She crossed to me, leaning shoulder to shoulder against the column. “You’re a hospitality natural,” she said. “The way you talk to guests, the way you remember their names, the little notes you leave in their rooms? Chef’s kiss. But you also own a business, babe. You’re allowed to make money from it.”
“I know,” I said. “I just … like knowing that people can afford to be here.”
“They can.” She bumped me gently. “Especially with the cross-promo we’re doing. Palmetto Rose for weddings, Bradford Inn for overflow, romantic weekends, writers’ retreats …” Her eyes sparkled. “Once I’m done with you, you’ll be booked every weekend for the next year.”
The idea still startled me—in a good way, like catching a glimpse of myself in a mirror and almost not recognizing thewoman with paint on her hands and a scheduling app open on her phone.
“I’ll take every bit of help you’re willing to give,” I said. “You studied this on purpose.”
“Hospitality management degree paying off,” she said wryly. “My brother can stop asking if I want a ‘backup’ teaching certificate.”
From the yard, a low, familiar whistle cut through the gentle din.
“Hey, Bradford,” Gideon called. “You hiding?”
I turned toward the sound without thinking, my body already aligning itself to his voice.
He stood near the driveway, in a cluster of Danes and their women. He wore jeans and a navy Henley that should’ve been illegal, sleeves shoved up to reveal forearms I’d witnessed personally doing terrible things to heavy lumber.
Byron stood near him, talking with Ethan and Natalie—hands moving as he explained something, the lines around his eyes deeper but softer now. Not the ghost who’d stepped out of the marsh. Just a man with too much history and twelve sons who were slowly, stubbornly letting him back in.
They were all here.
The Charleston seven, their wives, including one very round Hallie Mae who was now so pregnant she needed help out of low chairs. The Montana boys and their women, too.
Everywhere I looked, there was someone laughing, arguing, leaning against someone else.
A pack, Lexi had called them.
They were my pack now, too. Whether I was ready or not.
“Go,” Isabel said quietly, following my gaze. “He’s been weird all day. I don’t like it when Danes are weird. It usually means someone ends up with stitches or engaged.”
“Those are very different outcomes,” I said.
She just raised her eyebrows, her look sayingare they, though?and nudged me toward the steps.
I took a breath and went.
Maude caught me halfway down, her hands dusted with flour, an apron still tied around her waist despite Meghan’s attempts to ban her from the kitchen for the evening.
“Stop right there,” she ordered, eyes bright.
I did. When Maude used that tone, you listened.
She looked me up and down like she was checking for damage. “How are you doing, dear?” she asked. “Really.”
I thought about lying. Then I thought about the last months—about the night my father had died and the nights after, about the way Maude had sat with me in the kitchen while the men strategized and the women made beds and plans and space.
“I’m …” I started. Searched for the right word. Found it. “Good,” I said. “I’m really good.”
Her face softened. “You look it.”
Her gaze drifted past me, to the front of the house, to the new paint and the rebuilt porch and the freshly washed windows reflecting an evening sky that promised good weather for once.
“Your grandmother would have been thrilled,” she said quietly. “She’d have loved every inch of what you’ve done. And she would have been so very proud of you, Hazel.”
Heat pricked behind my eyes. “She’s the reason I’m here,” I said. “The reason any of this is happening. The clause, the year … I thought it was a sentence at first. Maybe it was a lifeline.”
