Page 38 of In Somnis

“Thank you.” I slip it over my head, and the pendant settles against my chest, heavy and cool at first, then warms, as if it recognizes skin. “So… what exactly is happening in here?”

“Oh, that?” Shaw chuckles. “My brother is just being embarrassing again. He’s in love with Sydney.” He gestures toward the pretty brunette waitress, now stacking utensils as if she hates them. “Like pathetically in love. He can’t function around her. Yesterday, he spilled an entire tray of drinks because she smiled at someone else. Not even him. Someone. Else.”

Oh wow, poor guy.

“That’s so not Scorpio behavior,” Fairy Boy adds dramatically. “But he’s a Cancer moon, so it makes sense. Don’t tell him I said that, though. He hates anything astrology-related. Which, honestly, is peak Scorpio.”

I smile. “Well, thanks for the tea, but I meant what is happening with the food.”

“Oh, right.” He grins sheepishly. “The chef quit yesterday.”

Ah, shit.

“Then you have to close the restaurant until you find someone new,” I advise, already slipping into chef-brain. “And I mean someone who knows how to cook.”

“You’re right,” he agrees, wincing. “But that’s not that easy, and it’s high season. If we close the restaurant, half the inn’s income dies, and people won’t get paid.” He glances back toward where his brother is now refilling water glasses and chatting with another table, like everything is fine. “Nevan’s been working constantly, trying to hold everything together. He’s already doing everything because the inn doesn’t have enough staff. Reception, serving, housekeeping, and now he’s trying to cook.”

I cringe at the thought.

“Yeah, you can see how well it’s going, but he would never close. He told me he’ll figure something out before Mabel notices, but…” He trails off, shaking his curls. “He’s running himself into the ground. I want to help, but he won’t let me.”

I have no idea who any of these people are, but judging by the way he watches the bigger, blonder version of himself walking back to the kitchen, Nevan is definitely Fairy Boy’s brother.

“But if you stay open like this…” I gesture toward the dining room, the charred chicken, the depressed sandwich, “… people will notice and leave bad reviews. That’s worse. You’ll lose income now, sure, but at least people will come back in the future.”

He opens his mouth, shuts it again, and shrugs with a yeah, fair point kind of tilt.

I suck in a breath.

Not your circus, not your monkeys, Lennon. Stay out of it. Eat your Brie, do a tarot reading, and mind your own…

His brother emerges from the kitchen carrying another plate of chicken that looks even more tortured than the last one.

Oh God.

So much for minding my own business.

“Alice Waters, grant me strength,” I mutter, and before Fairy Boy can ask the question practically gleaming in his eyes, I stand, grab my grocery bag, and pull out my phone.

“Here…” I hand it to him, “… give me your number. We’re doing the tarot reading tomorrow.”

“Sure.” He takes it, curls bouncing as he taps rapidly. “But why?”

He hands the phone back, and I glance at the contact name with a frown. “Your name isn’t Shaw?”

“Well, it is my last name. My first name is Jasper.”

Jasper, the little punk fairy. Cute.

“What’s your—” he starts to ask, but another waft of burned food hits my nostrils, and I cut him off.

“Let’s go.” I march straight toward the kitchen doors as if I’ve been hired to fix this place. “We’ve got dishes to rescue.”

Jasper scrambles behind me as I push into the kitchen, toss my groceries onto the nearest prep table, and shove the butter and Brie into the walk-in like I’ve worked here for years. I yank my yellow bandana out of my purse and tie it over my hair, and then I let myself actually look at the kitchen.

The space is huge, way bigger than I expected, with old brick walls painted white, wide butcher-block counters softened by years of knife marks, and a copper pot rack hanging overhead that looks like it’s seen generations of Sunday roasts. There’s a massive cast-iron stove that looks original to the inn, plus a more modern range shoved in beside it. The walk-in door is dented. The shelves are a chaotic collage of mismatched containers, spices in old jars, and stacks of sheet pans that don’t quite fit together. It’s beautiful in a lived-in, lovingly neglected way.

The rest is… a whole situation.