Chapter 19 Whiskey Business
WHISKEY BUSINESS
SAGE
It takes me fifteen minutes to walk three blocks in Alder Ridge.
Not because of traffic—but because I’m stopped at least seven times.
Mrs. Polk wants to know if the inn will decorate for Christmas early. Edgar from the hardware store offers me a discount on goat fencing “for the little escape artist.”
A pair of tourists asks if I’m “the Sage Winters.”
When I say yes, they beam and pull out their phones—for selfies. Not because I’m famous, but because Grandma Rose was.
And somehow, when she passed, her spotlight shifted and I’ve been standing in it ever since.
The Cascade View Inn’s quirky torchbearer.
The girl who stayed.
It's Saturday afternoon, two days after Luke asked me to be his real date to Callum's engagement party, and now that I’ve reached my destination—Eleanor’s cafe—and I’m seated my usual corner table, I still feel like I’m wandering through the streets.
Inside, I stare at the tea menu like it holds the secrets to the universe. Like it’ll help me cut through the thoughts of how messed my life has become.
"Chamomile for calm, peppermint for courage, or whiskey for honesty?" She’s wearing a scarf with tiny pumpkins on it—two weeks post-Halloween—and her silver braids are coiled like cinnamon rolls.
“Um, I don’t know, Ellie.” I swallow, nerves clogging my throat. “Do you happen to have anything for 'confession of cybercrime to a billionaire'?" I ask.
She smiles. “Back room, between the emergency chocolate and Sarah's secret stash of wine."
"Eleanor."
"Sage." She mimics my serious tone. "You've been sitting at that corner table for twenty minutes nursing the same cold coffee. Either you're writing a manifesto, or you need to talk."
The November afternoon sun streams through the café windows, highlighting dust motes and my poor life choices.
Outside, downtown Alder Ridge is doing its picturesque small-town thing—tourists taking photos by the decorative pumpkins, locals pretending the tourists don't exist.
And suddenly, I can’t take the smell of cinnamon and judgment in the air.
I glance up from my seat. “Eleanor?”
“Yes, darling?”
“I tricked Luke into coming to my inn.”
Eleanor doesn't even blink. "I know, dear."
"You... what?"
“I figured something had to be afoot. You went from 'I'll die alone with my goats' to 'oops, a billionaire showed up' in two weeks. I may be old, but I'm not stupid."
"You're not old. You're vintage."
"Flattery won't distract me, you know.”
“It might.”
She clears a table beside me, wiping it with a dishrag. “When are you telling him?"
"Tonight." My stomach churns. "At the party he invited me to. Or after. Or possibly never. Can I change my name and move to Peru?"
"Peru's nice this time of year," Sarah calls from behind the counter where she's frosting what appear to be confession-themed cupcakes. "But running won't solve anything."
"When did you get here?" I ask.
"Ten minutes ago. You were having an existential crisis with the Earl Grey." She holds up a cupcake. "Want one? I'm calling them 'Truth Bombs.' Chocolate with guilt-flavored frosting."
"That's not a real flavor."
"It is if you believe hard enough."
My forehead drops to the surface of the table. "I'm going to tell him, and he's going to hate me, and I'll have ruined the first good thing in my life since Derek."
"First of all," Eleanor says, settling across from me with surprising grace for someone wearing orthopedic shoes, "Derek wasn't a good thing. He was a placeholder with good hair."
"His hair was magnificent," I admit.
"So is a lion's mane, but you don't marry it." She pours tea from a pot that appeared from nowhere. "Second, Luke won't hate you."
"I committed fraud."
"You committed romance," Sarah corrects, joining us with a plate of cupcakes. "With a light fraud chaser."
"That's not better."
"It's a little better."
"Sarah, I tricked him. Manipulated his data. Pulled every Big Tech trick I’ve ever learned to make him think we were compatible—"
"Are you not compatible?" Eleanor interrupts.
I think about Luke in my kitchen, Luke chasing Buttercup, Luke holding me, his full mouth brushing the edge of my ear. "We are, but—"
"Then you didn't trick him. You introduced him to reality." She pats my hand. "With some creative editing."
"That's definitely not how the law works."
"Sweetie, I've been married four times. The law and love rarely intersect nicely."
"Four times?" Sarah and I say in unison.
"What? I like weddings." Eleanor shrugs. "The point is, you can't build a relationship on lies. Even beautifully intentioned, algorithmically enhanced lies."
"So I tell him."
"You tell him."
"Tonight."
"Tonight."
"And when he storms out in justified rage?"
"Then at least you’ll known.” Sarah offers me a cupcake. "Besides, I don't think he'll storm. Luke Sterling doesn't strike me as a stormer."
"No," I agree, taking a bite of chocolate comfort. "He's more of a quiet disappointment type. Which is worse."
My phone buzzes. Text from Mira.
You need to get back here. Like now. LIKE RIGHT NOW."
"Crisis at the inn," I sigh. "Probably Buttercup achieved sentience."
"Go," Eleanor orders. "But Sage? Whatever happens tonight, we're proud of you. Your grandmother would be too."
"For committing fraud?"
"For taking a chance. Rose always said the biggest risk was not taking one."
"Pretty sure she meant with the inn, not with cybercrime."
"Tomato, tomahto."
I hug them both, probably getting frosting in Eleanor's braids, and head back to the inn.
The walk is beautiful—November showing off with golden leaves and crisp air that makes everything feel like a new beginning.
Or an ending.
Depending on how tonight goes.
I'm practicing my confession speech—"Luke, I have something to tell you" sounds too ominous, while "Funny story about how we met" is too casual—when I round the corner to the inn and stop dead.
Flowers.
Everywhere.
The porch is drowning in arrangements. Roses, peonies, something purple that might be orchids, and what appears to be an entire flowering shrub.
"Surprise!" Mira pops out from behind a particularly aggressive bouquet. "They've been arriving all afternoon. I ran out of surfaces."
I blink, touching a stem that leans too close. “Who did this?”
“Who do you think?”
My heart stutter-steps inside my chest. “Luke? Luke did this?"
Mira grins, eyebrows waggling. “Unless you have another billionaire suitor who speaks fluent flower?"
I pick up the nearest card.
"Looking forward to tonight - thinking of you. -L”
Another.
“For the most beautiful disaster I know. - L”
And another.
“Because you deserve beautiful things. Even if Buttercup eats them. - L”
"Oh no," I whisper.
"Oh no?" Mira frowns. "How is this an oh no? This is romance! This is Nora Ephron material! This is—"
"This is going to make telling him I'm a criminal so much harder."
"You're not a... wait, what?"
I'm saved from explaining by Buttercup, who's discovered the buffet and is methodically taste-testing each arrangement.
"No!" I lunge for her, but she's already got a mouthful of what were probably very expensive roses. "Those are not for you!"
"Technically," Mira says, "Luke did mention you in the card."
Buttercup bleats agreement through her mouthful of romance.
The next twenty minutes are spent relocating flowers to goat-proof areas, which, given Buttercup's climbing skills, means basically nowhere.
We finally lock her in the office with her feelings and some hay.
"There's more," Mira says, leading me to the owner's suite.
"More flowers? Did he buy out the entire Pacific Northwest?"
"Not flowers."
She opens my door to reveal a garment bag hanging on the closet and a shoe box on the bed.
"He sent clothes?"
"With a note."
I unfold the paper, recognizing Luke's precise handwriting.”
Sage - Remembered you mentioned borrowing shoes again. These are yours, not borrowed. The dress is optional - you're perfect in anything. Or nothing.
(Delete that last part. Daniella says it's inappropriate for written communication.)
Can't wait to see you tonight.
-L
"He's adorkable," Mira sighs. "Can I marry him if you don't?"
"Get in line." I open the shoe box to find elegant heels that definitely cost more than my monthly mortgage.
They're beautiful, practical, and somehow exactly my size.
The dress is worse.
Or better. Or both.
It's midnight blue silk that flows like water, with subtle beading that catches the light.
It's sophisticated and sexy and everything I'm not but want to be.
"That's a confession dress," Mira observes.
"What?"
"A dress you wear to tell difficult truths. The kind that makes men forgive anything."
"I don't think haute couture excuses fraud."
"You'd be surprised. Mrs. Henderson forgave her third husband for running a Ponzi scheme because he confessed during their anniversary dinner. She credits the dress."
"That's not—"
"The dress, Sage. Trust the dress."
My phone buzzes.
Luke.
Car will be there at 6. Can't wait to see you. Also, Daniella says to ignore the last note. Apparently, I'm 'romantically awkward.' Her words.
I smile. "He's nervous too."
"Good nervous or bad nervous?"
"Adorkable nervous."
"Then you're perfect for each other." Mira heads for the door. "I'll handle the inn. And you? You handle that billionaire D.”
“What? Mira!”
She's gone before I can throw something, leaving me alone with a fortune in flowers and a dress that might have to perform miracles.
I sink onto the bed, careful not to crush the shoebox.
In three hours, I'll be on my way to Seattle.
To Luke.
To the truth.
"I hacked your dating profile," I tell the empty room. "Because I was desperate and scared and about to lose everything."
Terrible.
"I manipulated your data because I thought you could save my inn. I didn't expect to fall for you."
Worse.
"I'm a disaster who lies and schemes and talks to goats, but somehow you make me feel worth choosing. Even though I tricked you into choosing me in the first place."
I'm definitely moving to Peru.
My phone rings. Harper.
Dammit. I never should have told my sisters about tonight.
“Forget what I told you about tonight. In fact, abort mission," I answer. "I'm fleeing the country."
"No, you're not. Claire and I are outside. We brought wine and emotional support."
"And a curling iron!" Claire adds in the background. "Your hair needs help!"
"My hair is fine."
"Your hair is having an existential crisis. Much like its owner."
I look out the window to see their cars in the drive. My sisters, who drove over an hour because they somehow knew I'd need them.
"Fine," I say. "But if you make me cry before I've even done my makeup—"
"We'll make you cry after. It's more dramatic."
They tumble into my room minutes later, armed with wine, makeup cases, and way too much optimism.
"Okay," Harper says, surveying the situation. "Flowers, shoes, dress. The man's clearly smitten."
"Or establishing plausible deniability for when he sues me," I mutter.
"Stop that." Claire's already plugging in the curling iron. "Tonight is going to be perfect."
"Tonight is going to be a disaster."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive in your world," Harper points out.
She's not wrong.
As my sisters work their magic—Claire on hair, Harper on confidence—I let myself imagine it going well.
Luke listening, understanding, laughing about it.
"Of course you hacked me," he'd say. "How else would I have found you?"
"Sage, stop making that face," Claire orders.
"What face?"
"Your 'practicing difficult conversations' face. You look constipated."
"I look thoughtful.”
"You look like you're trying to pass a kidney stone of truth."
Harper snorts wine out her nose, and suddenly we're all laughing.
The kind of hysterical, tension-breaking laughter that only happens when everything is terrible and wonderful simultaneously.
"Remember," Harper says when we calm down, "you're Sage Winters. You survived Derek. You're saving the inn. You wrestle goats. You can handle one confession to one billionaire."
"One smitten billionaire. Who sends flowers and remembers shoe sizes and puts inappropriate comments in writing."
"He's perfect," I admit quietly.
"Then he'll understand," Harper says simply. "And if he doesn't, he wasn't perfect after all."
By 5:45, I'm transformed.
The dress fits like it was made for me, the shoes are surprisingly comfortable, and my sisters have worked their magic with hair and makeup.
"You look like a smutty princess," Claire declares.
"That's not a thing."
"It is now."
A knock at the door interrupts our mutual admiration society.
"Ms. Winters?" A voice calls. "Your car has arrived."
My stomach drops. "This is it."
"This is it," Harper agrees, hugging me carefully to avoid messing up her work. "Go. Get your confession ya-ya’s out. Get your man. We'll be here with ice cream if it goes badly."
"And champagne if it goes well," Claire adds.
"What if it goes medium?"
"Then both. We're not amateurs."
I take one last look in the mirror.
The woman staring back looks confident, sophisticated, like someone who belongs at engagement parties with billionaires.
She also looks terrified.
Perfect.
"Okay," I tell my reflection before heading out. "Let's go confess to a felony."
The car is ridiculous—a black town car that screams money and discretion.
The driver holds the door like I'm someone important instead of a forty-one-year old psycho in designer shoes.
As we pull away from the inn, I see the flowers Luke sent glowing in the windows, Buttercup's face pressed against the office glass, my sisters waving from the porch.
Everything I love in one frame, about to be risked on one truth.
"To Seattle, Ms. Winters?" the driver asks.
"To Seattle," I confirm. "And possibly to doom."
"Very good, ma'am."
He says it like people request doom delivery all the time.
Maybe in Luke's world, they do.
I guess I'm about to find out.