That was dangerous.
Very, very dangerous.
I stood up, walked to the little bookshelf by the closet, and scanned the titles. Local wildlife guides, a romance novel titledDash of Love, and something about llamas sat upright, flanked by two bookstands. A puzzle book and a guest journal filled with messages from previous visitors had been stacked next to them.
I flipped to a random page of the journal.
“We came here to celebrate our tenth anniversary and fell in love all over again. Thank you for the magic!” — Claire & Jo, room four.
“My mom and I came to reconnect after a rough year. We cried, we laughed, we ate too many scones. Bless this place.” — Amelia, room four.
I slammed the book shut and shoved it back on the shelf.
Nope.
No emotions.
No scones.
Just two weeks. I could survive anything for two weeks. Even lemon shortbread. Even rooms decorated like a Hallmark movie exploded. Even…
“Enjoy your stay,” she’d said, after all that chaos at the front desk, with a thumbs-up.
A literalthumbs-up.
Who even does that?
It should’ve been absurd.
Itwasabsurd.
But all I could think about was how earnest she’d been. How hard she was trying to make me feel welcome.
And how, for the first time in months, the knot in my chest had shifted. Not loosened. But moved like it didn’t know what to do with itself anymore.
I stared at the ceiling.
This was going to be alongtwo weeks.
No, I wasn’t going to go down that rabbit hole. I grabbed my laptop out of my bag and booted it up with a softding, but I immediately regretted opening it.
My inbox looked like a forest fire had swept through it, with charred fragments of deadlines, updates, and reply-all disasters. I’d told them I was taking a break. Two weeks. Just two weeks. Not forever. Not even close to forever.
However, it was apparently unavailable, which was code for 'please forward me everything that could possibly go wrong and then some, thanks so much.'
I clicked through the top five. Half-formed project plans. Passive-aggressive subject lines and a calendar invite for a meeting I was no longer attending but had somehow still beenassigned to lead.
I rubbed my temples.
No. I wasn’t doing this. I had come here not to do this. I needed rest, clarity, and distance. A break from the noise.
I closed the lid, leaned back in the wicker chair, and stared at the ceiling again. Pine beams, with twinkling lights strung across one corner, screamed rustic and charming, albeit irksomely so.
Just like her.
And there it was again.
Her.
