Muffin belongs to Nadine, the woman who lives two doors down and treats HOA violations like war crimes. Somehow, despite our mutual disdain for the human race, Nadine and I have reached a silent truce over her dog.
Which is to say—we share custody of Muffin now.
Against my will.
She spends more time on my porch than she does at her actual home, and I’ve stopped pretending to care. Mostly because she has separation anxiety, anxiety-anxiety, and a complicated relationship with the weather. Also, Nadine swears her calming CBD biscuits “work better in Dean’s energy field.”
I don’t have an energy field.
I have caffeine, high blood pressure, and a growing suspicion that Muffin likes me better than she likes her actual owner. Not that I’ve pointed any of this out to Nadine.
Muffin grunts.
I retrieve the biscuits from the kitchen cabinet where I keep them next to the protein powder. I break one in half and hold it out like a peace offering.
“You know she’s going to ruin everything, right?” I say, lowering myself into the armchair across from her. “Bright clothes. Big ideas. Probably labels things just for fun.”
Muffin only blinks. She’s chronically… unbothered. It’s possibly one of the things I like most about her.
“I give it two days before she tries to put string lights on the carriage house. Or—God forbid—a chalkboard welcome sign.”
She lets out a snore that sounds suspiciously like agreement.
I toss the other half of the biscuit into her food bowl and return to the files on the table.
“Who smiles that much after stepping in God-knows-what?”
Muffin doesn’t respond, but one eyelid twitches.
“You’re not helping,” I mutter.
Muffin huffs again, rolls onto her side, and begins to softly wheeze.
It’s deeply unprofessional. And oddly comforting.
Chapter Three
The North Lawn Negotiation
Poppy
The guest house is… charming.
That’s what I decide to call it because “a little haunted but in a quaint way” doesn’t look great in the client notes.
It’s tucked behind the main house, partially hidden by hydrangeas, with weathered white siding, green shutters, and a front porch that creaks when I shift my weight. Inside, the floors are scuffed, the windows are sticky, and there’s a faint smell of old wood and lemon cleaner that reminds me of my grandmother’s attic.
But the bones are good.
There’s a wide farmhouse sink, built-in shelves filled with mismatched books, and a faded patchwork quilt folded neatly at the end of the bed. It could be magical with a little work—fresh paint, some flowers, and a scented candle or two.
I drop my bags by the door and do a quick mental inventory.
To-do list for the week:
Set up layout walk-through with Ivy and Mason.
Reconfirm all vendor arrival times.
