“Good work, team.”
He pats my shoulder—brief, careful—and retreats. I let him go because if I open my mouth now to relinquish all my fears, I doubt I’ll be able to close it on a goodbye later.
The next morning,I shake snow from my coat and follow Isla toward the counter at Juneberry, where Winnie’s already claimed a table with a newspaper spread out and two empty mugs waiting.
She waves us over.
“About time,” Winnie says as we slide into the booth. “I thought maybe you’d been abducted by mountain men.”
“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” Isla mutters, flicking snowflakes from her scarf.
Winnie turns her attention on me. “You look more awake than the last time I saw you. Progress?”
“Depends on your definition.”
I smile, and it’s not forced.
It feels good to be here—out of the house, out of my own head—wrapped in the warm clutter of clinking mugs and low chatter, the smell of bread rising from the back ovens. It took me weeks to remember how easy it can feel to exist among other people’s noise.
It doesn’t press on me the way silence does. It makes breathing feel ... possible.
I used to think coming back into familiar spaces—walking old routes, sitting in old corners—would break me open. And maybe it is. But I’m not as afraid of the breaking now. I want to feel all of it. To know exactly what I’d be leaving behind, if I truly mean to leave it at all.
We order coffees, and Isla insists on almond croissants “for the table,” though we both know she’ll eat half the plate. By the time they arrive, Winnie’s in the middle of recounting someneighbor dispute involving a fence line and a wayward goat, and Isla’s already heckling her about Reid Whitaker.
I’m halfway through a croissant when the bell over the door rings. I glance up and freeze.
Beau Langford is standing there in the doorway. Soft brown curls fall over his forehead. His coat is understated, the kind of expensive that hides in clean seams and precise tailoring. A man accustomed to order.
As he shrugs it off, his eyes land directly on me. Before I can pretend not to notice, he’s already crossing the café, weaving through tables.
“Elsie Hart,” he says warmly. “Nice to see you again.”
“Hi,” I manage, tucking my hair behind my ear.
Isla and Winnie fall silent. Not discreetly. Small towns breathe through one set of lungs; everyone knows Beau Langford. His smooth manners, his perfect courtesy, his habit of getting what he came for, apparently.
He nods toward them. “Winnie. Isla. Always a pleasure.” Then, to me, “Do you mind if I borrow her for a minute?”
Winnie lifts her brow. “Borrow? She’s not a library book.”
Beau only smiles. “I’ll be quick.”
I push my chair back. “We’ll step outside.”
I can’t talk about the inn under their eyes. I would feel awkward,wrong.
Outside, the cold meets us with teeth. Snow drifts slow and indifferent. I fold my arms as Beau buttons his coat higher and leans against the brick like we’re sharing a cigarette.
I sort of wish we were.
“I wanted to check in,” he says. “Now that the proposal’s filed, I figured you might be weighing your options more seriously.”
“I am.”
“Still thinking about selling?”
“It’s not ... completely off the table.” The words feel foreign in my mouth. “But if I were to sell—to you or anyone—what would it actually look like?”
