Now I really wished that coffee carafe was in my hand so I could expand the bump on his numbskull head even further.
A door banged at the end of the hall. Mom’s voice swept toward us like a parade marshal. “Linens! Lucy, the blue set or the white for the front guest room? The blue is cheerier but the white looks more expensive.”
“White,” I called back automatically, because decisions were my native language, then instantly second-guessed it. “No, use the blue. It is winter.”
“Blue it is!” she trilled.
I could feel my composure fraying. Between Mom’s cheer, Dad’s ladder addiction, Jane’s blush, and Braxton’s easy charm, there was too much movement, too much sound, and right in the center of it, Dex, calm as bedrock, asking me to undo a choice I had fought hard to make while ridiculing it at the same time.
He watched me. “Do you truly want this?”
The question was simple. Did I? The answer rose up fast and certain, even over the drum of my heart. “Yes.”
His jaw flexed, once. “Then I won't ask you again.”
Something in my chest loosened. Something else tightened. “Good.”
“However,” he continued, and the word slid under my ribs like a wedge, “I am obligated to inform you of risk. I have reviewed local tourism reports, lodging rates, and seasonality. Your current budget and timeline appear optimistic. You will need additional streams of revenue to reach sustainability by the end of the second quarter.”
“Thank you for the spreadsheet poetry,” I muttered.
“It isn't poetry. It is math,” Dex muttered back.
“You know what, Mr. Fitzwilliam? Sometimes math needs to get out of the way and let people try,” I said in annoyance.
“Dex. I’m not your boss anymore so the less formal address is acceptable. Plus, I am not in the way. I am attempting to help you avoid disappointment,” he retorted.
“You think I haven’t run the numbers?” I felt my temper flare hot and fast. “You think I don’t know the margins are tight? I have a family that deserves better than being dismissed as a rounding error because you prefer things all tidy and neat.”
He absorbed it without flinching. “I prefer things that have a chance of success.”
“We can succeed," I snapped.
Braxton shifted, as if wishing himself elsewhere. His gaze ticked to the door, to the ceiling, to the tray of pastries, to the two of us like a spectator at a tennis match that had turned into demolition derby.
“Here is the difference between us,” I continued, unable to stop now that the tide had broken. “You measure by stability. I measure by life. And right now my life is here, dropped ceilings, dust and all.”
We stared at each other. The room seemed to narrow until there was nothing but the space between his eyes and mine and the words we had already said and the ones we wouldn't.
He spoke first, very quietly. “I hear you.”
“Dex, I really think we should just let this go,” Braxton murmured with a wince.
Yet Dex continued, as if he couldn't help himself, “But the risk variables - ”
I laughed once, not kindly. “There it is. There is the man who would put warning labels on joy.”
Color touched his cheekbones. It pleased me that I could do that. It didn't please me that my hands were trembling.
“Lucy.”
“No." I straightened, gathering the shattered edges of my patience and dignity. “We are done. Enjoy the coffee.”
I walked out before I might say something truly unforgivable. Not that Dex didn’t deserve it, but Braxton had been nothing but kind as always. My heart hammered so hard my fingers tingled.
I ended up in the kitchen, probably because I knew Jane would comfort me. I braced my hands on either side of the sink, and dragged in a breath that smelled like Jane’s lemon cleaner.
I was supposed to be helping Mom, I reminded myself. Yet I needed a moment to compose myself before facing her neverending optimism because I feared Dex’s predictions of the inn not succeeding just might be true.
