1. Chapter 1 #2
“We are strangers who had a conversation about parking.”
“I understand that.”
“You managed to turn moving a trailer twenty feet into a fake relationship. That is genuinely impressive. I mean that. As a logistics professional, I am in awe of the escalation.”
He smiles. An actual smile this time. Brief, but there. “That’s fair.”
“It is extremely fair.”
“I know.”
“And the answer is still no.”
He nods. “All right.”
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. Plain white. It has his name, Harlan Ranch, and a phone number. He puts it on the bench beside me.
“If you change your mind.”
“I won’t.”
“Probably not.”
That makes me look up. “You don’t have much confidence in this plan.”
“I didn’t have much before I came.”
“Yet you came.”
His gaze stays on mine for half a beat too long. “Yes.”
Something about the answer feels different from everything else he’s said. Before I can decide why, he tips his hat. Actually tips his hat.
“Have a good evening, Kayla.”
I realize he knows my name. Of course he knows my name. I was wearing a name tag at the Roundup. Probably.
“You too.”
He walks to his truck.
I sit on the bench and watch him leave. Then I look down at the card. Fake girlfriend. For a land deal.
Because an eighty-one-year-old rancher saw us talking about a livestock trailer and apparently decided chemistry was happening.
I pick up the card. Not because I’m interested. Leaving it on the bench would be littering. I was raised better than that.
Home is a basement apartment in a house owned by a retired couple named the Prestons. It’s small. Clean. Affordable.
Mine.
I’ve lived here since I moved to Wylde Mountain fourteen months ago, and there’s something deeply satisfying about closing the door behind me and knowing everything on the other side is exactly where I left it.
My books. My terrible little plant that refuses to die. My chipped blue coffee mug. My schedule. My life.
I worked hard for this version of myself. Not the basement apartment specifically. I have higher aspirations. But the independence part. That matters.
I change into leggings, make dinner, and open my laptop at the little table beside the kitchen.
Caroline has two events coming up at the lodge and she asked me today if I’d take point on vendor coordination for the smaller one.
I said yes before she finished asking. Guest services pays my bills. Events are starting to feel like where I’m headed.
I like Caroline. More than that, I respect her. She doesn’t hand out responsibility because she’s overwhelmed. She gives it to people she trusts. I want her to trust me with more.
I’m halfway through reviewing the vendor list when someone knocks on my door. I glance at the clock. Eight thirty. I’m not expecting anyone.
When I open the door, Mrs. Preston is standing there in her bathrobe. She looks apologetic. That’s never good.
“Kayla, honey, do you have a minute?”
“Of course.”
She tells me her daughter in Sarasota has been asking them to move south for two years. Mr. Preston’s arthritis is getting worse. Winters here are getting harder on him. They finally decided it’s time.
“That’s good,” I say. “For you both.” And I mean it.
Mrs. Preston’s eyes get shinier. “We’re selling the house.”
Oh. There it is.
“They already made an offer,” she says. “A young family from Missoula. Two little ones. They’d like to be in before Thanksgiving.”
I look around my apartment. My apartment. “Okay.”
“I’m so sorry to spring this on you.”
“No. Don’t be.”
“We wanted to tell you the minute we knew for certain.”
“When do I need to be out?”
She winces. “End of the month would be ideal.”
Three weeks.
I keep my face neutral. Three weeks is fine. Three weeks is plenty of time. “I can do that.”
“If you need more time, we can talk to them.”
“No. Really. It’s okay.”
She hugs me. I hug her back. Mrs. Preston has left cookies outside my door almost every Sunday since I moved in. Mr. Preston has shoveled my steps every time it snowed before I could get outside to do it myself.
I’m going to miss them.
She heads upstairs. I close the door. Then I stand in the middle of my apartment.
Three weeks. Fine. This is a logistics problem. I solve logistics problems.
I open my laptop and search rentals in Wylde Mountain.
Three results. One is forty-five minutes away.
One is a room above someone’s garage with the phrase quiet tenant preferred repeated several times in a way I find vaguely threatening. The third has been listed for six months. In a town this small, that feels ominous.
I expand the search radius. Not much better.
The lodge has limited employee housing, but it’s full. I know because I checked for someone else last month.
I could ask Caroline. She’d help. Probably immediately. I don’t want to. I finally have momentum at work. I don’t want my boss solving my personal life because I hit the first inconvenience I couldn’t manage on my own.
I close the laptop. Lean back. Look at the ceiling.
Tomorrow I’ll ask around at Peak Bites. And at Wylde Beans. Check the community board. Call a couple of property managers in the neighboring towns. Somebody probably has a basement apartment or a guesthouse that never made it online.
Wylde Mountain is small. People know people. I’ll find something.
I carry my plate to the sink and wash it. Then I wipe down the counter, close my laptop, and make a list for tomorrow because lists make problems smaller.
Call rentals.Check Peak Bites/Wylde Beans.Ask around without asking Caroline.Do not panic.
I look at the last item.
Then add:
Seriously. Do not panic.
Better.
Three weeks is plenty of time. Probably. I turn off the kitchen light and head toward my bedroom.
Tuesday is really delivering.