The inspector was already crouched by the walk-in fridge, tapping at a thermometer probe and frowning at his tablet.
“Morning,” I said. “Everything all right?”
He glanced up, all business. “Inspector Callahan. Routine inspection. Going through the town today.”
I nodded. “Nate Winters. Owner.”
He barely acknowledged that, too busy tapping on his screen.
After a beat, he said, “Your fridge is running warm on the lower shelves. Not technically in violation, but higher than we like. Could be a sign the compressor’s struggling.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “It passed last time. It’s old but reliable.” This was my first inspection since taking over as owner, and the weight of that fact pressed on me—every detail suddenly felt more critical, more personal.
I felt a flush of frustration—half at the fridge, half at myself for not catching it sooner. The Pennywhistle was my responsibility now, and every little hiccup felt weighted with that. I glanced at the thermometer display, willing it to dip just a few degrees lower, knowing it wouldn’t. Still, I took mental notes: call the repair guy, check the budget, hope for a miracle.
He shrugged. “Barely passed last time. This time you’re getting a formal warning. I recommend repair or replacement before your next check. Don’t want it dropping out of range completely.”
He printed the notice, handed it to me like it was a parking ticket, and said, “Next stop’s the new restaurant across the square. You know the one.”
I did. And the timing felt like something crawling under my skin. I nodded tightly. “Thanks.”
I watched him leave the kitchen, stiff-backed and methodical, clipboard swinging at his side. The paper in my hand felt heavier than it should have, a thin reminder that I was one surprise away from trouble.
Once he was gone, I stood there for a long minute, staring at the walk-in like I could will it into compliance. Then I headed to my office—a cozy back room that doubled as storage and my personal clutter zone. One little window, a chipped desk, my favorite mug full of pens, and a clock that always ran five minutes fast. Home sweet home.
Nancy knocked and popped her head in. “I’ll watch the front. Go ahead and stress out in here.”
“Appreciate it,” I muttered.
She gave me a sympathetic smile and disappeared. I sank into my chair, rubbing my temples as the enormity of it all pressed in. The fridge was just one more thing stacked onto a list that never seemed to get shorter, and the uncertainty gnawed at me. I tried to focus, pulling a legal pad closer and jotting down priorities, but the numbers blurred together, and the margins filled with anxious doodles. Replacing the fridge was not on this month’s budget. Not even close.
A knock sounded at the door again. Softer this time.
“Come in,” I said.
Eliza stepped inside, two takeout cups in hand, shutting the door behind her. I could already smell the coffee—hers always had vanilla or cinnamon or something that made the air better just by existing.
“I heard what happened,” she said softly.
“Nancy?”
“Yeah, she mentioned it when I got here.”
I took the cup from her and motioned toward the chair beside my desk. She sat, curling one leg beneath her, somehow looking both put together and like she might unravel any second. I knew the feeling.
“It’s just a fridge,” I said, trying to minimize it for her sake.
But she didn’t buy it.
“You’re worried.”
I nodded, swallowing a sip. “It’s old, but we’ve always passed. It might need repairs or to be completely replaced. Either way, I didn’t plan on this expense yet.”
Eliza frowned, brows pulling together. “You think he had something to do with it?” she asked quietly. “I mean, not physical sabotage, that’s not really his style. But he’d definitelybribe an inspector or even just call him to come here to see what comes out of it.”
I didn’t need her to clarify whohewas.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t prove anything. Just bad timing.”
