The Worst Possible Plan (Maplewood Falls #4)

1. Sophie

SOPHIE

You’re too much. Life’s too short.

I stared at my phone’s screen. Those were Henry’s last words to me. More like his last text to me. He broke up with me via text message, not a face-to-face conversation or a last dinner at a fancy restaurant to do the deed. At least then I would have had a nice meal and some wine. But no.

What kind of a man breaks up with his girlfriend of six months by text? A coward, that’s what.

Also someone who still somehow expected me to send him twelve dollars for “my share” of takeout two days earlier through PayPal.

The guy was scum. A scummer. I just made that up.

And what did it say about me that I still had the text message?

That maybe I enjoyed torturing myself. Or maybe I kept rereading it because a small part of me still expected another message underneath it saying “Just kidding. I’m outside. Let’s get tacos.”

I was a mess.

In the space of two weeks, I’d lost a boyfriend because I was “too much,” lost my job because of a minor printer incident, and lost my apartment because of a tiny illegal yoga studio I’d set up.

To be fair, the printer incident only became an incident after the printer started smoking.

And the yoga studio had technically been successful.

Very successful. People loved Wine & Wind Down Wednesdays.

Apparently the city of Maplewood Falls just had very strict opinions about commercial businesses being run out of basement apartments.

Especially when one of the clients accidentally blocked the fire exit with a meditation fountain.

At this rate, by the end of the week, I’d gain fifty pounds, drown in Turtle Pond, or end up in jail for accidentally setting fire to the Hartwell Inn. Which would be very inconvenient since I lived there now.

Jail might actually be cheaper than rent at this point. Not ideal, but at least meals would be included. I took that as a win.

I tossed my phone on the bed and glanced around the room.

It was the smallest in the inn according to my cousin Sarah, the owner, and the good Samaritan who let me stay here on a “family rate,” which was extremely cheap.

The walls were covered in faded pink floral wallpaper that looked like it had survived at least three divorces.

The narrow bathroom had an old claw-foot tub fitted with a shower that groaned every time I turned the handle. I had a view of the garden, not the ocean. But it was clean, safe, and Sarah said I could stay here for as long as I wanted.

The room still smelled faintly like lemon cleaner and old wood. My suitcase sat half-unpacked near the dresser because even my clothes lacked the emotional strength to fully commit to this situation.

One of my bras hung from the bedside lamp.

I stared at it for a long moment. “Wow,” I muttered to myself, “really pulling your life together, Sophie.”

But I couldn’t stay here indefinitely. I was almost thirty years old. It was time I grew up, took charge of my life, and did something.

Something stable. Something respectable. Something that didn’t end with local authorities knowing my full name.

I grabbed my phone, tapped on my diary app, and started typing.

Day 1:

Will take charge of my life and find a job.

I stared at the statement.

It sounded less like a plan and more like the kind of thing someone wrote right before things got dramatically worse.

A sudden banging from the other side of the wall made me flinch. And then voices rose. I recognized one in particular. Dottie, the inn’s breakfast chef shouted orders. If Dottie was barking out orders, that meant breakfast would soon be served.

A second later something metal clattered loudly.

“Move your ass, Frank!” Dottie yelled through the wall. “Those eggs aren’t gonna scramble themselves!”

Yes, it was one of the reasons why the room’s rate was so cheap. I could hear the kitchen staff moving around. I could almost smell the breakfast through the walls.

Bacon. Coffee. Toast.

It already felt more supportive than my last relationship.

My stomach growled loudly, so I looked down and gave it a small tap. “Keep it down in there.”

Was it weird that I spoke to my stomach? Probably. But considering it had expanded noticeably over the past two weeks thanks to stress, cheesecake, and what I now referred to as emotional support wine, I felt we had developed the kind of close relationship that required occasional communication.

I stuffed my phone into my bag, grabbed my keys, locked the door behind me, and went in search of breakfast.

The good thing about my room being right next to the kitchen was that I only had to go a few feet to the dining room.

It looked completely different now from the last time I was here.

The old floral tablecloths, heavy curtains, and dusty brass chandeliers from my childhood were finally gone.

Sarah had replaced them with white linens, soft light curtains, and simple farmhouse décor that somehow made the whole place feel brighter, bigger, and far less likely to smell faintly like cigarette smoke and grease.

Aunt Edna had left the inn to Sarah. Just as well too.

I doubt I could have run it as well. Not that I wouldn’t have tried.

I absolutely would have tried. Very enthusiastically.

But realistically, within six months I probably would have accidentally double-booked three weddings, poisoned someone with undercooked quiche, and burned down part of the gazebo while attempting to hang fairy lights for a “rustic summer vibe.” Trust me, this way was safer for everyone.

A few guests were already sitting in the dining room. Smiling happy couples, enjoying their stay at the inn.

And then my eyes found the one person I didn’t want to see this morning.

Lola Sinclair.

She lounged in one of the dining room seats, wearing a tight blue dress and the kind of confidence usually reserved for movie stars and women who never forgot to moisturize.

A retired socialite and former real-estate investor, she somehow managed to look glamorous before nine in the morning while the rest of us looked recently rescued from a natural disaster.

I still had pillow marks on my face. I told myself it was a textured foundation look.

Still, Lola would start asking questions, and unfortunately, I suffered from a terrible condition known as answering them.

Damnit.

This was a fight or flee moment.

And I chose to flee.

I spun around and started my way out…

“Sophie! Over here, darling,” came Lola’s voice from behind me.

Crap. I guess I needed to work on my stealth.

Slowly, I turned back around. “Lola. Hey. Didn’t see you there.”

Lola’s perfectly glossed lips parted slightly as her eyes moved over me from head to toe.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said gently. “You look terrible.”

My mouth dropped open. “Uh… Thank you?”

“No, no, not terrible, terrible. More…” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Emotionally exhausted with undertones of possible dehydration.”

I glanced down at myself automatically. In my defense, I had attempted an outfit this morning.

Unfortunately, somewhere between getting dressed and existing, things had taken a turn.

My light blue short-sleeve shirt was completely wrinkled from being dragged out of my suitcase, my white cotton-linen-blend skirt looked like I’d slept in it, and my hair was in what could generously be described as an unstable ponytail.

Lola’s gaze drifted over me thoughtfully. “You don’t have your sister’s breasts, but honestly, darling, plenty of men prefer smaller. Very elegant. Very European. We can absolutely work with this. They make incredible padding now. Truly miraculous. Modern science is doing wonderful things.”

“Wow,” I said slowly. “We really skipped right past coffee and went directly to my boobs.”

Lola waved a hand dismissively. “Please. Women have discussed breasts over breakfast since the beginning of time.”

I shrugged. “I was literally just wanting some eggs.”

“For starters,” said Lola with a smile. She patted the empty chair beside her. “Sit down before you pass out.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sweetheart, your left eye is twitching.”

Was it? “That’s just stress.”

“That’s never a good sentence.”

I let out a sigh and sat. I was ravenous, and even Lola’s body shaming wouldn’t get in the way of me and my eggs, and maybe pancakes.

Sausages. And if I was spending the morning alone, definitely beans with maple syrup.

You didn’t want to eat those in a crowd.

Trust me. Dottie’s maple syrup beans had a way of turning a perfectly innocent fart into a career-ending event.

Lola took a delicate sip of her coffee, studying me over the rim of the cup like a woman evaluating a disappointing handbag.

“So. Tell me about this Henry character. He dumped you. Did you cry? Of course you did.” She gave a small sympathetic wince.

“And then you lost your job and your apartment after? Darling, that’s not a rough patch.

That’s the opening scene of a documentary. ”

“I’m not a documentary.”

“You’re living in an inn with one suitcase and stress bangs. You’re dangerously close.”

I opened my mouth to point out that she lived here too. Okay, yes, she had the best room in the inn and more money than most of the people in town, but a cheerful voice stopped me.

“Sophie! Wonderful. You’re just in time for your breakfast,” said a voice I knew all too well.

I turned to see Dottie heading toward us, barefoot as usual, with pancake batter smeared across one cheek and her blonde-and-white hair twisted into a messy bun held together by two spoons. She wore a long denim skirt, a loose shirt, and an apron that read: I YELL BECAUSE I CARE.

Dottie had been running the inn’s breakfast kitchen for as long as I could remember and still moved around the dining room like a woman operating entirely on caffeine, rage, and salted butter.

I was fairly certain she’d once threatened a tourist with a spatula for asking if the pancakes were gluten free.