I don't know what I expected. An older colleague, maybe. Someone with gray hair and a briefcase, someone professional and forgettable.
His female colleague was neither.
She unfolded herself from the car like she'd been born doing it. Long legs, heels that would last approximately three minutes on the gravel before she regretted them, and a silk blouse that probably cost more than my groceries. Her hair was that perfect shade of blonde that required either excellent genetics or an excellent colorist.
She laughed at something Marcus said, her hand touching his arm, and even from here, I could see how easily they moved around each other.
My hands tightened on the dish towel.
Colleague, I reminded myself. At least, that was the word he’d used.
I made myself move. Set down the towel, smoothed my apron, and walked to the front door with the smile I'd perfectedover years of hospitality. The innkeeper smile. Warm and welcoming and absolutely impenetrable.
“Grace.” Marcus came up the porch steps and kissed my cheek. Quick, perfunctory. The kind of kiss you give a relative at a funeral. “Good to see you. This is Emma Blake. She's been leading the analysis on the Hartwell deal. Emma, this is Grace.”
Notmy fiancée, Grace.Notthe woman I'm going to marry.JustGrace.
Emma's handshake was firm, her smile professionally warm. “Marcus has told me so much about this place. It's even more charming than he described.”
This place.
Not me. Not the woman who ran it, who kept it alive, who stood in its kitchen at four in the morning making cinnamon rolls. Just the house.
I smiled anyway, because that was what you did when you realized you’d been reduced to scenery.
“Thank you.” My voice came out steady. “We're happy to have you. I've put you in the east room. It has the best morning light.”
“Oh, that's lovely.” Emma glanced at Marcus, something passing between them I couldn't read. “Marcus said you might have space for a working weekend. I hope we're not imposing.”
“Not at all. That's what we're here for.”
The words stuck in my throat like something that refused to go down.
I led them inside and gave Emma the tour, showed her the room, explained breakfast times, and where to find extra towels. The whole time, Marcus trailed behind us, checking his phone, barely looking up. Emma asked questions about the history of the house, about the town, and about how long I'd been running the B&B. She seemed genuinely interested, which somehow made it worse.
Mrs. Patterson was in her usual spot by the window when we came back downstairs, paperback open on the table, tea cooling beside her. She'd been coming here every few months for fifteen years, since before Gran died. She'd watched me grow from a grieving twenty-two-year-old into whatever I was now.
Her eyes met mine as Marcus and Emma headed for the sunroom. Something flickered there. Recognition, maybe.
I looked away before she could say anything.
The afternoon stretched long and strange.
It refused to move forward, no matter how busy I made myself.
Even the B&B felt unfamiliar in small, unsettling ways, like it didn’t quite recognize me.
I threw myself into work the way I always did when I didn’t want to think. I changed the linens in the empty rooms, smoothing out wrinkles that didn’t matter. Polished the banister until the wood gleamed, even though it already had. Helped Elena prep for tomorrow’s breakfast, lingering over tasks she didn’t need help with, and we both knew it.
Elena had been working at the B&B for three years. A quiet woman in her fifties who'd needed a fresh start after her divorce and found one here. She took one look at my face when she arrived and didn't ask questions. Just handed me a vegetable peeler and pointed at the potatoes.
That was the thing about this place. It attracted people who understood that sometimes you needed to keep your hands busy while your heart figured itself out.
Through the kitchen doorway, I could see Marcus and Emma in the sunroom. They'd spread papers across the big table,laptops open, heads bent together over spreadsheets. Every few minutes, Emma would say something and Marcus would nod, or he'd point at something on her screen and she'd lean closer to look.
They worked well together. That was obvious. The kind of easy rhythm that came from long hours and shared purpose. I remembered when Marcus and I had that rhythm, studying together in college, planning our future over cheap wine and cheaper pizza. When had that stopped?
I brought them coffee at three. Set the tray down carefully, arranged the cups and the cream, and the small plate of cookies I'd baked that morning.
