Page 2 of The Worst Possible Plan

Yes, it was one of the reasons why the room’s rate was so cheap. I could hear the kitchen staff moving around. I could almost smell the breakfast through the walls.

Bacon. Coffee. Toast.

It already felt more supportive than my last relationship.

My stomach growled loudly, so I looked down and gave it a small tap. “Keep it down in there.”

Was it weird that I spoke to my stomach? Probably. But considering it had expanded noticeably over the past two weeks thanks to stress, cheesecake, and what I now referred to as emotional support wine, I felt we had developed the kind of close relationship that required occasional communication.

I stuffed my phone into my bag, grabbed my keys, locked the door behind me, and went in search of breakfast.

The good thing about my room being right next to the kitchen was that I only had to go a few feet to the dining room.

It looked completely different now from the last time I was here. The old floral tablecloths, heavy curtains, and dusty brass chandeliers from my childhood were finally gone. Sarah had replaced them with white linens, soft light curtains, and simple farmhouse décor that somehow made the whole place feel brighter, bigger, and far less likely to smell faintly like cigarette smoke and grease.

Aunt Edna had left the inn to Sarah. Just as well too. I doubt I could have run it as well. Not that I wouldn’t have tried. I absolutely would have tried. Very enthusiastically. But realistically, within six months I probably would have accidentally double-booked three weddings, poisoned someone with undercooked quiche, and burned down part of the gazebo while attempting to hang fairy lights for a “rustic summer vibe.” Trust me, this way was safer for everyone.

A few guests were already sitting in the dining room. Smiling happy couples, enjoying their stay at the inn.

And then my eyes found the one person I didn’t want to see this morning.

Lola Sinclair.

She lounged in one of the dining room seats, wearing a tight blue dress and the kind of confidence usually reserved for movie stars and women who never forgot to moisturize. A retired socialite and former real-estate investor, she somehow managed to look glamorous before nine in the morning while the rest of us looked recently rescued from a natural disaster.

I still had pillow marks on my face. I told myself it was a textured foundation look.

Still, Lola would start asking questions, and unfortunately, I suffered from a terrible condition known as answering them.

Damnit.

This was a fight or flee moment.

And I chose to flee.

I spun around and started my way out…

“Sophie! Over here, darling,” came Lola’s voice from behind me.

Crap. I guess I needed to work on my stealth.

Slowly, I turned back around. “Lola. Hey. Didn’t see you there.”

Lola’s perfectly glossed lips parted slightly as her eyes moved over me from head to toe.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said gently. “You look terrible.”

My mouth dropped open. “Uh… Thank you?”

“No, no, not terrible, terrible. More…” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Emotionally exhausted with undertones of possible dehydration.”

I glanced down at myself automatically. In my defense, I had attempted an outfit this morning. Unfortunately, somewhere between getting dressed and existing, things had taken a turn. My light blue short-sleeve shirt was completely wrinkled from being dragged out of my suitcase, my white cotton-linen-blend skirt looked like I’d slept in it, and my hair was in what could generously be described as an unstable ponytail.

Lola’s gaze drifted over me thoughtfully. “You don’t have your sister’s breasts, but honestly, darling, plenty of men prefer smaller. Very elegant. Very European. We can absolutely work with this. They make incredible padding now. Truly miraculous. Modern science is doing wonderful things.”

“Wow,” I said slowly. “We really skipped right past coffee and went directly to my boobs.”

Lola waved a hand dismissively. “Please. Women have discussed breasts over breakfast since the beginning of time.”