“She lets me call her Lucy." Braxton shot me a sidelong glance. “Remind me again why we’re here instead of calling like normal people?”
“Because, she didn't answer the first ten calls, or the ten after that,” I muttered as I parked the car and shut off the engine.
He stretched, unbothered. “Maybe Lucy meant it when she said she quit.”
“She will change her mind once she hears my offer." The words came out sharper than intended. I stepped out of the car and immediately regretted leaving the city. The cold bit through my coat like it had personal grievances. “Let’s make this quick.”
Snow squeaked beneath our shoes as we climbed the steps. Up close, the inn looked even worse. Paint peeled in long curls, and the sign overhead stating the name The SnowDrop Inn was missing half its D.
“Snow rop. At least the name is festive,” Braxton read aloud, laughing.
“Festive,” I echoed dryly, knocking on the door. When no one answered, I tried the handle. It turned easily.
Inside smelled of lemon cleaner fighting a losing battle against damp wood. A shaggy green carpet swallowed our footsteps as we entered a wide foyer. A chandelier leanedsuspiciously to the left, its crystals dull with dust. From somewhere down the hall came the muffled sound of hammering.
Braxton’s grin widened. “Renovations! See? She’s already making progress.”
“Questionable progress,” I corrected. “The wiring alone—”
“Dex, you sound like a building inspector. Try to enjoy the spirit of it,” Braxton urged.
I was about to remind him that “spirit” didn't compensate for structural instability when the hammering stopped, followed by a man’s voice.
“There we go! I knew it. There’s plaster molding underneath!”
We rounded the corner into what must have been the main reception room. A man stood on a ladder tugging at a section of drop ceiling, the metal grid quivering with each pull. He was middle-aged, solidly built, wearing a plaid shirt and the wide grin of someone who had just found treasure in his own attic.
Dust rained down as another tile popped free.
“William, careful,” a woman called from somewhere beyond the doorway.
The man ignored her. “Lucy! Come see this molding!”
The name froze me mid-step. I turned… and there she was.
Lucy Bennet.
Her hair was up in a messy knot, tendrils falling loose around her face. She wore jeans, sneakers, and a faded T-shirt that read The Empire Strikes Back. A smudge of dust streaked her cheekbone, and she looked nothing like the polished assistant who used to glide through my office with coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other. She looked real and irritatingly adorable.
Braxton murmured, “You should stop scowling.”
I ignored him. “Lucy.”
Her head snapped toward me. For one suspended moment, shock widened her eyes and parted her lips. “Mr. Fitzwilliam?”
“Dex,” I corrected automatically, wishing she would call me by my first name. I brushed plaster dust from my coat which had floated down from the tiles of the drop ceiling, watching Lucy blink like she had conjured me from thin air.
“Do you know these gentlemen?” the man on the ladder asked, clearly her father.
“Yes. This is my former boss, Mr. Fitzwilliam, and his business partner, Mr. Hale,” Lucy introduced us with a slight disbelieving wobble in her voice.
Her father smiled, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “Pleased to meet you.”
Before I could respond, a woman bustled in, apron askew, paint on her cheek, enthusiasm radiating like heat. “Mr. Hale! How wonderful to see you. You’re a touch early.”
“I am Mr. Fitzwilliam,” I interjected, withdrawing my hand from her vigorous handshake. I tilted my head towards Braxton. “This is Mr. Hale.”
The woman laughed, unoffended. “Of course! Helen Bennet. Welcome to our inn.”
