Chapter 7 Toe-tal Disclosure
TOE-TAL DISCLOSURE
SAGE
Seven days after shaking hands with Luke Sterling on a deal that could save my inn—or destroy what's left of my dignity—I'm white-knuckling my way through Seattle traffic on a Thursday afternoon, heading to my monthly sister-mandated pedicure appointment like a defendant approaching trial.
October in Seattle has shifted from "atmospheric drizzle" to "aggressive waterboarding," and my ancient Honda's wipers are fighting a losing battle against the downpour.
The familiar skyline rises through the rain like a reminder of everything I left behind.
The career. The fiancé.
The ability to afford windshield wipers that actually work.
"You can do this," I tell myself, navigating the familiar streets of Capitol Hill. "It's just a pedicure. With your sisters. Who definitely won't interrogate you about your life choices while you're trapped in a massage chair."
My phone, duct-taped to the dashboard because the holder broke last month, buzzes with a text from Claire: Already here! Got your favorite chair! Can't wait to hear EVERYTHING about your billionaire boyfriend!!!
The multiple exclamation points feel like tiny daggers of impending doom.
I pull into the parking garage beneath Bliss Spa & Nail Studio, the same place we've been coming since Harper made partner at her firm and decided we needed "standing sister maintenance."
The fact that I can barely afford my share of the bill anymore is just another thing I'll pretend isn't happening.
The spa's interior assaults me with its aggressive tranquility—all bamboo fountains and essential oil diffusers and music that sounds like whales having an existential crisis.
Claire waves frantically from the pedicure throne on the far left, her pregnancy bump now prominent enough that she needs help getting in and out of the chair.
"Sage!" She practically bounces, which can't be safe in her condition. "You actually came!"
"Like I had a choice," I mutter, but I'm already being pulled into her enthusiastic hug.
Harper looks up from her phone, her power suit somehow still crisp despite a full day of lawyering. "Well, well. The prodigal sister appears. We were about to send a search party."
"I texted you yesterday."
"A thumbs-up emoji doesn't count as communication," Harper says, but she squeezes my shoulder as I pass. "Sit. Linda's been holding your chair for twenty minutes."
Linda, our regular pedicurist, grins at me while preparing her instruments of torture. "Sage! Long time! Your sisters say you have boyfriend now? Very handsome?"
"I don't—"
"Very handsome," Claire confirms, shoving her phone at Linda. "Look! He's a billionaire tech guy. They had a midnight rendezvous in her inn. There was a goat involved."
Linda studies the photo from Mira's Instagram. "Oh, very nice. Good shoulders. You marry him yet?"
"We're not—"
"She's taking it slow," Harper interjects, giving me a look. "Sage likes to thoroughly vet her options. Sometimes using questionable methods."
I sink into the massage chair, letting it pummel my spine while Linda fills the foot basin.
The water is approximately the temperature of hell, which feels appropriate.
"So," Claire says, settling back. "Tell us everything. How's it going with him? When do we get to meet him properly? Have you kissed yet?"
"Claire, you're thirty-five, not fifteen."
"Pregnancy hormones. I cry at paper towel commercials and live vicariously through your love life. Deal with it."
"There's nothing to live through. He was a guest. He checked out. End of story."
"A guest who you lured there through cybercrime," Harper says dryly.
Linda begins the assault on my neglected feet, tsking at the state of my heels. "You need to moisturize. Stress very bad for skin."
"I'm not stressed."
All three women look at me with expressions ranging from pity to disbelief.
"Okay, I'm a little stressed."
"Which is why," Claire says, "you need to come to Family Game Night on Sunday. Mom's making that lasagna you love. With the three cheeses."
My stomach clenches. "I can't. I have guests checking in."
"You always have guests checking in," Harper says. "That's the point of an inn."
"These are special guests. The Johnson wedding party. I need to—"
"Fix everything yourself because you're the family helper and that's what you do," Harper finishes. "We know the song, Sage. You've been singing it since you were twelve and decided you were responsible for making sure everyone else was happy."
"That's not—"
"Remember when Dad lost his job?" Claire interjects, her voice gentler. "You made a spreadsheet of family expenses and started a dog-walking business. You were thirteen."
"Someone had to—"
"Or when I got dumped before prom," Harper adds. "You orchestrated that whole revenge makeover and got me a better date."
"He was a jerk who—"
"Or when I failed algebra," Claire continues. "You tutored me every night for three months."
"You needed help!"
Linda chooses this moment to attack a particularly stubborn callus, and I yelp, jerking my foot and sending water cascading over the edge of the basin.
"Sorry, sorry!" Linda scrambles for towels while I try to still my foot. "Very thick skin. Like armor."
"That's our Sage," Harper mutters. "Armored against everything, including people who love her."
"That's not fair," I protest, accepting towels from Linda. "I've just been busy. The inn is underwater, I can't afford repairs, the chef quit, and I'm trying to save Grandma Rose's legacy. Excuse me for not having time for Pictionary."
"It's not about Pictionary," Claire says. "Dad sets up your game pieces every week. Mom makes extra food. We leave your chair empty."
The image twists in my gut.
My family gathered around the dining room table. My empty chair a weekly reminder of my absence.
"And I've been telling everyone you're too busy with your new boyfriend," Claire continues. "Which, by the way, when were you going to mention that you hacked his dating profile to lure him to the inn?"
Linda's hands freeze on my foot. "You hacked your boyfriend?"
"He's not my boyfriend. And it wasn't really hacking. More like... aggressive marketing."
"Sage." Harper's lawyer voice activates. "You manipulated someone's personal data to create false matches. That's literally the definition of hacking."
"Allegedly."
"Did you or did you not alter Luke Sterling's SecureMatch algorithm?"
I squirm in the massage chair, which chooses that moment to target a particularly sensitive spot in my lower back. "Maybe slightly."
"Sage!"
"Look, I was desperate! The inn needs publicity, he has a security platform for hotels, I thought if I could just get him there, maybe his team would write about it or something. It was a long shot."
"It was fraud," Harper says. "What happens when he finds out?"
"He won't find out. He came, he saw the inn, he left. End of story."
"Right. Because tech billionaires who specialize in cybersecurity never investigate security breaches."
My stomach turns over. "He seemed more annoyed than suspicious. Besides, what's he going to do? Sue me? I have nothing left to take."
"He could ruin your reputation."
"What reputation? I'm a failed marketing tech executive who inherited a failing inn."
"Stop that." Claire's voice goes sharp. "You're not a failure."
"Tell that to my bank account."
"I'm telling it to you," Claire says. "You left a toxic situation and started over. That's brave, not failure."
"Brave would have been leaving before Derek cheated with my best friend’s fresh-out-of-college daughter," I mutter.
Linda resumes her work, humming what sounds suspiciously like a wedding march. "Sometimes we need big shock to make big change."
"Exactly," Claire agrees. "And now you're available for someone better. Like inn-crashing, blue-eyed billionaires.”
"Speaking of the inn," I say, desperate to change the subject. "I need help. The Johnson wedding expects catering for thirty people Saturday night, and…” realization dawns, “…shit.”
“What?”
“I sort of double-booked with Luke on Saturday.”
Claire's eyes widen. "Sage, that's in two days!"
"Hence the panic. I can cook for maybe ten people if I stretch it. Thirty is—"
"Impossible," Harper finishes. "Unless you have help."
"Which I don't. Tommy can fix a drain but not a beef Wellington. Mira's terrified of the stove ever since the flambe incident. And I can't afford to hire anyone."
Harper pulls out her phone. "La Famiglia has a new catering service."
"La Famiglia? That's..." I try to calculate the cost. "I can't afford them either."
"Mac Gallo-Drake has been helping expand the business. They're doing special rates for local venues." Harper's already typing. "I may have already made some inquiries."
"You already—when?"
"Three weeks ago. When you mentioned the chef quit." She looks up from her phone. "I'm your sister, Sage. Anticipating your disasters is basically my part-time job."
"I don't have disasters. I have... situations."
"You have disasters," Claire says. "Remember the great turkey explosion of 2018?"
"That was one time!"
"The ceiling still has scorch marks," Harper adds.
Linda moves to my other foot, shaking her head. "This one even worse. Like you kick rocks for fun."
"I've been doing repairs," I mutter.
"In designer shoes?" Harper asks.
"They're the only nice ones I have left from Seattle. I can't meet guests in sneakers."
"God forbid you appear human," Harper says, but her voice is softer now. "Mac says they could help, but there's a catch. Her sister Lucia just left them short-staffed."
"Left?"
"Took a job with some culinary empire in New York. Julian something? Mac said Lucia went out there for what was supposed to be a quick restaurant assessment, called three days later, sounding like she’d been shell-shocked, and then announced she was taking a permanent position."
"That seems sudden," Claire says.
"Very sudden," Harper agrees, giving me a pointed look. "Apparently she kept muttering about 'professional boundaries' and something about fork policies? The whole Gallo family's in an uproar."
"Fork policies?" I ask.
"Who knows. The point is, she ran across the country for a 'career opportunity' when everyone could tell something else was going on." Harper's stare intensifies. "Sound familiar?"
"I didn't run. I made a strategic life choice."
"You left Seattle so fast you forgot to pack your KitchenAid mixer," Claire points out. "Mom still has it."
"I was... eager to start fresh."
"You were running from Derek and everything that reminded you of him," Harper says. "Which, fine. He's garbage. But you're still running, Sage. Missing family dinners, avoiding game nights, hiding in that inn like it's a fortress."
Claire reaches over from her chair, nearly tipping herself out in the process. "We’re saying we miss you.”
I blink hard, focusing on Linda's careful application of topcoat. "I miss you too."
"Then come to game night," Claire says. "Just come."
"I'll think about it."
"You'll come," Harper says with lawyer finality. "Or I'll drive to Alder Ridge and drag you there myself. Mira already told me you don't have any Sunday bookings."
"Mira's a traitor."
"Mira's worried about you. We all are."
Linda finishes with a flourish, stepping back to admire her work. "All done! Very pretty. You catch boyfriend for sure now."
"I don't want to catch—" I stop. Why am I so adamant about this? "Never mind."
"Right." Harper stands, somehow graceful despite toe separators. "Mac will call you about the catering. Try not to hack any more dating profiles before Saturday."
“Oh my God, it was only once.”
"Once is enough when it's fraud," Harper says, but she hugs me anyway. "I love you, disaster human."
"Love you too, voice of judgment."
Claire waddles over for her hug, nearly knocking over a nail polish display. "Everything's going to work out. I can feel it."
"That might be heartburn," I suggest.
"It's intuition. Pregnant women know things."
"Last week you 'knew' the grocery store was secretly run by aliens."
"That was the hormones. This is different." She pulls back, studying my face. "You like him."
"Who?"
"Don't play dumb. Luke Sterling. You like him."
"I barely know him."
"If you say so," Claire says, but her smile suggests she knows something I don't.
We make our way to the front desk, where I mentally calculate if I can afford this luxury and still buy groceries. Harper must notice because she smoothly hands over her credit card.
"Harper—"
"Consider it a loan," she says. "To be repaid when the inn is the toast of the Pacific Northwest."
"I can't—"
"You can and you will," she says firmly. "That's what family does."
As we stand under the spa's awning, watching the Seattle rain create rivers in the gutters, Claire suddenly squeals.
"Oh! I almost forgot.” She pulls out a Tupperware container from her enormous purse. Inside, I can see a perfectly portioned serving of three-cheese lasagna.
"She made extra," Claire says unnecessarily. "Just in case."
I stare at the container, my throat tight. "Every week?"
"Every week," Harper confirms. "Your chair, your game pieces, your favorite food. We're not giving up on you, Sage. Even when you give up on yourself."
The rain blurs my vision. Or maybe that's something else.
“Next Sunday?" Claire asks hopefully.
I think about the empty chair, the saved portions, the family that refuses to let me disappear. “Next Sunday," I agree.
"Yes!" Claire does a little pregnant-lady dance. "Normal family game night is back!"
"Don't get too excited. I'll probably have to leave early to prep for the week."
"We'll take what we can get," Harper says.
But as I drive back to Alder Ridge, the October rain turning the world into an impressionist painting, the uncomfortable feeling from earlier returns, stronger now.
Me stalking Derek. Saving Luke’s picture.
Market research, obviously. But why did looking at it make my stomach flip?
And why does the thought of Lukas Sterling discovering my hack make me feel sick in a way that has nothing to do with potential legal consequences?
And why can't I stop thinking about the way he looked holding my Wonder Woman underwear, clinical and amused and somehow not judging?
Why do I remember exactly how his hand felt when we shook on a deal I haven't told anyone about?
The inn comes into view through the rain, and I push all uncomfortable thoughts aside.
I have a wedding to cater, a goat to wrangle, and a business to save.
Everything else—including whatever Harper thinks she knows about my patterns—can wait.
It has to.