This would’ve been solved if eighteen months ago I hadn’t done something stupid and leave the hotel without finding out who my roommate was—or Chase hadn’t left me at the altar for . . . I don’t even want to think about him.
If I had stayed in the honeymoon suite . . . I mean. I would’ve known the name and number of that hot guy with the filthy mouth and let him talk me into one of his ridiculous dares. Hell, maybe he’d even agreed to marry me just for the inheritance. A mutually beneficial arrangement, of course. No strings, no drama—just a contract, a ring, and a chance to finally figure out if he was as much action as he was talk.
The thought lingers longer than it should, and I can practically hear his low, dirty voice teasing me about needing a husband to save my ass—or have my ass. The smirk that would come with it. The way his eyes would dip, like he already knew exactly how he’d convince me to say yes.
I shake my head, the heat creeping into my cheeks more from irritation than anything else. This is exactly why I decided to leave the honeymoon suite and let the hotel relocate me to Tuscany—the vacation of my choice. It was safer. Too many hours with hot guy and I might’ve actually considered his dare to “let him suck me dry.” Or even have seven days of uninterrupted sex.
But you know what’s safe?
Tuscany. Where the closest thing to temptation would be a vineyard tour and too much wine. But maybe—just maybe—I should’ve taken his number before I left. For insurance purposes, obviously. Who knew I would’ve needed it now?
I sigh as I glance out the window of my grandfather’s mansion. The grounds stretch out like something from a magazine—lush green lawns, trimmed hedges, and a winding driveway that leads to the quiet streets of Birchwood Springs. Beyond that, the town square sits, a perfect blend of charm and nostalgia. It’s not the Amalfi Coast, but it has its own appeal. The kind that feels just shy of familiar.
The mansion itself is . . . a lot. Stone walls, grand windows, and ivy creeping up one side like it’s been here forever. Inside, everything feels impossibly polished—the kind of place that shows elegance and wealth with every corner you turn. Crystal chandeliers, velvet curtains, and rooms so large they make your voice echo if you say more than a few words. It’s beautiful, almost intimidating, but I can already see myself here.
I’m not giving up. Not yet.
Birchwood Springs can try to chew me up and spit me out, but I survived four years at an all-girls Catholic high school. And let me tell you, teenage girls are cold-blooded assassins in plaid skirts. You think small-town politics are cutthroat? Try surviving a lunch table where one wrong comment can exile you to the library for the rest of the year.
I survived that, and I’ll survive this. Birchwood Springs can throw its secrets, its whispers, and its smug cousins at me, and I’ll still be standing when it’s all over.
This is mine now. All of it. And no one’s going to take it away.
ChapterSeven
Galeana
The warm humof chatter fills The Honey Drop as I scrape the last gooey bit of cinnamon roll off my plate. The coffee shop is alive with the clinking of mugs, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the kind of quiet gossip that never quite stays private in a small town like Birchwood Springs.
I take a sip of my lavender latte, the subtle floral notes blending with the creamy foam, and sigh. Aiden would love this place. She’d probably offer to bake scones for them every morning, then judge them for using an electric grinder instead of an antique manual one. She’s annoyingly pretentious about coffee, but I miss her anyway.
Plus, this place is like gossip central. You want to know who’s cheating, who’s moving, or whose cousin just got arrested? This is the place to be. Which is why I’ve been having breakfast here every morning, trying to piece together whether my long-lost cousin is already in town—or hoping a bachelor with low standards has wandered in so I can proposition him.
Yep. I’m that desperate.
And you don’t even have to eavesdrop here. Not intentionally, anyway. But when you’re sitting alone at a corner table and the couple two seats over doesn’t bother lowering their voices, what else am I supposed to do?
“Did you hear?” the woman says, her voice pitched just high enough to carry. She’s wearing a floral scarf tied around her ponytail that matches her dress, as if she were auditioning for aGilmore Girlsreboot. “The Timberbridge brothers might be coming back.”
My ears perk up. I set my mug down a little too hard, the ceramic clinking against the table.
The Timberbridge brothers?
Who are the Timberbridge brothers?
I don’t have Delilah here to give me the tea about them because she’s currently lounging on some beach in Cabo, sipping mojitos and pretending work doesn’t exist. Figures.
The man across from Scarf Girl, a gruff-looking guy in a plaid jacket, snorts. “Good luck to them. I doubt anyone will roll out the welcome wagon. Everyone hates them.”
She leans in, whispering conspiratorially but still loud enough for me to catch every word. “I heard they’ve got unfinished business in town. Legal stuff, maybe. Or something to do with the estate. You know, family drama. They’ve always been so messy. From the patriarch to, well . . . all of them.”
Who is all of them? Say more please? Will it be weird if I go and ask for more details? Probably.
The man grunts again. “Yeah, sounds about right. They could never keep their noses clean, those Timberbridge boys.”
The Timberbridge boys. Family drama. Legal stuff.
I push my plate aside, my heart picking up speed as the pieces snap together in my head. This has to be about Maple Haven. The Timberbridge brothers must be my mother’s nephews—the cousins Delilah warned me about. But wasn’t it supposed to be justonecousin?
