1. Chapter 1 Maggie #2
Her father’s tone stays calm, although the single-word warning lands with remarkable efficiency.
Interesting.
He doesn’t seem loud. He seems precise.
Like the human version of a locked toolbox.
Wren points frantically toward the dining room. “Can somebody move those chairs before the water reaches the rug?”
“I’ve got it,” the man says immediately.
Of course he does.
He sets Sophie carefully on the nearest dry patch of floor before striding across the lobby with the easy steadiness of somebody built for emergencies. I watch him grab two dining chairs in one hand while dragging a side table away from the spreading water with the other.
Sophie notices me watching him and smiles proudly. “My dad can fix almost anything.”
“That’s a useful skill.”
“He also makes really good grilled cheese.”
“An even more useful skill.”
She nods solemnly. “Especially with tomato soup.”
The man glances back toward us then, probably because Sophie inherited approximately zero volume control. His gaze lands on me again, cool and assessing.
Like he’s trying to determine whether I’m about to become another complication in his already difficult day.
Unfortunately for him, I probably am.
I offer a small smile anyway.
He does not return it.
Honestly, the glare should probably be annoying me by now, but there’s something unexpectedly readable underneath all that sternness. Exhaustion maybe. Or strain.
Whatever it is, it feels less like arrogance and more like somebody carrying too much weight without wanting anyone to notice.
Wren rushes past holding another stack of towels while muttering, “Luke is officially banned from touching pipes forever.”
“That seems fair,” I say.
From upstairs, a male voice calls, “I can hear you!”
“GOOD.”
Sophie giggles.
The stranger finally finishes relocating furniture and walks back toward us, wiping his damp hands against his jeans. Up close, he looks even more unfairly solid. Dark blonde hair slightly mussed from whatever plumbing catastrophe he’d just escaped. Strong jaw. Tired eyes.
Definitely tired eyes.
The kind that belong to someone who sleeps lightly and worries heavily.
“This area needs to stay clear,” he says, glancing toward the spreading puddle.
I step backward obediently. “See? This is why I should never participate in emergencies. I become decorative.”
To my surprise, Sophie laughs hard enough to snort.
Her father closes his eyes briefly like he’s trying not to react to that.
“Sorry,” she says, still grinning. “That one was funny.”
“It’s okay. I respect a snort laugh. They’re emotionally honest.”
That finally does it.
Not a full smile, but the corner of his mouth betrays him for half a second before he catches it.
Victory.
Then the ceiling above us groans ominously.
All three of us look up at once.
A fresh stream of water splashes through the chandelier.
Wren makes a distressed noise somewhere between a gasp and a prayer.
And from outside the front window, the rooster crows again like he personally caused the flood and wants credit for it.
The groaning sound overhead is followed by a sharp crack.
Every person in the lobby freezes.
A split second later, somebody upstairs yelps, “MOVE!”
Feet pound across the ceiling.
Then a fresh torrent of water bursts through the hallway light fixture with enough force to send Wren stumbling backward into the front desk.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” she says faintly.
The chandelier flickers.
Everyone collectively decides electrocution is a bad way to spend a Tuesday.
The broad-shouldered stranger moves first.
Again.
“Breaker box,” he says to nobody in particular before taking the stairs two at a time.
Sophie watches him go with complete confidence, like her father regularly jogs into disasters before breakfast.
Wren presses both hands over her face. “Luke is never allowed near plumbing again. Ever. I don’t care if he wrote the pipes a heartfelt apology letter.”
From upstairs, Luke’s voice echoes down. “In my defense, the pipe looked stable.”
“That sentence means NOTHING anymore.”
I bite back a laugh while helping shove another towel beneath the spreading puddle. “Should I start bailing water with decorative vases? Because I feel like we’re close to that stage.”
“We’re absolutely close to that stage.”
The power cuts abruptly.
The chandelier dies.
The inn falls into soft late-afternoon shadows broken only by sunlight streaming through the tall front windows.
For one strange heartbeat, nobody moves.
Then Sophie claps once, delighted.
“This is the BEST DAY EVER.”
Heavy footsteps return down the staircase.
The man reappears carrying a dripping toolbox now, looking exactly like somebody who has reached the final stage of patience and found it deeply disappointing.
“The breaker’s off,” he says. “Water should stop once the upstairs line drains.”
As if determined to mock him personally, the ceiling immediately releases another steady stream onto the rug.
He stares upward in silence.
I should not find that funny.
I definitely should not find him attractive while he’s damp, irritated, and one plumbing incident away from becoming a cautionary tale.
Unfortunately, my judgment has historically been unreliable around competent men with tired eyes.
Wren suddenly straightens.
“Oh no.”
Something in her voice makes all of us look at her.
She points upstairs toward the second-floor hallway.
“The suite.”
“The what?” I ask.
“The Magnolia Suite.” Her expression grows increasingly horrified with every word. “The water is coming from the wall connected to the Magnolia plumbing line.”
The stranger’s jaw tightens immediately. “That’s our room.”
Wren winces. “Not anymore.”
Sophie gasps softly. “Does this mean we get moved again?”
The question lands differently than the cheerful tone she tries to use with it.
For the first time since meeting her, I catch the flicker underneath all the excitement. The uncertainty. The carefulness.
Like she’s already bracing herself not to get attached to any place too quickly.
Her father hears it too. I can tell by the way his shoulders tense.
“We’ll figure something out,” he says quietly.
Wren turns slowly toward me.
And suddenly I do not like the expression forming on her face.
Not one bit.
“You have got to be kidding,” I say preemptively.
“Maggie…”
“No.”
“It’s temporary.”
“That word has betrayed many people.”
“The upstairs west suite has two rooms.”
I narrow my eyes. “Wren Bennett.”
“The downstairs guest room is already booked.”
The stranger folds his arms across his chest immediately. “Absolutely not.”
Sophie, however, lights up like Christmas morning.
“We can be roommates?”
“No,” both adults say at the exact same time.
She grins wider.
Wren claps her hands once with the terrifying confidence of a woman who has already made a decision. “Great. Perfect. Wonderful. I love when communities come together.”
“Wren.”
Ignoring me completely, she points directly at us like a small-town general assigning battle positions.
“Maggie, you’re in the upstairs suite…” She swings her finger toward the man and his daughter. “With Eli and Sophie until we figure this out.”
Silence drops over the lobby.
The man stares at Wren like he’s considering whether plumbing disasters are legally prosecutable.
I stare at the ceiling, briefly wondering if getting hit by falling drywall would simplify things.
And beside us, Sophie practically vibrates with excitement.
“Oh,” she says happily. “This is going to be SO fun.”