“Right. Of course.” I force a smile. “Thank you again.Really.”
He studies me for another second—like he’s trying to memorize something—then tips his head in a half-nod and walks back toward the bar.
I watch him go. The way his shoulders move under the flannel. The easy, rolling stride. The way people shift slightly to give him space without even seeming to realize they’re doing it.
I feel suddenly very small. And very alone.
A few moments later and the server brings me a fresh bowl of chili and a glass of iced tea I didn’t even order. “On the house,” he says with a wink. “Kaleb’s tab.”
I eat slowly, trying not to look like I’m starving.
The chili is spicy and rich and perfect. I almost moan around the first bite. Damn, it’s so good. I’m not exactly the world’s best cook but I know good food when I eat it. And this right here is maybe the best chili I’ve ever eaten.
When I finish, I leave a generous tip from the small emergency cash stash I keep zipped in my back pocket. Thank you, paranoid city-boy habits. And then I psyche myself up to brave the weather and head back out into the rain.
It’s still coming down hard, but I don’t care anymore. My belly is full and I know I’ve got a cozy bed waiting for me.
Just as I’m about to shut the door behind me, I turn and get one final glance at Kaleb. He’s still there with his buddy, the pair ofthem talking quietly over whiskies. I make a tiny little waving gesture but Kaleb doesn’t even give me a second glance though.
Hmmm.
I guess he really was just doing a stranger a solid.
The Ten Trees Bed & Breakfast is exactly what I pictured when I booked it. It was far too short notice to arrange an apartment swap like Robbie suggested, but a long term B&B might actually be even better.
White clapboard siding, wraparound porch strung with fairy lights that glow soft gold against the rain. A wooden sign swings gently above the steps:Ten Trees B&B – Est. 1892. Flower boxes overflow with pansies even though it’s only early February—some kind of winter-blooming miracle, I guess.
Inside smells like cinnamon, sweet candles, and old books.
If I’m going to make some improvements to my manuscript, or even start something new, then this truly could be the place to do it.
The foyer has a wide oak staircase with a runner in soft sage green. A vintage grandfather clock ticks in the corner. On the wall hangs a framed quilt square—red barn, blue sky, yellow sun. Everything feels lived-in and loved.
Miles and Henry Roberts greet me at the check-in desk. They’re probably in their mid-thirties, both wearing matching cable-knit sweaters and they smile like they’ve been expecting me all day.
“Back from your adventure?” Miles asks, eyes twinkling.
“Something like that,” I say, peeling off my soaked hoodie and hanging it on the antique coat rack by the door.
Henry leans forward on his elbows. “You’re dripping, sweetie. Towel?”
“Please,” I say, relieved to be receiving such a warm welcome.
Henry disappears into a side room and returns with a fluffy cream-colored towel that smells of the sweetest scent imaginable. I immediately wrap it around my shoulders like a cape.
“Breakfast is eight to nine,” Miles says. “We do family-style in the dining room. Pancakes, sausage, fresh fruit, coffee, juice. If you have any dietary needs, just let us know tonight.”
“No allergies,” I say. “I eateverything.”
“Perfect.” Henry grins. “We like easy guests.”
I laugh—a real one, the first in what feels like forever. “I’ll try to keep it that way.”
They give me a quick rundown: Wi-Fi password is on the nightstand, extra blankets in the closet, quiet hours after ten. Then they both say goodnight in unison, like they’ve practiced it a dozen times. It’s super-sweet.
I climb the stairs to the second floor, feet sinking into the plush runner. My room is at the end of the hall—number four,The Willow Suite.
Inside it’s even prettier than the photos on the website.