CHAPTER NINE
DANI

I show up at the Inn the next morning with three things. An Oak Valley Hardware duffle bag full of paint brushes and tools to do my job, a backpack style cooler with enough caffeine to kill a horse and—according to Rowdy—a chip on my shoulder that’d take industrial solvent to remove. I’ve barely made it through the door before I drop everything onto the hardwood, which emits a noise halfway between a gunshot and a dying animal. Good morning, Oak Valley Inn. Did you miss me?

Somewhere deeper in the building, a hammer pauses mid-swing. Then resumes, harder, like whoever’s holding it decided the floor deserved that. The lobby looks worse than yesterday, which is actually an improvement.

Yesterday it was neglected.

Today it’s under demolition. 

They’ve gutted half the foyer, the air is full of dust and particles of history floating through the air in front of me. There’s a symphony of hammers and power saws from the parlor. The only person not moving is Ryan. “I see you’re already in your natural habitat.”

His eyebrows pinch together as he sucks in both lips like he’s trying to bite back the urge to fire back.

Too bad.

I miss our bickering.

I didn’t just think that, did I?

Shit. I did.

At least I didn’t say it out loud.

“Watch the trim,” he sighs while standing in the middle of the room studying the blueprints laid out in front of him. “Watch out!” he screeches, holding his tablet to his chest like a rosary. His face morphs into a pained wince as I almost decapitate a century-old newel post from trying to shrug my backpack off my shoulder.

“Nice to see you, too,” I fire back, but he’s already side-eyeing the hardware store bag like it’s a wrecking ball.

I haul out my chalk and start making white slashes across the nearest wall. Ryan’s face morphs into something between horror and disgust. “Are you… marking the drywall?”

“It’s called ideation,” I say, sketching a crude rectangle. “Try it sometime, it’s liberating.”

He looks like he’d rather try medieval bloodletting. “Ideation? For what?” he asks, voice tight.

“The entryway could be widened here to let more light into the space.”

He shakes his head back and forth. “No. That’s not in the plan.”

“Then update the plan,” I say. “You’ve got, what? Four backups on that thing?” I point at the tablet. “Besides, it’s just chalk. The paint will cover it. Relax.”

“Won’t it make the coloring uneven?”

“Not if your painter knows what they’re doing,” I deadpan. “And I do. I also know how to use primer, so trust me.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a reply, just watches as I outline another possibility. I give the wall a quick X to mark the spot and laugh internally at the pun as I step back to eyeball my handiwork. “Can’t you see it?”

“See what?” he asks as his eyebrows scrunch together.

“This choke point,” I say, tapping the chalk against the wall. “People walk in, hesitate, then stack up right here. That’s bad circulation that not even the best compression stockings can fix.” I laugh at my own joke.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, eyes flicking from the chalk lines to the doorway and back. He’s not convinced, but he’s doing the math now. That’s progress.

Behind us, Jake’s voice carries in from the parlor. “Calloway, HVAC’s gonna want access to the west wall before lunch. You want me to clear that run now or wait?”

Ryan turns toward him. “Clear it,” he says. “We already pulled the permits. I don’t want to stall the schedule.”

“HVAC doesn’t matter if the main hall is a traffic jam,” I say. “You want guests to feel like they’re entering a home, not a morgue.”

He clicks the side button of the tablet. “The entryway is original to the house. Historical compliance says we should maintain—”

“Compliance says a lot of things,” I cut in. “Want to know what else is original to the house? Lead paint.”

Jake snorts at that one then glances over with his eyebrows knitting together then shifts his focus to the wall with the chalk-outline on it. “What are you suggesting, Dani?”

“Widen this,” I say, gesturing toward the entryway in question, “and people don’t stop moving. They come in, take in the atmosphere and keep going. Leaving it narrow is going to feel caged in. Ask me how I know…”

Neither of the men in this room wants to open that can of worms, apparently.

Jake studies the space again.

“You’re talking about traffic flow,” he says, finally.

“Congratulations,” I reply. “You’re a quick study! Much faster than our guy over here,” I say, flicking one finger in Ryan’s direction.

He scowls and does a growling grumble thing that’s genuinely awkward.

Jake shrugs. “She’s right, though.”

Ryan’s jaw tightens, but there’s something else there now. If I didn’t know better I’d think it was recalculation instead of full-on shutdown. “We already have approval for this project because there was exactly zero structural interference in the plan submitted to the board,” he says. “If I change it, it affects the timeline.”

“If it’s not load bearing, we won’t need to rework the permits,” Jake offers, crouching down and pressing his thumb into the crack near the baseboard. He runs his knuckle along the seam where the wall meets the ceiling. “This wasn’t included in your original proposal though?” he asks, standing back up and rocking on his heels.

Ryan lets out a long sigh and nods his head. “Correct.”

“I’ll call Brent,” he says. “He’s the engineer who signed off on the structural packet.”

Ryan’s fingers tighten around the tablet. “We already cleared the board.”

“Yeah,” Jake says, already dialing. “For what you submitted.” He places the phone on a stack of boxes. “Hey,” Jake says when Brent picks up. “I’m at the Oak Valley Inn. Front parlor. We’re looking at an interior wall that wasn’t flagged for removal in the original proposal. I need to confirm it’s not load bearing before I let my guys touch it.”

“Send me a photo,” Brent says.

Jake snaps two pictures—one of the wall, one of the ceiling above it—and sends them over.

There’s a short pause.

“Okay,” Brent says finally. “I’m pulling the schematics now. Give me a minute.”

I’m about to sketch out a design concept for the focal wall when I hear a thud from the parlor. A member of the crew—tall, full sleeve of tattoos, energy drink in one hand and a sledgehammer in the other—sticks his head out. “Jake! Do you want us to demo that wall now, or after lunch?”

“Wait!” Ryan’s face turns bright red and the vein on his forehead actually starts throbbing. It’s the type of thing you can’t look away from. At least, I can’t. “We need to confirm it’s not load bearing before we do anything.”

I slide past him, peering at the wall in question. “It’s not structural,” I say.

He’s incredulous. “Did you even check the joists?”

I tap the baseboard with the heel of my boot. “I’ve been in enough of these. If it was load-bearing, we’d see settling in the ceiling. There isn’t any.”

He points at the faint crack running perpendicular to my shoe. “That’s not settling?”

“That’s cosmetic. I could fix it with some putty and a steady hand.” I step back, arms folded. “Brent’ll come back and say it’s cleared for removal.” I step in, close enough that I can smell his aftershave. “Unless you’re scared to get your hands dirty?”

He meets my gaze, and for once, there’s actual heat in his eyes. “I’m scared of wasting time and money.”

“Then stop micromanaging and start trusting the people who know what they’re doing.” I grab a marker and, just for the hell of it, draw a cartoon bomb next to the crack.

Jake snorts from where he’s leaning against the wall, with his arms crossed next to his phone still perched on the box tower.

“Hey, Jake,” Brent’s voice returns to the speaker.

“Still here,” he replies.

“It’s not load bearing. You can knock it out.”

Ryan looks at me. 

I smile, all teeth.

Jake says, “Thanks, Brent. I’ll probably be calling you back later to set up an inspection on that old ice cream shop downtown.”

“Sure thing. I’ll be here.”

He taps to end the call and shoves his phone back into the holster on his belt.

Ryan stares at the wall, sucking in a deep breath as he slowly turns to face Jake. “She’s right,” he admits with a strain so severe it makes the muscles in his neck bulge.

I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But this is the right decision. It’ll make the inn’s guests much happier when they arrive and happy guests means more money in Jesse and Marge’s pockets.

“Did you…” I gasp with mock surprise. “Did you just admit I was right?”

He sucks in a breath through gritted teeth and it makes my gums hurt because Ow! “Maybe.”

Jake holds his hands out to both sides. “Does that mean you want me to have the guys take it down?”

“Yes,” he concedes with a quick wave of his hands. “Let’s just get it done.”

“On it,” Jake says as he heads toward the back of the house where the crew is working.

“Sweet!” I sing-song, breezing past Ryan to move my bag out of the line of falling debris before the crew makes good on my chalk bomb threat. “Chalk marks, unexpected curveballs… It’s part of the process.”

He doesn’t move for a second, but I catch his eyes tracking me as I work my way around the room, making quick sketches.

I find a patch of sunlight on the far wall, lean into it sketching an outline for the . I’m sweating, both from the effort and the adrenaline. This is the best part of any job. That moment when you can see the future and nobody’s had a chance to ruin it yet.

I turn back to Ryan, who’s now typing furiously on his tablet. “You making notes to dock my pay for the graffiti, or what?”

“Not yet,” he groans as he glances up at me. “But I did consider it.”

Of course he did.

He smirks.

“Oh-em-gee was that a joke?”

He laughs and shakes his head.

“Did you just make a joke?”

“I’ve got work to do.”

“So do I, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be fun along the way.”

I grab a roll of blue tape—just to humor him—and start flagging other pain points around the room. “You know, if you let the house speak to you instead of trying to wrangle it into submission, you might actually get somewhere.”

He snorts. “You think houses talk?”

I nod, serious. “Every crack, every drafty windowsill, every crack in the drywall. They all tell you what’s wrong, and what needs to happen next. The problem is, most people are too busy to listen.”

“I guess you’re the expert,” he says, and there’s no sarcasm this time.

I holster the tape and shoot him a grin. “Damn right.” My stomach growls because it likes to sound like a whale’s mating call when I’m trying to be serious just to remind me who’s in charge. And probably because I can’t remember the last time I actually put food in my mouth. I get distracted, especially when I’m working.

Ryan checks his phone again. 

“What are you doing?” I ask when he stares at it way too long for my comfort levels.

“Food,” he says. “I’m ordering food.” 

My eyebrows shoot straight up. “For the crew?”

“For everyone.” He hesitates, then adds, “Including you.” 

I snort.

“Don’t start,” he says, already moving toward the door. “I need people to be functional this afternoon.”

Jake yells something from the parlor that sounds like approval but might be profanity. It’s hard to tell.

Ryan pauses in the doorway and pulls up Tripp’s Pizza. “Yeah,” he says when someone answers the phone. Probably Tripp. That guy is always working. “I need eight larges delivered to the Oak Valley Inn. Let’s do three pepperoni, three sausage and two cheese.”

I clear my throat and hold one finger in the air to stop him before he ends the call. “And one pepperoni, pineapple and jalapeno.”

Ryan freezes with the phone still at his ear then slowly turns to look at me the way people look at a raccoon they’ve just caught digging through their trash. “Ignore that,” he says into the phone.

“Absolutely do not ignore that,” I say loudly, stepping closer so Tripp can hear me through Ryan’s phone.

He groans and drags one hand down his face. “Yes, that is Dani.” His mouth tightens. His nose wrinkles. There’s a full-body recoil that starts at his shoulders and works its way down, like his spine is trying to evacuate as he looks at me again. “Are you telling me you still actually eat pepperoni and pineapple, on a pizza?”

I nod, emphatically.

“How?” he squeaks.

I shrug. “I don’t like canadian bacon,” I answer flatly and hear Tripp howling on the other end of the line.

A laugh falls out of Ryan and he looks like he’s even shocked by the sound of it. “The pepperoni wasn’t the issue.”

“Don’t worry,” I add. “Just tell him to put it on my tab.”

“No. I’ve got it,” he says, shaking his head. “Add her pizza, if we can call it that.”

Ryan keeps the phone to his ear a second longer than necessary, listening to Tripp laugh himself into an early grave. His jaw works like he’s chewing on regret, probably over coming home. “I hope you know,” he says, tapping to end the call, “that if anyone asks, that pizza is yours alone. I will not be taking responsibility for it in public or in private.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “More for me!”

Jake sticks his head out of the parlor. “Did she get her demon pizza?”

I point at him without turning around. “You stay out of this.”

Jake grins. “Too late.”

Ryan pockets his phone and exhales through his nose. “Delivery’ll be here in an hour.”

I tilt my head and glance toward the street, then back at him. “Thirty minutes. Tops.”

Ryan lets out a short laugh. Not amused. More like offended by the concept. “That’s optimistic.”

“It’s Tripp’s,” I say. “He runs that place like a military operation with cheese.”

Jake reappears in the parlor doorway, because of course he does. “What are we arguing about?”

“Pizza ETA,” I say.

Ryan checks his watch. “An hour.”

“Thirty,” I repeat. “I will die on this hill.”

Jake’s eyes light up. “Oh. Oh, this is a bet.”

Ryan looks at him. “Don’t encourage her.”

“Too late,” Jake says cheerfully. “What’s the wager?”

Ryan sighs like he’s already tired and says, “I’m not betting on pizza.”

“Sure you are,” I say. “You just don’t know it yet.”

He gives me a look. “What do you want?”

“If it gets here in under thirty,” I say, “I choose the lobby palette. No revisions. No we’ll revisit it later. You don’t get to spreadsheet my colors to death.”

“Ohh,” Jake whistles. “Bold.”

Ryan doesn’t respond right away. “And if it doesn’t?” he asks, eventually.

“If it takes an hour,” I say, “I follow your schedule for the rest of the day. No detours. No improvising. I stay exactly where you put me.”

He squints at me. “That sounds fake.”

I smile sweetly and glance between both men.

Jake sucks his cheeks in making a face that looks too much like the gasping emoji for my comfort.

“This feels like a trap,” Ryan says, narrowing his eyes as he studies my expression.

“No traps. I promise,” I say, throwing up my hand in salute. “Scout’s honor.”

Ryan’s jaw shifts.

Jake pulls his phone out immediately. “I’ve got the timer ready.”

Ryan exhales, sharp. “Fine. It’s a bet.” He sticks his hand out like this is a business deal instead of lunch.

I shake it. “Hope you like color in your life, spreadsheet boy.”

“Hope you like deadlines,” he deadpans.

“And…” Jake taps his screen, “go.”

The saw kicks back on from somewhere upstairs and then immediately cuts out again. “Goddammit!” a voice yells with real feeling as something that sounds vaguely like a hammer clatters to the floor.

“I’m gonna go check on that,” Jake says, already taking the stairs two at a time.

---

At twenty-eight minutes, a horn honks out front and Jake whoops from upstairs. 

“Ohhh, shit,” I say, putting both hands on my cheeks in mock surprise.

He looks toward the door. Then back at me.

“Thirty minutes,” I say, softly.

He closes his eyes for half a second then opens them again. “Palette’s yours.”

I grin. “Growth looks good on you.”

“Don’t push it,” he says, already turning toward the door.

The porch looks like it might fold in on itself, so naturally that’s where Ryan drops the stack of pizza boxes. “I don’t recommend eating in there,” he says, dragging a saw horse around and lining it up with one that was already positioned underneath the window. “I’m not, anyway. I don’t want sawdust in my food again.”

“Again?” I ask, following his lead, taking the boxes off the leaning pile one at a time, setting them across the saw horses he’s lining up like a questionable buffet table. The porch answers every placement with a creak, but it holds. Barely.

He nods. “It’s been a long week.”

My stomach answers with a long, dramatic growl that echoes just enough for both of us to hear it. Awesome.

He doesn’t comment, which somehow makes it more embarrassing but the building settles around us, all pops and groans, like it’s stretching its bad knee. He wipes his hands on his jeans and flips open the top of the box closest to him. “Pepperoni,” he says, moving to the next one.

Sausage.

Cheese.
Pepperoni.

Sausage.

Cheese.

Then he pauses.

He reaches for the last box like it might bite him.

Opens it.

Pineapple gleams back at him. Jalapeños decorating it like a scattershot.

He exhales through his nose. “This one’s yours.”

I take it with both hands. “Look at you,” I say. “Supporting artistic freedom.” I drop it onto the last saw horse in the row and grab a paper plate from the pile they sent with the pizzas and grab two slices for myself.

The smell of hot asphalt drifts up, mixing with sawdust and old wood and whatever cursed insulation they pulled out earlier. Sweat trickles down between my shoulder blades as I drop onto the stairs. “Sweet, spicy, greasy perfection.”

I hear him audibly cringe behind me as he decides which ones he wants on his plate.

He sits down on the opposite end of the same stair and places a napkin on his lap before sitting his paper plate down on top of it. “What?” he asks when a laugh falls out before I can wrangle it back down.

“Nothing,” I say, clamping my mouth shut. It’s definitely not the fact that he’s protecting his pants from grease stains while we’re literally in the middle of a demolition project.

A pickup rolls past, music thumping loud enough I can tell it’s the latest release from East Divide.

“Good song,” he says, letting his foot tap to the beat until the truck carries the song out of earshot.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding along. “It’s been really good for the town ever since Deck decided to move back home.”

Ryan takes a plastic fork and knife to his pizza. “That’s actually why I’m renovating the inn, instead of just selling it.”

“To capitalize on the moment?” I give him the most sideways glance that’s ever sideways glanced.

“No.” He shakes his head. “Not exactly, anyway. My great grandfather always believed the town would turn around and the inn would be a tourist attraction again. He died before he could see it happen.” Ryan chews for a second before continuing, eyes on the street instead of me. “He used to sit out here,” he says, nodding toward the empty stretch of sidewalk, “and tell anyone who’d listen that all it takes is one person deciding to come back.”

“He was right.”

“He ran this place for decades before giving it to my grandparents,” Ryan adds.

“I remember,” I say with a nod, taking another bite of my pizza to keep myself from saying anything else.

 “Watched half the town leave. Watched the other half age in place. Still kept the rooms ready. Still replaced linens. Still fixed things like guests were coming any day now.”

I glance at the inn behind us. The sagging porch. The tired rail. The building that looks like it’s been holding its breath for a decade.

“And when Deck moved back,” Ryan continues, quieter now, “people started asking about rooms again. Fans. Press. Folks who didn’t want a chain hotel off the highway.”

I smile despite myself. “People who want somewhere they can drop their bags and pretend they’re not rushing through their own lives.”

He nods, slowly. “He didn’t live long enough to see it,” he says. “But he was right.”

I take another bite of my pizza, slower this time. “So… this isn’t about money?”

He huffs. “I’d be doing something much easier if it were.”

“Like selling?”

“Like not fighting you over pineapple,” he deadpans.

“At least I don’t eat my pizza with a knife and fork like an actual sociopath.” I fold my slice in half and take another bite, grease slicking my fingers, joy immediate and absolute. “Mmm.”

He sighs.

But when I look over, he’s watching me. Not the pizza. Me. He opens his mouth like he might start something, but he just sighs and wipes his brow instead. I follow his gaze. From here, you can see all of the Square between Cherry and Main Street. The flowerbeds Ray maintains with military precision, the crooked sign for the thrift shop, the playground with its swing set filled with squealing kids. The whole town on display under the June sun, every flaw lit up like a warning label. But it’s also peaceful because it feels a whole lot like home for the first time in a very long time.