’t put back on, jaw shadowed, eyes too sharp for this hour. Rough edges, arranged unfairly well.
I shouldn’t be noticing. Shouldn’t be looking. Why does a man who wants me gone have to look like that.
I clear my throat and step back. “If we’re doing this, let’s move.”
He smirks. “Bossy.”
“Efficient,” I shoot back.
The path from the inn into town is still half-buried in snow, drifts piled higher than my boots, but Wells moves through it like it’s nothing. His stride never falters. I have to jog every few steps to keep up, breath fogging in quick bursts.
“Can you slow down a little?”
He glances sideways, the faintest tug of a smile pulling at his mouth. “God, I almost forgot.”
“What? That my legs are a good five inches shorter than yours?”
“That it’s your first Blue Willow winter in a very long time.”
I wince. “Yeah, and my last.”
He trudges ahead, slowing enough for me to match him. Tall, infuriating man.
People call out to him as we pass into Main Street—the postman with his satchel slung low, Mrs. Fallon sweeping saltonto her stoop, a boy dragging a sled down the lane. Wells nods to each of them without missing a step, like it’s reflex.
They all know him.
I suppose they know me, too, and I don’t need to guess what they think. The Hart heir, back at last, only to sell the inn out from under the town that’s loved it longer than she ever did. The interloper with a claim she doesn’t deserve.
I don’t belong here, where snow piles up in familiar patterns and everything has roots.What else is new?I keep my eyes down, pretending to be fascinated by the way ice feathers along the fountain’s stone lip.
