Page 47 of In Somnis

If anyone can run the inn—really run it, not just keep it from collapsing—it’s me, despite recent evidence to the contrary.

But that idea of me actually being in charge of the inn is only in my head because she once half joked about maybe selling it to me when the stars say it’s time. I’ve been hoarding every spare cent since, which is another reason new shoes will have to wait.

Only fifty years to go until I can afford it.

“I’ll find a solution,” I say, forcing my shoulders to unknot. “Everything will work out. You’ll see.”

She studies me again for a long second, then nods. “All right, but don’t you dare burn that kitchen down trying to prove a point.”

“I won’t, promise.“

And I mean it. From a young age, I knew that trying to make my mother promise to be better for me and Jasper was useless, so I never asked. Because promises should mean something.

I glance at the time. “I’ve got to get changed. Your nephew will have my ass if I’m late again for the truck runs.”

She snorts softly as she fusses with the tea. “Always running, that’s you. Go on then.”

I retreat to my room, which is the only space in this entire house that isn’t drowning in crystals, dream catchers, and energetic clutter. Like always, my door sticks a little when I push it open. There’s just a small bed, a secondhand dresser, and a beat-up desk with my sketchbook and graffiti markers piled in one corner.

I set down the lemonade and peel off my inn clothes, swapping them for the heavy-duty jacket, worn canvas work pants, and steel-toed boots I keep ready for the logging shift—gear built for things going wrong.

Grabbing my beanie last, I pull it down over my ears, then pick up the lemonade from my desk for one last pull before I head out.

When I close my eyes, it still smells like her.

I don’t know what to do with that or with the fact that I was a complete asshole to the first person who made this day easier.

I set the bottle back down and head for the door.

I’ll figure out how to apologize tomorrow.

I’m good at fixing things.

I’m just not sure yet if that includes the damage I do.

CHAPTER NINE

Lennon

The Brie!

I’m halfway down the street when the realization hits me.

“And the butter,” I whisper, horrified.

My perfect Brie, and my dreamy, fat-haloed, soft-as-sin butter are sitting abandoned in the walk-in at the inn.

“Unbelievable.”

My tote bag slaps my hip with every angry step as I turn around and march straight back toward the little grocery store. The cold wind whips my hair into my lipstick, and I’m convinced the universe is laughing at me.

Inside the shop, the bell jingles, and the cashier greets me with a smile I begrudgingly return. She’s not the problem. The problem is six-foot-something and emotionally unstable.

God, what even was that?

I only wanted to help. But sure, let him burn that kitchen down for all I care.

After grabbing a new Brie, another wedge of butter, and paying, I walk straight back to the apartment. Every bone in my body feels as though it’s filled with wet sand, and my brain is doing that warm static thing that means I’m thirty seconds away from face-planting into the pavement.