"Ironic."
"Infuriating."I pull up the reviews on my phone."Look at this.'Most intuitive security system for boutique properties.'That's because Sage's inn is chaos incarnate and we had to adapt to things like escape artist goats."
"Escape artist goats?"
"Don't ask."I scroll through more reviews."And this one.'Finally, security that enhances rather than hinders the guest experience.'That's because she made me understand that people choose small inns for the personal touch, not Fort Knox protection."
"She sounds insightful."
"She's brilliant."The admission slips out."Chaotic and impulsive and absolutely brilliant.Do you know she created a whole spreadsheet system for predicting Buttercup's escape attempts?"
"Buttercup being the goat?"
"A goat with the problem-solving skills of a Navy SEAL."I find myself almost smiling."Last I heard, she'd learned to pick locks."
"The innkeeper?"
"The goat.Though honestly, I wouldn't put it past Sage either."
Killian laughs—actually laughs."My god, you're completely smitten."
"I'm not?—"
"You're sitting in a bar, showing me goat reviews, and smiling for the first time since you sat down."He shakes his head."You've got it bad."
"Had.Past tense."
"Present tense.Very present."He finishes his drink."Can I tell you something?Something I wish someone had told me eight months ago?"
"Can I stop you?"
"Being right and being alone aren't mutually exclusive."He stands, pulling on his coat."My ex-wife lied, cheated, and stole.Yours manipulated data to meet you.One of these things is not like the other."
"Trust is trust."
"Trust is a choice."He buttons his coat with practiced precision."And you can choose to punish her forever for a desperate decision, or you can choose to see it for what it probably was—a lonely woman taking a ridiculous risk to meet someone she thought could change her life."
"That's very philosophical for someone who called love a chemical imbalance."
"Whiskey makes me wise."He pauses."Also, I've been seeing a therapist.She's annoyingly insightful about my tendency to catastrophize."
"Maybe I should get her number."
"Maybe you should call the innkeeper."
"Sage."
"Even her name is interesting."He heads for the door, then turns back."Luke?Take it from someone eight months into righteous solitude—being right is a cold bedfellow."
He leaves, and I sit there nursing my whiskey and staring at my phone, thinking of that damn eleven again.
The number of days of not calling her.
Of not texting.
Of definitely not driving past the inn last Tuesday at 2 AM like some kind of stalker.
My phone buzzes.
