Page 29 of Stuck with the Hero Next Door

Back upstairs, I curled into the window seat, blanket over my knees, steaming mug in hand. The sky was doing that soft fade from lavender to navy, and the garden below glowed faintly under the porch lights. Someone—probably Janet—had left the little solar lanterns on again. They twinkled like the yard had secrets it was proud of.

I took a long sip, letting the warmth settle into my chest. The warmth that came from more than tea.

I’d done it.

I’d said no to a plan I didn’t choose. I’d said yes to a maybe. And even though my stomach still did the occasional nervous cartwheel, the rest of me felt strangely...calm.

My phone buzzed beside me with a message from Dad:

“Your mom would’ve been proud. And maybe a little surprised. But mostly proud.”

I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat, blinking hard.

Then typed back:

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

There was something freeing about not having all the answers but trusting myself to ask the right questions.

Outside, someone laughed—probably the couple in Room 3 who thought they were being discreet about sneaking cookies out of the dining room. A breeze pushed against the windowpane like it wanted in on the evening.

“Everwood,” I whispered into the quiet. “You sneaky, lovely little town.”

This place wasn’t perfect. It had nosy neighbors, slow Wi-Fi, and a suspicious obsession with themed bake sales. But it also had charm, and comfort, and a way of gently nudging you back to yourself.

I was starting to believe that I didn’t have to earn joy by proving something to the past. That I didn’t need to be the sum of my mother’s dreams to honor her. That I could be me—messy, curious, still figuring it out—and that could be enough.

And it felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Chapter 8

A Small Breakdown

Levi

Jordan was elbow-deep in Bob Morton’s pickup again, singing off-key to an old Willie Nelson song like it was his personal soundtrack for chaos. I stood across from him in the garage, arms folded, staring at the cardboard box on the counter like it might magically morph into the correct truck part if I glared hard enough.

“It’s the wrong part,” Jordan said, as casually as if announcing the weather. “Not even close. This is for a 2003 hatchback. Cassie’s is a ’97 F150.”

“Great,” I muttered. “So, it’s basically a coaster.”

Jordan didn’t look up. “I already called ‘em. The new one’s on the way. Should be here in... well, when it gets here.”

I raised a brow. “Jordan.”

He sighed, wiping his hands on a rag that had clearly given up on ever being clean. “Could be a few more days. Maybe a week.”

I let out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. “She’s not going to like this.”

He smirked like he’d just won a game of small-town poker. “That girl has been cooped up like a caged raccoon. I’m glad I won’t be the one telling her she’s got more waiting to do.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said. “Guess that means I’m the lucky volunteer.”

He shrugged and reached for a wrench. “Better you than me.”

I left the garage muttering something about how mechanics should come with hazard pay for emotional fallout. The walk to the inn was short, but somehow my boots felt heavier with each step. Not because of the news—bad parts happen—but because Cassie wasn’t the type to enjoy being stalled. She was more wildfire than waiting room.

Main Street was its usual late-afternoon bustle. Old Man Weaver was setting up his sidewalk chess game, waiting for anyone to sit and play with him. The bakery’s sign read “Try our Crisis Croissants—Now with More Butter!” and I made a mental note to stop by later.