Chapter 26 Elsie
ELSIE
The mantel in the parlor has been rattling since the storm blew through, and after a long week, it’s starting to grind both our nerves down to the base. Every time the wind whines down the chimney, the whole thing chatters like loose teeth.
I suggested we leave it—maybe the house wanted its own little song—but Wells gave me a look that could’ve stripped paint.
So, here I am, halfway up the ladder with a hammer in one hand and a nail pinched between my teeth, trying to look competent while he hovers below. I think he’s afraid I might swan dive into the hearth at any moment.
“Angle it left,” he calls.
I mumble around the nail, “I am angling it left.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
I roll my eyes and try again. My gloves make everything clumsy, my shoulders burning from holding myself steady. This is not my skill set, but I’ll be damned if I climb down and let him swoop in.
I’m about to drive in the hammer again when chaos erupts—Hemingway comes tearing through the parlor, chasing Harold, the mouse, tail high and murder-bright, skidding across the floorboards.
“Shit,” Wells mutters.
His hand clamps around my thigh, steadying me. I freeze. Not because of the ladder, but because his grip lands hot through the wool, firm and protective in a way that makes my pulse trip.
“Got you,” he says roughly. “Again.”
I glance down, and his eyes catch mine—steady, dark, too close. My pulse stumbles.
His gaze flickers once to my mouth, once to my eyes, once to where his hand rests firmly on my thigh. The slow, deliberate sweep of it makes my breath stutter.
“You always do,” I say.
The ladder steadies, Hemingway and Harold vanish down the hall, and still Wells doesn’t let go. The silence stretches long enough that I can feel it ringing in my chest. His thumb flexes unconsciously against my leg.
He can’t quite bring himself to let go, I think, and I have to admit that I don’t want him to.
The way I’m feeling about him now ventures dangerously close to admiration.
To wondering if it isn’t just desire in his eyes, but something that might last longer than heat. He made it clear that he wants me, but is there more to it than that?
“You like me, don’t you?” I blurt.
His mouth curves. “More than like you, Elsie. You have to know how often I think about you.”
Heat scorches my face. “Because you want me . . . sexually.”
He laughs, low. “I thought I was clear, but maybe not. Sexually, yes. Absolutely. But I also just want to kiss you again, hold your hand, argue about damn dishes, sit across from you at breakfast. I just want to be with you.” His gaze pins me. “You like me, too, yeah?”
Do I like him? God help me, yes.
I like the way he growls at broken hinges like they insulted him personally. I like the way he scratches Hemingway behind the ears when he thinks no one’s watching. I like that he knows how to fix a house that keeps breaking, and that he still chooses to love it anyway.
And I like that sometimes, when he’s looking at me like this, I think maybe he’s choosing me, too.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I do.”
He smiles, that handsome dimple-filled smile that reminds me why I can’t quite stay away. “I know Miss Contrarian has an argument ready to go.”
I wrinkle my nose. “We should wait on things, shouldn’t we? For the dust to settle. For the designation to go through. For me to make a real, final decision about the inn.”
He exhales, steady. “If that’s what you want, I can wait. I don’t wanna wait. But I can.”
I wave him off, throat tight. “You can . . . see other people, sleep with other people, in the meantime, if that’s—”
“Fuck no,” he cuts me off sharply. “There is no one else. There will be no one else. Not for me, all right?”
My grip falters, and I lean back against the ladder rung to steady myself. I don’t know why I even suggested it, don’t know why I thought pushing him away might protect either of us. If I had to picture him turning toward someone else while I stood here second-guessing, I might unravel completely.
“All right,” I whisper.
Above us, the house groans, a long, low creak like the rafters are displeased. A draft rushes down the chimney and rattles the mantel harder than before, making the crystals of the old chandelier tinkle like tiny warning bells.
I force myself to drive another nail, to focus on the work. But Wells’ handprint feels branded into my thigh, and my heart is nowhere near steady.
I like him. He likes me. We . . . shouldn’t be together. Not yet.
When I first came back to Blue Willow, I was a mess—adrift, brittle, carrying guilt and inadequacy like extra weight in my suitcase. The only thing that kept me steady was the thought of letting go of this place. Selling it, relinquishing it, releasing everything that bound me to this town.
I thought if I could do that, maybe I’d learn to breathe again.
But now, the thought of leaving makes me itch. Makes me ache. Cutting myself away from this place—from him—feels less like freedom and more like tearing out a root.
I can’t pretend it’s simple anymore. The only way forward is through. So, I’ll finish what I started. I’ll explore every option. I’ll make the decision I can live with before the designation goes through at the end of February.
After that, everything will be set.
And if the choice I make is one he can’t live with . . . then maybe that’s all there is. Maybe the door between us will close of its own accord.
I hammer the last nail into place and climb down, boots thudding against the rug. He’s standing close, tool belt slung low, watching me with an expression I can’t afford to meet head-on.
“All fixed,” I say, smiling like it doesn’t hurt.
“Looks steady enough.” His gaze lingers. Searching for cracks.
“Then we’re done here.”
“Good work, team.”
He pats my shoulder—brief, careful—and retreats. I let him go because if I open my mouth now to relinquish all my fears, I doubt I’ll be able to close it on a goodbye later.
The next morning, I shake snow from my coat and follow Isla toward the counter at Juneberry, where Winnie’s already claimed a table with a newspaper spread out and two empty mugs waiting.
She waves us over.
“About time,” Winnie says as we slide into the booth. “I thought maybe you’d been abducted by mountain men.”
“Don’t tempt me with a good time,” Isla mutters, flicking snowflakes from her scarf.
Winnie turns her attention on me. “You look more awake than the last time I saw you. Progress?”
“Depends on your definition.”
I smile, and it’s not forced.
It feels good to be here—out of the house, out of my own head—wrapped in the warm clutter of clinking mugs and low chatter, the smell of bread rising from the back ovens. It took me weeks to remember how easy it can feel to exist among other people’s noise.
It doesn’t press on me the way silence does. It makes breathing feel . . . possible.
I used to think coming back into familiar spaces—walking old routes, sitting in old corners—would break me open. And maybe it is. But I’m not as afraid of the breaking now. I want to feel all of it. To know exactly what I’d be leaving behind, if I truly mean to leave it at all.
We order coffees, and Isla insists on almond croissants “for the table,” though we both know she’ll eat half the plate. By the time they arrive, Winnie’s in the middle of recounting some neighbor dispute involving a fence line and a wayward goat, and Isla’s already heckling her about Reid Whitaker.
I’m halfway through a croissant when the bell over the door rings. I glance up and freeze.
Beau Langford is standing there in the doorway. Soft brown curls fall over his forehead. His coat is understated, the kind of expensive that hides in clean seams and precise tailoring. A man accustomed to order.
As he shrugs it off, his eyes land directly on me. Before I can pretend not to notice, he’s already crossing the café, weaving through tables.
“Elsie Hart,” he says warmly. “Nice to see you again.”
“Hi,” I manage, tucking my hair behind my ear.
Isla and Winnie fall silent. Not discreetly. Small towns breathe through one set of lungs; everyone knows Beau Langford. His smooth manners, his perfect courtesy, his habit of getting what he came for, apparently.
He nods toward them. “Winnie. Isla. Always a pleasure.” Then, to me, “Do you mind if I borrow her for a minute?”
Winnie lifts her brow. “Borrow? She’s not a library book.”
Beau only smiles. “I’ll be quick.”
I push my chair back. “We’ll step outside.”
I can’t talk about the inn under their eyes. I would feel awkward, wrong.
Outside, the cold meets us with teeth. Snow drifts slow and indifferent. I fold my arms as Beau buttons his coat higher and leans against the brick like we’re sharing a cigarette.
I sort of wish we were.
“I wanted to check in,” he says. “Now that the proposal’s filed, I figured you might be weighing your options more seriously.”
“I am.”
“Still thinking about selling?”
“It’s not . . . completely off the table.” The words feel foreign in my mouth. “But if I were to sell—to you or anyone—what would it actually look like?”
“You want details?”
“Yes. Not because I’m saying yes,” I add quickly. “But because I need to see every path before I choose. That includes yours.”
He studies me. “If you sold to me, I’d keep it in good hands. I know what the inn means here. I’d invest in her properly. Hire local. Keep staff. Reopen rooms. It’d still feel like your grandmother’s house, but steadier.”
“Keep staff,” I echo.
He huffs. “Rourke could stay, if he wanted.”
“You’d run it as an inn? Not turn it into some boutique event space?”
“I wouldn’t change its purpose. And if you want it,” he adds, “I can have my lawyer draft an outline. Nonbinding. Just terms as I see them. You can look it over and show it to whoever you trust.”
That last line lands differently. No persuasion or charm for charm’s sake. With Wells, I trust instinctively; with Beau, I trust process and paperwork. That counts for something.
“All right,” I say. “Email it. But only for informational purposes. And understand I’m still just—” I gesture vaguely, trying to encompass the mess of feelings and obligations. “—evaluating all options.”
“I’ll have it to you by early next week,” he promises. Then, “Elsie . . . whatever you decide, I hope it’s what feels right to you. Not to anyone else.”
I don’t answer. Before he can say anything else to sway me, I slip back inside Juneberry, shaking snow from my hair. At the table, Isla and Winnie are mid-sip, both pretending very hard not to have been watching through the window.
“So, what was that all about?” Winnie asks, entirely too casual.
“Business,” I say, sliding back into my chair.
“Business with Beau Langford?” Isla teases. “You sure it’s not . . . pleasure?”
My laugh comes out fast and sharp. “Absolutely not.”
They exchange a look that makes my cheeks burn.
“Oh my God,” I mutter. “There is nothing going on there.”
Isla props her chin on her hand. “What? He’s handsome. You could do worse.”
“Wells doesn’t seem to like him,” I say, frowning. “And you two seem rather . . . dubious.”
Isla sighs. “It’s not personal. It’s just—Beau’s family history is messy.
The Ashbys and the Langfords had an old split, which left the former edged out.
Smaller shares that got tangled in pride and bitterness.
Greer, our friend, lost out in the end. She blames Beau for making a deal with her uncle. ”
Winnie nods. “She lives in New York now, and she hates it. Still pissed at him for how it all went down—for the way he took control when she was ready to step in. So, there’s history there.
Not that Beau’s necessarily the villain, but he’s tied to that side of town’s money. Folks are sensitive, you know.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not interested in Beau that way,” I say firmly. And then, before I can stop myself, I add, “I’m already . . . too invested in someone else.”
Winnie leans forward, eyes glittering. “Excuse me?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Wells.”
Isla’s grin is immediate. “I knew it.”
“You did not.”
“Oh, I absolutely did. The way he looks at you? Please.”
“We’ve only . . . slept together once, during the storm.
And kissed again out there in the snow.” I point to the exact patch of street for dramatic reenactment; both girls whip their heads toward the window like I’d announced an elopement.
“We’re waiting on the rest until I . . .
well, until I make a decision one way or another about the inn. ”
Winnie snorts into her coffee. “So, what, you’ve been sneaking around like teenagers? God, that’s too cute.”
I groan and cover my face with both hands. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, no, you should have,” Winnie insists. “We’re exactly the kind of people you should tell. Consider us your panel of experts.”
“Hardly,” Isla mutters. “We’re both very unlucky in love.”
Winnie waves her off. “Shush. I may have only slept with one man—” She glances at Goldie and gently covers her ears. “—who got me pregnant in the back of a Subaru and then left town to become a DJ in Phoenix, but I’ve still got wisdom.”
“Jesus,” I breathe. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugs. “He gave me Marigold, so I can’t really complain.” She shoots Isla a sly look. “Isla, on the other hand, has chosen to be emotionally constipated.”
Isla rolls her eyes. “The men in Blue Willow don’t interest me.”
Winnie coughs pointedly. “Liar.”
Their banter is ridiculous and affectionate, so easy it makes something in me twinge. Not in a bad way—it’s a quiet longing, a recognition of how good it feels to be known like this. To be let in.
“I’ve never really had this before,” I admit. “The . . . telling. The laughing with friends about it. It’s nice. Weird, but nice.”
“Good,” Isla says softly. “Because we’re not letting you crawl back into that inn and bottle it all up anymore. You’ve got us now.”
Winnie raises her mug in a toast. “To girlfriends. And to Elsie finally confiding in us.”
I clink my cup against theirs. A small laugh breaks free. For once, it doesn’t feel so heavy to say the messy things out loud. It feels like unburdening, like admitting you’re not alone. And the sound of their laughter, well, that turns the cold down another few degrees, too.