Chapter Three Pressure
Meri
I took the back stairs quickly, to avoid the possibility of conversation, and at that moment I had already had enough of that for the morning.
The front desk required a version of myself that was attentive in a way that felt outward, while the kitchen allowed me to move inward again, to settle into something predictable and structured.
The shift was immediate the moment I stepped through the door.
Jane had already started lunch, which I could tell from the scent before I fully registered what she was doing.
Something warm and savory simmered on the stove, while a tray of fruit crumble bars rested on the counter beside her.
She moved easily between the two, her rhythm steady and unforced, as though she had already accounted for every step before taking it.
“We’re low on flour again," I said, moving past her toward the pantry and pulling the clipboard from its place on the wall.
Jane glanced over her shoulder, her expression thoughtful. “Already? I just restocked that."
“You didn’t," I replied, scanning the shelf and confirming what I already expected to find. “That was six days ago."
“That still feels recent," Jane murmured as she wiped her hands on her apron.
“Considering the way you bake, it isn’t," I murmured.
She smiled faintly and turned back to the stove, stirring whatever she had going with the kind of ease that suggested she didn’t need to think about it.
I made the necessary notes on the clipboard, adjusting numbers, correcting what needed correcting, and moving through the list in a way that settled something in me with each item completed.
“Is everything okay up front?” she asked after a moment. “How’s our handsome guest?”
“He checked in."
Jane paused slightly, enough to indicate interest but not enough to interrupt her process. “Oh?”
“Five nights."
“That’s a long stay," she said, shifting a pan onto the counter.
“It is," I agreed, closing the clipboard and returning it to its place.
Jane reached for another tray, her movements efficient but unhurried. “He seemed nice."
I considered that, not because I needed to form an opinion, but because the statement implied one had already been made. “He’s an actor."
Jane made a small sound that suggested she found that answer incomplete. “That doesn’t mean he isn’t nice."
“It doesn’t mean he is," I replied, opening the refrigerator and scanning its contents with a quick, practiced glance.
There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. Jane didn’t argue, which meant she understood the distinction I was making even if she didn’t agree with it.
I closed the refrigerator and rested my hands lightly against the counter for a moment, aware that my thoughts had already begun circling back to the front desk in a way that was less about the interaction itself and more about the absence of something I expected to find.
He had said his name as though it were information that would matter, and for most people it would have.
For me, it was simply data to be processed, stored, and, if necessary, referenced later.
The absence of a reaction to his fame had been deliberate, not accidental, as I didn’t view people as superior just because they had power, fame, or money.
I liked to put everyone on an even playing field then see what they would do morally and ethically.
I pulled my phone from my pocket before I could decide not to, opening a search with the kind of efficiency that came from habit rather than curiosity. If he was here for a reason, there would be something to indicate it.
His name brought up what I expected it to, a series of images and articles that all presented a version of him that felt consistent with the roles he tended to play as a leading man that were action-driven.
I scrolled through recent posts, looking for something specific without fully defining what that might be. A location tag, a mention of travel, a hint of a project that would place him anywhere near Maple Ridge.
There was nothing.
No current filming announcements. No indication of travel that aligned with this. No reason, at least not one that had been made public, for him to be here instead of somewhere more predictable.
I checked to see if there were any hints of family in the area or filming. Again, my search came up empty.
That didn’t make sense, and refreshing the page once, then again, did nothing to change it.
Behind me, Jane shifted something in the oven, the quiet clink of metal grounding the moment enough that I slipped my phone back into my pocket and returned to the task at hand, though the question remained.
Why was he here?
He was simply a variable that did not align with the rest of the pattern, and that made it difficult to ignore.
“He played that character a few years ago," I said, not entirely intending to speak the thought aloud.
Jane glanced up. “Which one?”
“The science fiction film. The one that wasn’t like his usual roles."
She tilted her head slightly as she thought. “Was it the one with the spaceship that Lucy was obsessed with for a while?”
“Yes." I nodded.
“I liked that one," she said thoughtfully. “He was different."
“He had to be. The role required it," I replied.
Jane nodded as though that made sense, which it did, though it didn’t resolve the question of why he was here at the SnowDrop Inn.
The Enchanted Quill convention was this week. There were always a few unannounced guests, additions made close to the start of the event that were not reflected in the original listings.
Actors, occasionally.
Not often, and not typically ones whose careers were built on something else entirely, but it was not outside the realm of possibility that Aryn Levich would have been invited for his previous role.
It was a bit of a stretch to have science fiction elements at a romanstasy convention, but it was possible.
I pulled my phone out again, opening the convention page and scrolling through the list of confirmed attendees, scanning for his name even though I didn’t expect to find it.
It wasn’t there.
“Are you still planning on going away this week?” Jane asked, her tone light but curious.
“Yes. It’s just a couple of days," I said, locking my phone and setting it on the counter.
“You’ll enjoy it. I’m glad you’re going to be with friends," Jane mentioned.
I didn’t respond to that directly, because it wasn’t entirely true.
I had told my family that I would be away visiting a couple of friends from the city.
They didn’t know about my career as an author.
Mom had always said I had my head in the clouds too much, Lydia thought I read far too much, and while I thought the others would understand, I still felt too fragile to reveal to them that I was successful, writing in a world that wasn’t real, with characters I liked better than most people.
I was a bit odd.
My phone buzzed softly against the counter, and I glanced down at the screen.
Tara.
I picked it up and stepped slightly to the side, creating enough space that the conversation would feel separate even though I remained in the room.
I’ll be there at the convention , I typed.
The response came quickly, as it usually did. Good. We should talk about the movie rights again while you’re there. The studio is very keen on acquiring the rights.
I read the message once, then again, considering how to respond in a way that would be accurate without inviting further pressure.
I’m not sure that’s the right move for the series , I wrote.
There was a pause, then the three dots appeared.
We’ll discuss.
I sighed. This was a conversation that had been ongoing for longer than I would have preferred, one that required me to revisit the same concerns without resolution.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket and returned to the counter, picking up a towel and folding it neatly before setting it aside.
“Everything okay?” Jane asked, gently studying me.
“It’s fine," I answered.
She studied me for a moment as though she might ask something more specific, but the kitchen door opened without warning. Mom stepped inside with a sense of purpose that suggested she had already decided how the next few minutes would unfold.
“There you are," she said, her attention settling on me. “I’ve been looking for you."
“I’m here," I dryly replied.
“I can see that," she said, waving a hand lightly. “I wanted to talk to you about something."
Jane glanced between us, her expression shifting in a way that suggested she recognized the tone.
Mom smiled, the kind that carried intention behind it. “There’s a young man who is going to be apprenticing under your father. He’s very nice, very hardworking, and he’s going to be here quite a bit."
I waited, because the direction of this conversation was already clear.
“I think you should meet him," she continued.
“No." The word came easily, without hesitation, because there wasn’t anything in what she had said that required further consideration.
Mom blinked once, as though she had expected a different response. “You don’t even know him."
“I don’t need to," I firmly replied.
“Mom, let Meri make her own choices," Jane said quietly.
“He’s a good boy," Mom continued, her tone still warm but more insistent now. “He has a plan, he’s learning a trade, and he’ll be around anyway. There’s no harm in meeting him."
“I’m not interested," I said, keeping my voice even. Mom had tried to set all of us up, repeatedly, with whomever she could find. It was a bit aggravating even though I had managed to escape most of it. Apparently now all of my sisters were dating, I was now her focus.
Mom’s expression shifted slightly, not into frustration exactly, but into something that suggested she believed this was a misunderstanding that could be corrected. “You say that before you’ve even given him a chance."
I rubbed the space between my eyebrows with two fingers, trying to find some patience.
Jane set down what she was holding and stepped closer, her presence calm but intentional. “Mom—”
“I don’t understand why you’re so resistant," Mom said, her attention fixed on me. “You might like him."
“That isn’t the point," I muttered.
“Then what is the point?” she asked in frustration.
I paused. She wouldn’t understand. Mom was a social creature.
She liked meeting new people, small talk, and connecting through social interactions.
I however, was entirely inept at social experiences.
I was awkward, didn’t like new situations, missed verbal cues, and people didn’t tend to like me.
Past memories of Mom pushing me to make friends, or get a boyfriend, flitted through my mind, each ending in disaster.
“I don’t want to meet him," I said. “That’s enough."
Mom opened her mouth as though she might continue, then stopped, her gaze shifting briefly to Jane before returning to me. She let out a breath that suggested disagreement but not defeat. “We’ll talk about this later."
I sighed, wishing she would respect my wishes and knowing that she wouldn’t understand.
Mom turned and left the kitchen, the door closing behind her with a soft but final sound.
Jane looked at me, her expression sympathetic.
I reached for the clipboard again, though I had already finished the inventory, and ran my finger down the list to avoid any further conversation.