Chapter 6 Return of the Mac （Address）
RETURN OF THE MAC (ADDRESS)
SAGE
Days pass after Luke Sterling's midnight arrival turned my life into a small-town soap opera, and I'm sitting in my office at two PM on a Thursday, doing what any rational business owner would do…
Stalking my ex on Instagram while a baby goat judges my life choices.
The October rain pitter-patters on the inn's windows, creating the perfect soundtrack for my descent into digital masochism.
The Cascade View Inn has settled back into its usual state of barely-controlled chaos, though the lobby still smells faintly of Eleanor's autumn flower arrangements.
"This is healthy," I tell Buttercup, who's sprawled across my lap like a furry, judgmental heating pad. "Totally normal behavior for a successful, independent woman."
Buttercup bleats softly, which I choose to interpret as agreement rather than the goat equivalent of "seek therapy."
Derek's Instagram feed is a carefully curated monument to midlife crisis.
There he is at a wine tasting in Woodinville, looking distinguished in a way that used to make my heart flutter.
There he is at a Seahawks game, corporate box seats, of course. And there—
My finger freezes over the screen.
There's Derek at some tech industry gala, his arm around his new girlfriend Erica.
I swallow, zooming in on the dress she’s wearing—a gaudy ensemble that clearly costs more than my monthly mortgage payment. The smiling twosome in my cross-sights are holding champagne flutes like they've never heard the word "foreclosure."
But that's not what makes my stomach twist.
Standing next to them, looking like he'd rather be getting a root canal, is Luke Sterling.
Same dark hair. Same expensive glasses.
Same expression of barely contained disdain that I remember from his hasty checkout Monday morning.
The photo caption reads: "Great night celebrating Seattle's tech innovators! Thanks @LukeSterling for the cybersecurity tips! #TechLife #SeattleElite #Blessed"
"Blessed," I mutter, zooming in on Luke's face. "You're blessed all right. Blessed with a complete lack of self-awareness."
I study the photo more closely.
Luke and Derek are standing at opposite ends of the group, their body language screaming mutual dislike despite the professional smiles.
There's something in Luke's eyes—a tightness around the edges that suggests this photo op was about as enjoyable as my current goat yoga situation.
The yoga instructor never showed up with the other goats.
Or to collect Buttercup.
Her grandmother's ingrown toenail has apparently progressed from "minor inconvenience" to "potentially lethal condition requiring round-the-clock care."
So now I'm the proud temporary guardian of a goat whose main talents include rug-eating and providing unsolicited commentary on my poor life choices.
"At least you're here," I tell Buttercup, scratching behind her ears. "Unlike certain billionaires who fled at dawn like this was some kind of walk of shame."
Luke had barely stayed for breakfast Monday morning.
We'd managed approximately three minutes of SafeStay discussion before Eleanor arrived with a film crew—actual film crew—wanting to document our "love story" for the Alder Ridge historical society newsletter.
He'd excused himself to take an "urgent call" and never returned.
I received a polite thank-you email later that day.
No mention of SafeStay.
No mention of returning.
Just "Thank you for the hospitality" like I was a Hampton Inn with delusions of grandeur.
My phone buzzes with a text from Harper: Stop stalking Derek. I can feel your bad decisions from Seattle.
ME: I'm not stalking. I'm conducting market research.
HARPER: On your ex's love life?
ME: On my competition
HARPER: Sage. Honey. A 22 year old woman who sells feet pics is not your competition. She's in a completely different market segment
Before I can defend my totally rational behavior, Mira appears in the doorway, clutching her tablet and wearing the expression of someone about to deliver news that requires alcohol.
"Hey, boss. Got a minute to go over this weekend's bookings?"
"Hit me with it." I minimize Instagram, though not before taking one last look at Luke's uncomfortable face. "How bad is it?"
"Well..." Mira adjusts her glasses. "The Hendersons cancelled their anniversary weekend."
"Plumbing?"
"Plumbing. The Waterfall Suite is still out of commission, and they specifically requested it." She scrolls through her tablet. "But we do have Mr. Patterson arriving tomorrow for his annual leaf-peeping weekend."
"Mr. Patterson." I brighten slightly. "The retired English teacher who tips housekeeping in haikus?"
"That's the one. He's already sent his first poem." Mira clears her throat dramatically. "October rain falls/The inn awaits like old friend/Gluten-free menu?"
"I'll alert the kitchen." I pause. "Wait, what kitchen? I'm the kitchen."
"About that..." Mira shifts uncomfortably. "There's been a slight mix-up with the Johnsons' wedding party."
"What kind of mix-up?"
"The kind where they think we're providing a five-course tasting menu for thirty people next Saturday night."
Buttercup chooses this moment to voice her opinion with a bleat that sounds suspiciously like laughter.
"Thirty people." I stare at Mira. "They want me to cook a five-course meal for thirty people? With what? My grandmother's 1960s electric range and my vast experience making scrambled eggs?"
"You make excellent scrambled eggs.”
"Mira, I once set water on fire. Literally. The fire department still tells that story at their Christmas party."
"Maybe we could cater?"
"With what money?" I gesture to the foreclosure notice still lurking on my desk like a paper vulture. "My budget is held together with duct tape and false optimism."
Before Mira can respond, the bell above the front door chimes. We both freeze, listening to the sounds of someone entering the lobby.
"Were we expecting anyone?" I ask.
"Not until tomorrow." Mira checks her tablet again. "Unless Mr. Patterson is early. Which would be weird because his haikus are very specific about arrival times."
I set Buttercup on the floor, where she immediately begins investigating my waste basket. "I'll go check. You stay here and figure out how to turn 'we can't cook for thirty people' into something that sounds like 'exclusive intimate dining experience.'"
"That's not how reality works," Mira calls after me.
"Reality is highly overrated," I call back, heading for the lobby.
I round the corner expecting to find Mr. Patterson with his collection of autumn-themed scarves and his leather-bound poetry journal.
Instead, I nearly trip over my own boots.
Impossibly tall and broad-shouldered, Luke Sterling stands at the registration desk like he’s been plucked from the pages of Forbes and dropped into my very real small-town fever dream.
Tailored charcoal suit, sleek black coat still damp from the rain, and the kind of cool, corporate presence that makes my flannel shirt feel like pajamas and my paint-speckled leggings feel criminal.
My skin goes tight. Every nerve ending snaps to attention like it just got promoted.
My hands automatically smooth down my paint-stained flannel shirt—today's DIY disaster involved trying to patch a hole in the dining room wall—and I'm suddenly very aware that I haven't showered since yesterday.
“Mr. Sterling.” His name comes out like a question.
He turns, those ice-blue eyes sharp behind his glasses. "Sage. I hope this isn't a bad time."
"A bad time?" I laugh, a slightly hysterical sound. "No, it's a perfect time. I always conduct business meetings while covered in paint and mild desperation."
His lips quiver—almost a smile. "I've found desperation can be highly motivating in business negotiations."
"Negotiations?" I step closer, noting the leather portfolio under his arm, and the scent of his cologne—clean, dark, ridiculously masculine—sneaks under my defenses like a well-timed Trojan horse. "What kind of negotiations?"
"The kind that might solve both our problems." He glances around the empty lobby, then back at me. "Is there somewhere private we could talk?"
My office—currently occupied by a goat with a paper-eating addiction—flashes through my mind.
"The dining room," I say, leading the way. "Fair warning: it's under construction. By which I mean I'm pretending I know how to patch drywall."
"I've seen your plumbing skills. I’m prepared for anything."
The dining room is a study in elegant decay.
Original crown molding meets my amateur spackling job in a clash of eras. Drop cloths cover the hardwood floors, and the massive windows reveal a view of the falls that almost makes up for the fact that half the wall looks like it's been attacked by an angry toddler with a hammer.
Which, to be fair, is basically what happened when I tried to find the source of the leak.
Luke surveys the damage with the kind of calm assessment that probably serves him well in boardrooms.
"Ambitious renovation?"
"Desperate attempt to stop water damage." I gesture to the least paint-splattered chairs. "Please, sit. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? A tetanus shot?"
"I'm fine." He sits carefully, avoiding a suspicious stain on the table. "I'll get straight to the point. I have a proposition for you."
"A proposition." I sink into the chair across from him. "I'm listening."
He opens his portfolio, revealing documents that look official enough to make my stomach tighten.
"SafeStay's beta testing has revealed some... significant issues. The platform is too complex for smaller properties. What I need is a real-world testing environment. A place where we can refine the system for boutique hotels and inns."
“O…kay.”
He blinks. “And I thought of you.”
"And you thought of us?"
"I thought of you." His gaze is direct, those blue eyes giving nothing away. "The Cascade View Inn is exactly the kind of property SafeStay should serve. Family-owned, historic, facing the challenges of modernization while maintaining character."
"You mean falling apart but photogenic?"
"I mean authentic." He slides a document across the table.
"I'm proposing a partnership. The Cascade View Inn becomes SafeStay's primary beta site for the boutique market.
In exchange, you get free installation, six months of premium support, and a marketing campaign that will put your inn on every travel blog from here to New York. "
I stare at the document, numbers swimming before my eyes.
The marketing budget alone could save us.
More than save us—it could transform everything.
"What's the catch?"
"No catch. But there are conditions." He leans forward slightly. "This needs to remain confidential until the official launch. The testing process will require significant cooperation from you and your staff. And..."
"And?"
"And I'll need to be hands-on during implementation. Which means I'll be here. A lot."
My heart skips a beat or two. "You'll be here."
"Most weekends for the next two months. Possibly some weekdays." His voice is low, smooth, and way too calm for the panic party happening in my bloodstream. "Will that be a problem?"
It should be. It absolutely should be.
But the idea of Luke here—tall, handsome, maddeningly composed Luke—occupying space in my inn, brushing past me in narrow hallways, fixing his glasses while critiquing my WiFi...
My thighs clench reflexively. My body has clearly decided this is the worst—and most exciting—idea I’ve ever entertained.
I think about the Luke Sterling in Derek's Instagram photo. The one who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else than rubbing elbows with Seattle's tech elite.
Then I think about the Luke Sterling who helped me chase a goat at midnight, who sat in my kitchen at dawn making dry observations about small-town marketing conspiracies.
"No," I say finally. "That won't be a problem."
"There's one more thing." His expression shifts, becoming almost cautious. "The media attention from last weekend. It can't happen again. This needs to be strictly professional."
"Of course." My fingers fold together on the table. "Strictly professional."
"I mean it, Miss Winters. No more Instagram posts. No more 'Sterling Romance' breakfast specials. No more small-town matchmaking conspiracies."
"I didn't—" I start to protest, then stop.
Because I did.
Maybe not the Instagram post or the breakfast special, but I started this, by hacking his dating profile to lure him here. "I understand."
"Good." He extends his large hand across the table. "Then we have a deal?"
I stare at his hand for a moment, knowing I should tell him the truth. About the hack. About my desperate plan to attract an investor.
About how his profile mysteriously matching with mine over and over wasn't exactly a technical glitch.
Instead, I reach out and shake his hand, his grip firm and warm and somehow steadying.
"We have a deal."
His grip is warm, firm, and lingers just long enough to cross into why-is-this-starting-to-feel-like-foreplay territory.
Those lashes—too long, too pretty for someone so infuriating—drop briefly as he studies our joined hands, and for a heartbeat, the air between us hums with something that has nothing to do with contracts.
And everything to do with the way my breath catches.
"I'll have my legal team draw up the formal contracts," he says, releasing my hand and gathering his documents. "We can start implementation next weekend if that works for you."
“Next weekend." I try to remember this weekend’s calendar, but it’s impossible when my neurons have been fried by just one handshake. I nod. "Sure. What's one more disaster?"
He stands, smoothing his suit jacket. "It won't be a disaster. I don't do disasters."
"Clearly you've never experienced goat yoga."
"No," he says, heading for the door. "But I have a feeling that's about to change."
He pauses in the doorway, looking back at me still sitting among the drop cloths and spackling paste.
“Miss Winters? Thank you. For agreeing to this."
"Thank me when it works," I say.
"It'll work." His smile is quick but genuine. "I'll see you next Saturday."
He disappears into the lobby, leaving me alone with the sound of rain and the weight of what I've just agreed to.
Luke Sterling is going to be here every weekend.
A collaborator. A business partner.
In my space. In my life.
Looking for system glitches and technical problems while I hide the biggest glitch of all—that I’m a fraud.
"Well," I tell the empty dining room. "This should be interesting."
From the office, Buttercup bleats in what sounds like agreement.
Or possibly a warning.
With my luck, probably both.