CHAPTER ONE
DANI

The floating shelves won. I know this because Jake is standing in the doorway of what used to be a wall of upper cabinets that is now open shelving, copper hardware, zellige tile backsplash in a blue-green that cost less than the chrome fixtures he wanted and looks like it came from a Moroccan riad, instead of a supplier catalog. He also has the specific expression of a man who was wrong and knows it but will not be saying so out loud.

“It works,” he finally says.
“It works,” I agree, not looking up from my tablet.
“I still think the tile is too busy,” he adds.

“The tile is the reason people will remember this kitchen.” I drag a swatch comparison onto the screen and hold it up. “See how it pulls the warm tone from the hardwood? That’s not busy. That’s a conversation.”

He squints at it. “It’s a lot.”

“Jake.” I lower the tablet. “When Sophie walks buyers through here tomorrow, the first thing they’re going to do is stand in this exact spot and think I could’ve never done this myself. That’s the job.”

He looks at the tile. 

Looks at me. 

Then back at the tile.

“Fine,” he says, which is Jake-speak for you were right.

I go back to my tablet and enjoy the smell of fresh paint coming from the kitchen, which is my favorite, followed closely by coffee and sawdust. The staging notes for tomorrow are color-coded by room because Sophie asked me to make them readable and I take that kind of feedback personally. There are four colors and a legend. There’s also a font choice that was not strictly necessary but felt correct for the vibes. 

My mood board is pinned to the stack of boxes that Jake placed there as a temporary wall for exactly this purpose. I think he called it that just to annoy me. I let out a quick sigh with a roll of my eyes and arrange my notes and images in a full visual story of the space, from material samples to finish references to the little copper drawer pulls I sourced from a salvage place in Fayetteville after my dad and brother tried to sell me something from the hardware store that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. I glance down at my phone to check the time and notice the reminder at the top of my screen.

Nashville — 30 days.

From somewhere in the back of the house comes the sound of Sophie and Jake’s ongoing disagreement about the hallway light fixture. That’s a running argument that has been alive longer than some of their houseplants. Her voice, bright and certain echoing through the speaker on his phone. His resigned sigh says he knows he’s losing… again. Get him, girl, I mentally cheer on my best friend wondering if friend telepathy is actually a thing. 

I smile and shake my head at the comfortable sound of two people who have built something together and occasionally want to throw it at each other. 

As I go back to my mood board, I can’t help but steal a few glances at the kitchen I designed for someone else to fall in love with.

I’ve done this in eleven different properties, so far. I’ve color-storied my way through eleven different lives. I’ve sourced tile and spec’d fixtures and reimagined floor plans for eleven different families who will wake up tomorrow morning in a house that tells a story I wrote, in rooms they will call home without ever knowing my name.

I’m good at this.

And I also like being able to move on without having to see how the story ends, because in my experience it doesn’t usually end in a happy ever after.

---

Sophie finds me forty minutes later when I’m doing a final walkthrough with my phone camera, getting reference shots for my portfolio. She comes through the back door wielding two iced coffees from The Oak Tree Café and a neon-yellow shopping bag. “You didn’t answer my texts,” she says, which is hello in Sophie.

“I was working,” I say, taking the coffee she extends without looking up from my camera. “Is this black?”

“Against my better judgment, yes.”

“I like my coffee black.”

“You know who else likes their coffee black?” She narrows her eyes at me, peering over the top of her disposable coffee cup bearing the local coffee shop’s logo. “Psychopaths.”

I take a long sip, dragging it out intentionally. “Delicious.”

“You’re gross,” she snorts as she hooks her arm through mine and steers me toward the kitchen island. Her attention seems to sweep over the space, cataloging and assessing each element until her focus lands on the backsplash. “You were so right about the tiles.”

“I know.”

“They’re perfect.”

“Jake said it was too busy.”

“He was wrong,” she laughs, taking another sip of her coffee that’s so sweet it makes me shiver from here. I take another swig of my coffee harsh enough to make the swirling thoughts in my brain shut up, at least for a few seconds.

She looks at it for another moment with the expression she gets at good sunsets and baby animals and apparently kitchen renovations that hit just right. “Has he admitted it yet?”

“He said it works,” I say with a shrug. “Close enough.”

“It’s high praise coming from him.” She bumps my shoulder. “Is it going in the portfolio?”

“Obviously.”

She steals my phone and starts scrolling through the shots, which I allow because Sophie has the best eye for composition of anyone I know and also because she’ll do it anyway. I lean against the island and drink my coffee, glancing back at the mood board.

The reminder on my phone flashes through my thoughts, 30 days.

“I got the onboarding email,” I say.

Sophie lowers my phone. Her expression shifts as her smile falls just slightly before she catches it and forces it back into place, which I assume is for my benefit. “And? What’d it say?”

“Start date’s confirmed. I’ll need housing and travel arrangements in place for the first of next month.”

“That’s fast.”

“It’s been six months of conversations and a portfolio review and a reference call where Deck apparently told them I was the real deal and to,” I make air quotes with both hands, “look at her portfolio and stop wasting both our time.”

Sophie laughs. “He’s not wrong.”

“He’s also insufferable.” I look at the mood board. “But I owe him a very nice bottle of something.”

Deck Kingston, lead singer of East Divide and Oak Valley’s very own prodigal son. He went out and came back and everyone around here is relentlessly happy about it. 

Some people do that.

Some people don’t.

They’re the ones who leave like it’s the easiest thing in the world and never look back. A couple of years ago, I think everyone in Oak Valley would’ve placed Deck in the second group of people. He came back though, because of Aria. She and I were working behind the bar at a Bottom’s Up show and I was showing her one of my most recent projects. He saw the photos and said I know someone who needs to meet you. Now here I am, six months of conversations later, with a confirmed spot in a creative housing design residency partnered with one of the biggest labels in Nashville.

It’s not a dream. It’s a door to the dream though and now, thanks to Deck and his return to Oak Valley, I have the key.

Sophie is watching me and I brace for what’s coming before she opens her mouth.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing.” She hands my phone back. “I just ran into Mrs. Voss this morning.”

“Oh no.”

“She was outside the café talking with the guy running the inn restoration.” Sophie says it casually, which is how I know it isn’t. “Apparently he made the mistake of stopping to look at the building while she was within a thirty foot radius, so…”

“So she accosted him?” I finish for her.

“She basically interrogated him about the project timeline and a list of the quote-unquote community expectations before he could get a word in.” Sophie’s mouth twitches. “He looked a little shell-shocked.”

I can picture it perfectly. Mrs. Voss in her element as a force of nature but in sensible shoes.

“Anyway,” Sophie continues as I scowl at her because I already know I’m not going to like where this is going, “The project manager of the inn said he desperately needed someone who could actually see what that building could be before the preservation committee, I…”

“Sophie,” I pinch the bridge of my nose, “what did you do?”

“Nothing!” Her voice goes up by at least two octaves. “Except…”

“Except what?”

“I might’ve told him I knew the perfect person.”

My scowl at her from across the kitchen island deepens. “And?”

“And that you’d be there Monday for a consultation.”

I fling both hands out to my sides, forgetting I have a coffee clutched in one of them. “You did what?” I screech as little caffeinated droplets splatter onto my face.

She holds up both hands in surrender. “It’s just a consultation.”

“Sophie!” I groan and flop against the island.

“I have a very complicated past with that inn. I don’t want anything to do with it.”

“What’s the big deal? You walk in, you look around—”

“How many times have I done the ‘just a consultation’ thing and ended up—”

“Hey, that’s not fair.” She holds up one finger and points it in the direction of the front door, which also leads to the sidewalk, which winds its way directly through the heart of Oak Valley’s Main Street. “The doggie daycare looks incredible—”

“I painted poodles, Sophie. For six weeks. Because of a ‘just a consultation.’” I point at her. “No.”

She does not look even remotely affected. “This is different. Jake’s involved. And it’s the inn.”

I say nothing. Because she knows what she just did.

The Oak Valley Inn.

Three stories of century-old Victorian on Main Street, with the kind of bones that make people slow down when they walk past. Wraparound porch. Original millwork. A lobby with a staircase that somebody built by hand back when that was the only option. It’s been coasting on nostalgia and failing plumbing for a decade, but underneath all the water damage and the dropped ceilings someone installed in what I can only assume was a moment of architectural despair, underneath all of that, it’s extraordinary.

I know this because I have thought about what I would do with that building a million times without ever being asked.

I am not going to say that out loud.

“Apparently, the designer quit last minute,” Sophie continues, pressing her advantage with all the ruthlessness of a best friend who thinks they know what’s best for you. “The project needs someone who can walk in there and see what it is before it becomes something else. Jake needs an interior lead and you two work great together,” She pauses and gestures toward the tile. “And if the council doesn’t get a solid restoration plan by next month, they’re approving the demolition for a chain restaurant.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am not lying. There’s a developer interested.”

I look at the kitchen. I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly as I watch the tile that cost less than the commercial grade alternative and looks like it carries a story worth telling like it might give me some answers.

“Who’s the guy running the inn’s renovation?”

She shrugs. “I don’t remember his name. I have his card, but it’s in the car.”

“One meeting,” I say.

Sophie’s face does the thing where she’s trying not to smile and failing completely. “That’s literally what a consultation is.”

“I’m not taking the job.”

“Of course not.”

“I have Nashville.”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m leaving in—”

“Thirty days. I know,” She groans as she puts both hands on my shoulders. “One meeting. You walk in. You look around. You tell Jake and the bossman what you see. You leave.”

“I am leaving,” I say.

“Yep, I know.”

She reaches into the neon bag that’s been on her shoulder and produces a ceramic squirrel—small, beady-eyed and radiating smug energy—which she sets on the kitchen island with a smug look of her own. “I finally found your housewarming gift,” she says. “For whatever house you end up in.” She kisses me on the cheek and disappears back through the house, calling something at Jake about the light fixture as she goes.

I glare at the squirrel.

The squirrel glares back.

“Stop looking at me,” I hiss, picking up my tablet, keying Oak Valley Inn into the search bar. I have a lot of memories of that inn. Most of them are good. Some I’d rather not think about again. Ever.

Sigh.

I should probably stop by the craft store on the way home to grab more supplies if I’m going to start a new concept board for this project that I have zero intentions of taking. I can at least leave the new guy with some ideas that way he’s not floundering around like a fish out of water, otherwise Oak Valley might just swallow him up.