“Ledger?” Her brows knit together as she takes me in. “What are you doing here?”
“Visiting.” I shove my hands into my pockets, rocking back on my heels like I didn’t just stand here for two full minutes contemplating my life choices.
“Visiting.” Her tone is flat, unimpressed. “This is a terrible time.”
“Do you even know what time it is?”
Her fingers curl tighter around the edge of the door like she’s debating whether or not to slam it in my face. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame her.
“What do you want?” she asks, her patience thinning by the second.
“Just to talk,” I say smoothly. “Are you going to leave me out here, or are you going to let me in? You do understand that people will see me and talk, right?”
She mutters something under her breath—probably something insulting—but steps aside, waving me in with the same enthusiasm as someone welcoming in a hungry lion. “Fine. Come in.”
The house swallows me whole, as cold and intimidating as the last time I came to visit her. Polished wood floors, grand staircases, and furniture so heavy it looks like it might anchor the whole damn place to the ground. If someone told me this house had eaten a few souls over the years, I’d believe it.
I follow her into a sitting room that’s a little less perfect than I expected. Papers cover the coffee table, sticky notes are plastered on everything like confetti, and a half-empty mug of coffee sits precariously near the edge. The Galeana version of chaos. It’s oddly charming.
“Looks like you’ve been busy.” I nod toward the organized disaster, pretending not to notice the way her arms cross over her chest, her fingers tucking into her sleeves.
“Some of us actually work,” she shoots back, arching a brow.
I bite back a grin. “Didn’t realize you were already running the syrup empire.”
Her eyeroll is Olympic-level. She drops into an armchair and gestures vaguely at the couch across from her. “Are you here just to be annoying, or . . . what do you want?”
“I’m getting to it.” I drop onto the couch, stretching out and draping an arm across the backrest like I own the place. “What’s your plan, Galeana?”
She freezes for half a beat before she recovers. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve got two weeks to figure out this marriage thing,” I say bluntly, because sugarcoating has never been my style. “What’s your plan? You swiping through Tinder for a husband, or did Stinson already throw his hat in the ring?”
“Eww, didn’t you mention earlier that he’s my cousin?” Then, her glare sharpens like a knife. “And how do you know about that? That I have so little time left?”
I shrug, all casual. “Small town. People talk.”
“And why do you care?” she demands, not letting me off the hook.
“Call it curiosity.” I hold her gaze, my smirk fading just enough to let her know I’m serious. “Are you giving up? Letting the inheritance go? Finding someone to . . . I don’t know . . . hold down the fort?”
She exhales deeply, letting out a sound that says she’s been burdened by this for far too long. “No,” she says quietly, but there’s steel in her voice. “I don’t think I want to give it up.”
Something in her tone makes me pause. There’s fire in her eyes now, flickering through the cracks in her walls.
“It should’ve belonged to my mom,” she says, her voice steadier now, though her gaze shifts toward the window. “We weren’t poor, but we lived in a very small apartment, you know. I’m not sure why she always said we didn’t have enough for vacation or to spend . . . until she died and suddenly, I have plenty of money to my name. Not a lot, but I was able to cover my student loans, buy a car, and my condo. I think she was hiding or . . . the point is that she left because of him. She had to run away because her father couldn’t stand the idea of a woman running his precious company. He wrote that clause to make sure it would never happen. I honestly don’t know why she ran, but Del’s Mom said it was the fact that she had to get married.”
She looks back at me, chin tilted up, defiant. “I’m not letting him win. Being in charge of Maple Haven as a woman—his granddaughter—is the perfect middle finger. A big fuck you, Dante Doherty. We won. So no, I can’t let that go.”
I remain quiet because, honestly, what the hell do you say to that?
“I could go back to Denver,” she continues with her monologue. “The college where I used to teach would welcome me. I can be a teacher again. Live a normal life. But it wouldn’t be fair to just leave it.”
Okay, there’s a fight in her. So, I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees, and nod slowly. “Do you know that the economy of this town—and New England, for that matter—depends on your company and Old Birchwood Timber?”
She frowns. “What?”
“They’re major players around here,” I explain, keeping it simple. “If either of them goes under, it’ll affect thousands of people.”
