2. Chapter 2 Eli
By seven-thirty the next morning, I already know three things.
First, the Prairie Rose Inn’s cinnamon rolls are amazing.
Second, Sophie considers this entire situation an adventure instead of the housing disaster it actually is.
And third, the universe apparently intends to test my patience through the medium of one relentlessly upbeat librarian in purple glasses.
I stand near the front windows of the inn lobby with my phone pressed against my ear while rain taps softly against the porch roof outside.
Luke and Wren have cleaned up the water and sheetrock from the lobby.
The old hardwood floors creak somewhere behind me, followed by the unmistakable sound of Sophie humming to herself.
Too much humming this early in the morning usually means she’s happy.
Which is suspicious.
“No,” I say flatly into the phone. “Randy, when you said the kitchen floor felt soft, I assumed you meant repair soft. Not horror-movie soft.”
My handyman exhales heavily on the other end. “Believe me, I’m not thrilled either.”
“Tell me you found one bad board.”
Silence.
That silence tells me everything I need to know.
I close my eyes briefly.
“Termites?”
“Afraid so.”
Of course there are termites.
Why stop at burst pipes when the universe can include structural decay for free?
Behind me, Sophie’s humming abruptly stops.
She’s listening now.
Carefully.
I keep my voice even. “How bad?”
“Bad enough that once the contractor opened the subfloor, he found more damage underneath the cabinets.” Randy hesitates. “It’s gonna add time.”
“How much time?”
“Maybe another three weeks.”
Three weeks.
On top of the original month.
I stare out the window toward Main Street where the town is slowly waking up beneath low gray clouds. Across the street, somebody struggles with an umbrella while carrying what appears to be six flower arrangements and a smoothie at the same time.
Small-town life: where every errand looks unnecessarily complicated.
“Eli?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“I’m sorry.”
The frustration rises fast and hot before I shove it back down where it belongs. Getting angry won’t repair floors any faster. It won’t magically produce temporary housing either.
It definitely won’t help Sophie.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say finally.
After we hang up, I lower the phone slowly and stand there for a second, mentally recalculating everything.
Laundry.
School mornings.
Shift coverage.
Expenses.
How long can a kid realistically live in one room at an inn before it stops feeling exciting and starts feeling unstable?
Behind me, Sophie speaks with studied casualness.
“So…”
I turn.
She sits cross-legged in one of the oversized lobby armchairs wearing mismatched socks and an expression that is trying very hard to appear neutral.
“That sounded long.”
“Little bit.”
“How long is a little bit?”
“A few more weeks.”
Her face performs the fastest emotional transformation I’ve ever witnessed. Excitement flashes first before she wrestles it firmly back under control.
Too late.
I saw it.
“Oh,” she says carefully. “Okay.”
“You’re allowed to be disappointed.”
“I’m not disappointed.”
“You’re literally glowing.”
“I’m trying not to.”
Despite myself, I almost smile.
She twists one socked foot against the chair cushion. “I just think maybe living at the inn is sort of fun.”
“Fun,” I repeat.
“Not because our house is broken,” she adds quickly. “Obviously that part is bad.”
“Obviously.”
“But there’s a porch swing. And cinnamon rolls. And people downstairs all the time.” Her voice grows smaller. “And it doesn’t feel lonely.”
That last sentence lands harder than she probably intends.
Or maybe exactly as intended.
I lean back against the window frame, folding my arms across my chest while she avoids looking directly at me.
Sophie has always done this when she wants something. She circles it carefully instead of asking outright, like wanting too much might scare people off.
A habit I hate.
A habit I probably taught her without realizing it.
“You know this isn’t permanent,” I say gently.
“I know.”
“You still have school. Homework. Bedtimes.”
“I know.”
“This is not a vacation.”
Now she grins a little. “It’s kind of a vacation.”
Before I can answer, footsteps sound from the staircase.
I glance up automatically.
Maggie Hale descends the stairs balancing a canvas tote bag against one hip while trying to tuck loose hair behind one ear. Today’s glasses are bright green. Not neon. Softer than yesterday’s purple frames. Forest green maybe.
Why am I noticing that?
She reaches the bottom step and nearly misses the last stair because she’s digging through the tote bag at the same time.
My hand tightens instinctively against my crossed arms before she catches herself.
She looks up immediately, catching the movement.
“I’d like credit,” she says, “for not falling this time.”
Sophie lights up so fast I practically hear it happen.
“Maggie!”
The librarian smiles instantly. Warm and easy and entirely too awake for this hour of the morning.
“Good morning, roomies.”
“We are not calling ourselves that,” I say.
“Temporary cohabitation partners?”
“No.”
“Flood survivors?”
Sophie giggles.
Traitor.
Maggie walks toward us, still rummaging through her oversized bag. “I had a very productive morning, actually. I found the library keys, two pens, a granola bar I forgot existed, and a receipt from Oklahoma City that proves I once paid nine dollars for a smoothie.”
“That feels illegal,” Sophie says solemnly.
“Thank you. I needed validation.”
I should not enjoy these conversations.
That seems important.
Maggie finally extracts a folded map from the tote with a triumphant flourish before glancing between us.
“Why do you both look like someone canceled Christmas?”
“Sophie just found out we’re stuck here longer,” I say.
Maggie’s expression softens immediately, although she wisely directs her attention toward Sophie instead of me.
“How much longer?”
“Three weeks,” Sophie says, trying and failing to sound unhappy about it.
Maggie presses one hand dramatically against her chest. “You poor thing. More cinnamon rolls. More porch swings. More exposure to extremely charming librarians.”
“It’s a burden,” Sophie agrees.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
Maggie’s grin widens slightly when she catches it.
She’s doing that on purpose now.
Definitely suspicious.
Last night, after the flood disaster finally settled into manageable chaos, Wren Bennett marched all three of us upstairs with the determined optimism of somebody refusing to acknowledge how wildly inappropriate the situation actually was.
Luke Dawson followed behind carrying extra blankets and apologizing every thirty seconds for what he kept calling “the unfortunate plumbing event.”
“The pipe exploded,” Wren corrected.
Luke shifted the blankets higher in his arms. “That feels like emotionally loaded wording.”
“It came through the ceiling, Luke.”
“Still.”
The suite itself was bigger than I expected and somehow still not nearly large enough.
Two bedrooms: one big, one small.
One sitting room.
One tiny kitchenette.
And one relentlessly cheerful woman unpacking books from a floral suitcase like she intended to establish a temporary branch library before bedtime.
“I alphabetize under stress,” Maggie explained while stacking paperbacks neatly beside the couch.
Sophie looked at her with immediate admiration.
Naturally.
Wren pointed toward Maggie. “Okay, formal introductions so nobody feels like they’re trapped in a social experiment. This is Maggie Hale. Maggie’s the new librarian in Cedar Hollow.”
“Temporary librarian,” she corrected automatically. “The library apartment is still under renovation, so I’m basically homeless for the next few weeks.”
“That’s why you have books!” Sophie said excitedly.
Wren pointed toward me next. “And this is Eli Turner. Firefighter. Single dad. Human emergency contact.”
“I don’t think that’s officially my title.”
“It should be.”
Sophie waved cheerfully from where she stood beside me. “I’m Sophie. I like grilled cheese and soccer and frogs, but only from a respectful distance.”
Maggie nodded solemnly. “That’s wise. Frogs always seem like they know secrets.”
Sophie laughed.
I had the strange realization then that she hadn’t laughed that easily all week.
Wren clapped once. “Perfect. Excellent. Look at us building community already.”
At first, I assumed the whole thing would last maybe ten awkward minutes before everyone settled into uncomfortable silence. Instead, Maggie somehow turned shared displacement into what felt dangerously close to a group activity.
By the time Luke and Wren finally escaped downstairs, Sophie sat cross-legged on the rug helping sort books into categories I didn’t entirely understand.
“How many glasses do you own?” Sophie asked bluntly.
I closed my eyes briefly.
“No offense,” Maggie told her seriously, adjusting the bright purple frames currently sitting on her nose. “But that is an advanced-level personal question.”
“Sorry.”
“I forgive you because you seem sincere.” Maggie tilted her head thoughtfully. “Twelve.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Including emergency backup pairs.”
“What’s an emergency glasses situation?”
“Excellent question. Sometimes you need confidence glasses. Sometimes you need serious librarian glasses. Sometimes you accidentally sit on a pair while reading in bed.”
“That happened to my dad once.”
I looked up immediately. “You promised never to mention that again.”
Sophie grinned. “You made a crunch sound.”
Maggie laughed softly, and something about the sound caught me off guard. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. It just filled the room easily, warming the edges of the conversation without demanding attention.
That should not have mattered.
Unfortunately, it did.
Because Maggie Hale was difficult to ignore.
Not in an obvious way. She wasn’t trying to take over every room she entered. She simply carried warmth around with her like some people carried music. She noticed things. Asked questions. Made space for answers.
And she was pretty.
Really pretty.