Chapter 17 Productivity Plummets
PRODUCTIVITY PLUMMETS
SAGE
Three days later, the week that started with such promise—Luke in my bed, his warmth, his laugh, the way he looked at me like I was his favorite meal—is now going to shit.
Probably, because we’ve barely said ten words to each other since, and now I'm standing in my kitchen wearing his too-big Sterling Security t-shirt and trying not to feel like a one-night stand.
"He had a legitimate emergency," I tell Buttercup, who's somehow escaped her pen again and is currently investigating my trash can. "An ambassador was held hostage by his security system. That's a real thing that happened."
Buttercup extracts what looks like yesterday's coffee filter and begins munching it thoughtfully.
"You're right," I continue. "It does sound fake. Like something you'd make up when fleeing a regrettable hookup."
Except it wasn't regrettable. At least not for me.
The way Luke touched me. The things he whispered.
How he held me after like I was something he was afraid to lose.
Nothing about that was regrettable.
But Luke was right. It was scary as hell.
My phone rings, the caller ID showing a number that I’m all too familiar with.
Shit.
First National Bank of Seattle.
Smoothing my suddenly sweaty fingertips against my shirt, I answer.
"Cascade View Inn, this is Sage.”
"Ms. Winters, this is Bradley Miller from First National. I'm calling about your loan status."
I sink onto a kitchen stool. "Good morning, Bradley. How's the... banking?"
"Ms. Winters, I need to inform you that despite the recent increase in bookings, your account shows insufficient funds for the upcoming payment due November 20th.”
"But that's..." I do quick mental math. "Two weeks away. And I have bookings. Lots of bookings. Twelve this weekend alone!"
"Yes, I see the projected income. However, after operating expenses, you'll still be approximately eight thousand dollars short."
Eighteen thousand.
Might as well be eighteen million.
"I have the SafeStay partnership," I say desperately. "Luke Sterling—"
"Mr. Sterling's company has paid the installation fee, yes. But according to the contract you provided, the bulk of the partnership benefits are marketing-based, not direct financial investment."
Right.
Because I'd been so focused on getting Luke here, getting publicity, getting noticed, that I hadn't thought about actual cash flow.
"Ms. Winters, I've advocated for you with the board, but they're losing patience. If you can't make the November payment..."
"I know." My voice comes out small. "Foreclosure proceedings."
"I'm sorry. Is there any way you can secure additional funds?"
I look around my kitchen—at the peeling linoleum, the ancient appliances, the window that doesn't quite close all the way. "I'll figure something out."
"I hope so. The inn has been in your family for generations. I'd hate to see..."
"Yeah," I interrupt. "Me too."
I hang up and stare at my phone, trying to process how I'm still drowning despite everything.
Despite Luke. Despite SafeStay.
Despite working eighteen-hour days and becoming a goat farmer and letting my sisters think I have my life together.
A knock at the door interrupts my spiral into despair.
I find my handyman Tommy MacReady on my porch, tool belt slung low on his hips, expression grim.
"Morning, boss. We need to talk."
"Good morning to you too, Tommy. Would you like some coffee? Maybe a side of doom with your pronouncements?"
He doesn't smile, which is concerning. Tommy always smiles.
"It's the roof," he says, pulling out a folded estimate. "That patch job I did last month isn't going to hold through winter. You need a full replacement on the north side."
I take the paper with numb fingers, unfold it, and nearly choke. "Twenty-two thousand dollars?"
"That's the friends and family rate. Anyone else would charge thirty."
"Tommy, I don't have twenty-two dollars, let alone thousand."
"I know." He shifts from foot to foot. "But Sage, if that roof goes in a winter storm, you'll have water damage throughout the second floor. We're talking structural damage, mold, potential ceiling collapse—"
"Stop." I hold up a hand. "Please. I can only handle one catastrophe at a time."
"There's more."
"Of course there is."
"The heating system is making that noise again. And the electrical panel in the east wing is... concerning."
"Concerning how?"
"Fire hazard concerning."
I laugh, but it's the kind of laugh that suggests imminent mental breakdown. "Fantastic. So I need about fifty thousand dollars I don't have to fix problems that will destroy the inn if I ignore them, but I only have two weeks to find eight thousand or I'll lose the inn anyway."
Tommy's face softens. "Sage—"
"And you know what the really fun part is?
" I'm on a roll now, pacing my porch in Luke's t-shirt and yesterday's jeans.
"I've been playing pretend with a cybersecurity billionaire who probably spent more on his train car than my inn is worth.
Acting like this partnership is going to save everything when really I'm just.. . postponing the inevitable."
"You're not—"
"I am, Tommy. I'm playing dress-up in a world I don't belong in, pretending I can save this place with marketing and hope and a security system that takes diplomats hostage."
"The ambassador thing was pretty funny," Tommy offers.
"It was, wasn't it?" I shake my head. “Luke's face when he got that call. Like someone told him his code had developed sentience and was demanding rights."
"Luke," Tommy repeats. "Not Mr. Sterling?"
I flush. "We... it's hard to explain.”
“Hard to explain like ‘his car stayed overnight’ kind of hard?”
"Don't you have a roof to condemn somewhere?"
"Already done. Condemned yours." But he's smiling now. "Look, Sage, I know things seem impossible. But you've kept this place running through worse."
"Have I though?"
"Remember the great pipe burst of 2019?"
"That was different. I had savings then. And hope. And Grandma Rose's secret cookie recipe that made everything seem manageable."
"You still have the recipe."
"I stress-ate all the chocolate chips."
Buttercup chooses this moment to escape through the door I left open, making a break for freedom with my coffee filter still in her mouth.
"Buttercup, no!" I lunge after her, Tommy right behind me.
What follows is five minutes of extremely undignified goat chasing.
Buttercup leads us through the garden, around the gazebo, and eventually up onto the roof of the garden shed, where she stands like a tiny, coffee-filter-eating mountain climber.
"How did she even get up there?" Tommy asks, breathing hard.
"She's part spider, I swear." I'm bent over, hands on my knees, Luke's t-shirt now decorated with mud and what I hope is just garden dirt. "Buttercup, please come down."
"Maaah," she responds, which clearly means "no."
"I'll get the ladder," Tommy sighs.
While he's gone, I sit on the wet grass—because of course it's still damp from the early November morning dew—and look up at my escape artist goat.
"You know what, Buttercup? You've got the right idea. Run away. Climb things. Refuse to come down." I pull my knees to my chest. "Maybe I should join you up there. We could start a new life. Just two girls, living on a shed roof, eating coffee filters."
My phone buzzes.
Luke.
Trying to clean up things at the office. Board was not happy about the ambassador. How's your morning?
I look down at myself—muddy, grass-stained, wearing his shirt, having just been told I'm going to lose everything—and type back.
Great! Super great. Buttercup learned to climb.
Three dots appear immediately. Climb what?
I take a photo of Buttercup on the shed roof and send it.
His response is almost instantaneous.
Of course she did. Need help?
Yes, I think.
I need fifty thousand dollars and a new roof and an electrical panel that won't burn down my heritage and probably therapy for why I'm talking to a goat about my problems.
Instead, I type.
ME: Tommy's on it. You focus on freeing future ambassadors.
LUKE: I’d rather focus on you.
My heart does that triple-beating flip it's been doing lately. The flip that makes me forget I'm a walking, talking natural disaster masquerading as a functional adult.
I start to text back when another message comes in.
LUKE: Dinner tonight? Somewhere without goats?
I can’t. I won’t.
I shouldn’t. It’s important to stop this before the Sterling man with the sterling reputation realizes what a sinking ship he's attached himself to.
Before my failures drag down his reputation and his company.
"I can't. I have to..." I pause, trying to think of an excuse that isn't 'sit in my office and calculate exactly how screwed I am.'
LUKE: Sage?
ME: I have to run payroll. And inventory. And... inn things.
LUKE: Inn things.
ME: Very important inn things.
LUKE: Sage, what's wrong?
Everything, I want to type.
Everything is wrong and I'm scared and I started this whole thing with a lie and now I'm falling for you but I'm going to lose the inn anyway and you'll realize I'm just another person who wanted something from you.
"Nothing," I type instead. "Just a busy day."
LUKE: Okay.
There's a pause between texts, then…
LUKE: You know you can talk to me, right? About anything?
The irony of that statement is like a stone sinking in my stomach.
Can I talk to him about hacking his profile? About tricking him into coming here?
About using him for publicity while catching feelings I never meant to catch?
"I know," I lie.
Tommy returns with the ladder and a look of resignation. "Ready to wrangle your goat?"
"My life in a nutshell," I mutter, standing and brushing off the worst of the grass.
It takes both of us and a trail of alfalfa pellets to get Buttercup down. By the time we succeed, I'm even muddier, Tommy's torn his shirt, and Buttercup looks supremely pleased with herself.
"Thanks," I tell Tommy as he heads back to his truck. "For the help. And for not charging me for the roof estimate."
"Sage..." He pauses by his truck. "You know the whole town loves this place, right? Maybe if you asked—"
"I can't." The words come out sharper than intended. "I can't ask for more help. I already feel like I'm drowning in IOUs."
"Pride's expensive," he says gently.
"So are roofs, apparently."
He drives away, leaving me standing in my muddy clothes with a goat who's already eyeing the shed roof again.
"Don't even think about it," I tell her.
My phone rings. Luke again.
"I thought you had ambassador-related fires to put out," I answer.
"I do. But I wanted to hear your voice." He pauses. "You sound sad."
"I'm not sad. I'm... contemplative."
"About?"
About how I've managed to fall for you while simultaneously ruining everything.
About how you're going to hate me when you find out the truth.
About how I'm going to lose this inn and you in one spectacular failure.
"About how I need to buy you new shoes," I say instead.
"Sage—"
"I should go. Mira's probably wondering why I'm not at the desk."
"Sage, wait—"
"Talk later?"
"... Okay. Later."
I hang up and look at the inn—my family's legacy, my grandmother's dream, my spectacular failure.
The morning sun makes it glow despite the peeling paint and sagging roof, and I feel a love for it so fierce it physically hurts.
Eighteen thousand dollars.
Twenty-two thousand for the roof. Who knows how much for the electrical.
I think about Luke's train car, about the casual way he talked about buying it, about the gulf between his world and mine.
He could write a check and solve everything without even checking his balance.
But I can't ask. Won't ask.
Because I've already taken too much under false pretenses.
"Come on, Buttercup," I say, scooping up the troublesome goat. "Let's go pretend everything's fine."
She bleats in what sounds like sympathy.
Or maybe judgment.
With Buttercup, it's hard to tell.