Puck sat up straighter. “Oh, so Ron and I settled on a price today, and I got a really good deal on the sheep. They came with a discount if I included two highland cows as well.”
“Damn it, Puck,” Demarien said. “We’re opening an inn, not a farm.”
“It was a steal.” Puck’s eyes watered, and his bottom lip trembled. “They’re really cute, Demarien.”
“Okay, okay,” Demarien said, wincing at the tears. “We have plenty of acreage, and Boone said he’d help out, so I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”
At the end of the table, Felix raised his glass. “To new sheep and cows.”
“To all the cute animals!” Milo echoed, clinking his glass against Felix’s.
Glasses lifted all around, mostly filled with juice or water, and they clinked them together in a messy, overlapping chorus.
“For real though,” Milo added, lowering his voice slightly as the moment settled, “that vineyard hasn’t been an actual vineyard for fifty years or so. Aunt Dahlia’s brother took care of it until he passed. Now it’s pretty overgrown. I’m sure the grapes are useless.”
“The sheep and I will take care of it,” Puck said confidently.
“So, tomorrow,” Felix said, drawing the word out. “Me, Puck, and Boone will work on the fence and shelters, and you two will work on cleaning the second floor.”
“You sweep and mop, and I scrub and dust?” Milo suggested.
Demarien pumped a fist. “Sounds like a plan. Soon, the inn will look great, and we’ll start bringing in the money.”
“Absolutely,” Milo said. “Just a few more things to go. Windows to fix, a roof to repair, a porch to rebuild.”
“You’re making me depressed.” Puck sighed.
“One thing at a time.” Demarien squared his shoulders, reminding himself that they were doing this together. “We can do this.”
The conversation drifted. Plates emptied, then refilled. Someone turned on music in the background, low enough to talk over but just loud enough to fill the quiet spaces.
At some point, Demarien couldn’t say exactly when, the talking softened. Not because anything was wrong, but because everything felt settled and comfortable.
Milo leaned back, looking around the table. “You know,” he said, “if this is what our lives look like from now on, I’m not hating it.”
Puck raised an eyebrow. “No complaining? Someone write this down.”
“Don’t ruin it,” he said, though he was smiling.
Demarien stood to gather a few plates. “Alright, who’s helping me clean up?”
Silence.
He looked around. “Wow. Incredible. Truly supportive friends.”
Boone pushed his chair back and stood. “I’ve got you.”
After a beat, Puck sighed and followed. “Fine. But I’m not doing dishes.”
“You never do dishes,” Felix called after him.
“And yet I’m still invited,” Puck shot back.
“Debatable,” Demarien muttered, but he was smiling too.
The table slowly emptied, the noise shifting from conversation to clinking plates and running water, but the warmth lingered, telling Demarien he was right where he belonged.
Chapter 12
