5. Elodie
FIVE
ELODIE
Why had I opened my big mouth?
I sat up on the thin, sagging mattress and rubbed my temples as the slow, insistent plink of water echoed through the dark, empty cottage.
The storm had rolled in fast last night, thick clouds swallowing the sky, and I had spent every minute of it lying awake, staring at the small leak in the ceiling.
Each drop landed in the metal mixing bowl I’d found in one of the cabinets—pinging like an incessant clock, counting down the minutes of my sleepless night.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I sighed, tossing back the thin blanket. My eyelids felt like sandpaper, my limbs heavy from exhaustion, but I couldn’t sit in this critter-filled dungeon a second longer.
The morning wind howled as I stepped onto the front porch, wrapping my arms around myself. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, petrichor, and pine. The storm had passed, leaving behind a washed-clean sky, the first pale streaks of sunrise peeking over the tree line to the east .
And then I saw it.
A small, beat-up box of Band-Aids perched on the porch railing.
I didn’t have Band-Aids, but I had scraped my elbow last night in my highly dramatic collision with Star Harbor’s resident asshole, and now, conveniently, a box had appeared overnight.
The storm must have blown them here—or, more likely, the storm in human form next door had dropped them off and didn’t want to admit it.
At first I had thought the man was an intruder and I was ready to defend myself, teeth bared and claws out.
Instead, I had been met with rich brown eyes, dark hair, and tattoos that seeped onto thick, muscled forearms. A few even leaked onto the backs of his hands and knuckles.
He had scars, lots of them—trailing up his arm and disappearing beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt.
My stomach flipped at the memory of how my fear had morphed into instant intrigue. He was pure contradiction—dark eyes that saw too much, hands that looked like they’d built a thousand things but also ruined them, a voice that was both gravel and silk.
And then he had to open his mouth and ruin the illusion. He was irritable, and for some reason his clipped, annoyed tone was aimed directly at me.
As if simply existing was some heinous crime.
Shaking my head, I pushed off the railing and took in the wreckage around me.
The cottage was in rough shape. The wood-planked walls were weathered and warped from years of neglect.
The flower beds were completely overrun, thick vines and early-summer blooms bursting through the mess like nature was reclaiming what was once hers.
Still, it could be beautiful again, and apparently I had nothing but time to kill. Cleaning the dilapidated cottage was first on the list.
Hours later, I hadn’t made much progress on cleaning up the house.
I tied my hair into a messy bun, exhaling as I wiped down the grimy kitchen counter.
My arms ached from hours of scrubbing, my hands raw from scouring layers of caked-on dirt off the bathroom floor, but I had officially declared war on this house.
If I was going to live in a literal horror movie set, the least I could do was not get tetanus while doing it.
I straightened, stretching my sore back, and caught movement out the front window, then grinned as Stan came into view.
I walked to the door and opened it for him with a smile.
He walked toward the porch, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes skimming the cottage like he was assessing whether it was still standing.
“Morning, Miss Elodie,” he called, climbing the steps and stepping inside. “You survived the storm, then?”
“ Survived is a strong word,” I muttered, waving a hand toward the dark stain on the ceiling. “Your haunted shack here has a built-in rain feature.”
“Sorry about that.” Stan chuckled, leaning against the railing. “Could be worse. Could have fallen straight through the floorboards in your sleep.”
I leveled him with a look. “Comforting. Thank you.”
His grin deepened, but his gaze drifted toward the farmhouse in the distance, his expression going thoughtful.
“Are you planning to take a break from all this?” He gestured toward my cleaning supplies, his lips twitching.
I wiped sweat from my brow, following his gaze to the rolling acres of land stretching toward the farm property. “Maybe. Thought I’d walk around a little today. ”
Stan nodded approvingly. “Good idea. Helps to see what you’re working with.” He hesitated, then added, “I know this place is in rough shape. If you’re looking for another project, I’d be happy to front the money for supplies to fix it up.”
I thought about his offer. Sure, I had a little savings, but it certainly wasn’t enough to live off and fix up a house that wasn’t even technically mine. Day to day would be a whole lot easier if I wasn’t worried about uninvited houseguests, like raccoons or annoyingly handsome neighbors.
I smiled at Stan. “I can work with that.” I let out a reluctant laugh, then hooked my thumbs into my back pockets as we started walking. “Hey, what’s up with that place?” I asked, nodding toward the inn. “It’s beautiful.”
The Drifted Spirit Inn stood like something out of an old novel—haunting, elegant, the kind of place that carried a thousand untold stories in its bones.
A three-story Victorian beauty with a towering turret, crisp white paint, and dark-green shutters that framed its many windows like watchful eyes.
A wraparound porch stretched wide, its rocking chairs swaying gently in the lake breeze.
A faded wooden sign swung gently from a wrought iron bracket by the front steps, the words Drifted Spirit Inn hand-painted in delicate gold script.
Beneath it, a small plaque read: Established 1886.
Despite its ghostly name, the inn felt alive in its own way—holding its breath, waiting for someone to fall in love with it all over again.
It was the kind of place that pulled you in before you even realized you’d stepped closer.
I wasn’t sure what surprised me more—that a broody, imposing man ran an inn at all, or that it somehow made perfect sense .
Stan followed my gaze, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “That’d be Callum Blackwood’s place. Drifted Spirit Inn.”
Callum.
My lips pursed. The infuriating, handsy man whom I had practically tackled last night.
I blinked. “He runs that whole place by himself?” I asked as we walked along the fence line that separated the two properties.
Something about that didn’t fit. He didn’t seem like the bed-and-breakfast type, the welcoming-and-hospitable kind. He seemed more like the stay-the-hell-out-of-my-way-or-I’ll-burn-this-town-to-the-ground type.
Mr. Stafford picked up a stone, inspected it, and tossed it aside. “Helen keeps him from working himself into the ground. But yes, it’s his. Has been for years now.”
I glanced back at the inn, my curiosity buzzing. “Is Helen his wife?”
Stan sighed, rubbing his jaw. “No, Cal lost his wife several years back. Been raising his son ever since. He and Levi—his boy—live there,” Stan added. “Took some time, but Cal made it work after Mary passed. Helen Harris works for him. She’s more the mothering type.”
Something soft bloomed beneath my ribs, a quiet, unwelcome tug in my chest. A single dad, raising a son alone. Grieving a wife. Keeping a business afloat.
I had no business feeling anything about that. The man was a menace, a walking mood swing wrapped in muscle and a bad attitude. He was also—annoyingly, unfairly, completely—the kind of guy a girl could spend too much time trying to figure out.
Absolutely not.
I was not going to get curious about Callum Blackwood.
Nope. No soft spots for grumpy innkeepers .
I crossed my arms, looking away. The idea of Callum—tall, scowling, built and tattooed like a Norse god—being a single dad was something I was not prepared to process.
The sharp annoyance I’d felt last night was still there, but now it tangled with something else.
I didn’t like it.
I also didn’t like the way my stomach had a weird little reaction to the thought of him raising a kid alone. I certainly didn’t like that the small, silent act of kindness—a stupid box of Band-Aids—had settled into my chest like its own unwelcome houseguest.
I suddenly had a whole lot of questions about a man I absolutely did not need to be thinking about.
So I did what I always did when something made me uncomfortable.
I assigned it a word— thoughtfulness —shoved it down, rolled my shoulders, and pasted on a smirk.
“Let’s dig into the details.” My gaze swept across the rolling hills. “Tell me what I’m working with here.”
Love and nostalgia filled Stan’s blue eyes.
“Back in the nineties, Karen and I purchased fifty-one acres. We were hoping to return to my farming roots, settle in, and live a quiet life.” He pointed toward a simple house far across the property.
“Never could have children of our own, but we lived there and had a happy life together.”
I smiled at how proud the old man was.
“For a time, the farm was doing well. We had families come for outings, pick out their pumpkins, that kind of thing. Karen liked to bake, so she also offered some simple treats.”
I hummed with a smile. “I remember.”
“Eventually, we also bought the orchard across the way,” he continued, “putting us right at 142 acres. ”
In the distance, scraggly trees were overgrown but still appeared to be flowering and producing fruit.
“Okay.” I frowned, my mental to-do list rapidly growing.
“Now I pay some locals to tend to the trees.” My eyes tipped to him and he continued: “They do the bare minimum, mind you. I just need someone letting me know if disease spreads or we lose any trees. They’re paid in free produce.”
I nodded as my brow furrowed. Tackling a project of this scale was going to take time, patience, and lots and lots of money.
“If you can’t do this, tell me now,” he said, as if reading my thoughts. “You look worried.”