His smile thinned. Some men didn’t like being told no. “Come on. We’re just having fun.”
“You are,” Mrs. Qualle said, her voice riding the line between polite and pissed. “Everyone else is working.”
He turned his smile on her next. “And you are?”
“Someone who knows the difference between a story and a person,” she said. “I’m also the owner of this inn and won’t allow you to turn my first floor into your own personal podcast studio.”
Good for Mrs. Qualle. I left after she shooed him away and stepped onto the sidewalk. On the corner, Sabrina had added a chalkboard special: Fallen For You Latte. Someone had drawn a tiny butterfly next to the chalk leaf. My stomach knotted. I told myself it was indigestion and kept walking.
Dane texted at noon.
Dane: Lunch? I’ll bring lemon bars to sweeten the schedule gods.
I typed Busy. Deleted it. Typed Another day. Deleted that too.
Me: Can’t today. Packet looks good. See you Thursday.
A minute later, my phone pinged.
Dane: Copy that. I’m here if you need anything.
I locked the screen and shoved my phone in my bag.
At my desk, I opened the council memo and read it again from start to finish without changing a word. I added the packet to the agenda and sent the file to Petra with a quiet instruction about the order of business that would keep comments civil.
Two calls came in about vendor electricity. One about portable restrooms. Holt Thorne signed the road closure forms and warned me Lane’s soccer team’s float better not get stuck behind one of the giant farm rigs or I’d never hear the end of it.
At five, I walked to the park to check banner posts. The sun had shifted. A group of seniors stretched by the gazebo. Harvey wasn’t with them, and I reminded myself that rest was as much a part of recovery as motion.
I should have gone home then. Instead, I cut behind the Inn on a path lined with chokecherry and found myself within earshot of the lounge again. I heard the podcaster’s voice and my feet froze in place.
“We’re back,” the podcaster said. “And we’ve learned something interesting. Locals say The Ex-List is too sharp for one voice. It had to be a group project. Let’s review. We had Thatcher the Ghost, but he’s off the market now. Holt the Iceberg? Somehow melted. Harlan the Warden? He’s been tamed. That leaves three.”
The main mic picked up a low, anticipatory hum, and the man paused, building anticipation.
“Who’s left? Here in Hard Timber, there’s still Trace the Heartbreaker, Ridge the Fortress, and finally, the one they call The Butterfly.”
Someone let out a laugh.
“The Butterfly,” the podcaster repeated. “He’s the test. Not just of patience, but of whether you actually believe he’s capable of landing.”
He didn’t even try to sound objective. He wasn’t doing a profile, he was issuing a verdict.
“You think he’s yours for a second, but he never stays pinned. That’s why people can’t stop watching. You’re not just rooting for him, you’re bracing for the crash.”
A woman’s voice—maybe one of the inn staff—cut in. “You mean he’s a walking red flag with good hair.”
Laughter floated through the open windows, and the podcaster kept going.
“And that’s the hook, right? He’s not just one man. He’s the mirror. Every woman’s got a Butterfly in her past. Hard Timber just happens to have one in the present.”
I stood in the shade, my jaw locked so tightly that it ached. It was a stupid line. Still, it felt like a splinter lodging under my skin. I headed back to the street, not willing to listen to another word.
Sabrina was in front of Morning Wood watering a container of huge orange mums. She lifted a hand and waved. I waved back. But when she called, “You okay?” I pretended not to hear over a delivery truck.
At home, I hung my keys on their hook in the foyer and stood very still in a room that looked exactly the same as it had the day before and not the same at all. The cardigan I’d shrugged off last night draped over the arm of a chair, a reminder that Dane had been in my space.
I left it there and headed to the bathroom to wash my face. Then I made tea I didn’t drink and opened my laptop with the intention of writing conditions for another file. Instead, I stared at a blank screen while my stomach twisted into knots.
