CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DANI

I had to get out of the inn at lunch time, so I took my pre-made lunch and ate in the park. The room smells like primer and bad decisions when I return. “Those cannot be OSHA compliant,” I say, gesturing toward the three ladders already lined up in the main area. None of them look like they passed inspection in this decade. 

“Those are Type 1AA,” Jake says, looking up from his tape measure and the board currently straddling the saw horses. “They’re rated higher than the new ones at your dad’s store. And they don’t wobble when I put two-hundred pounds on ‘em.” He sticks his chest out like a peacock.

“You know what? I believe it. They look like they’ve survived both world wars and still showed up for work this morning.”

Jake snorts. “You’re not far off. Two of them were my grandpa’s and the third one was my dad’s.”

And that’s how Oak Valley gets you. Right there. The nostalgia. It sneaks in when you least expect it and if you’re not paying attention then it’ll wrap itself around you and keep you here until you rot… 

Just like those old ladders.

Dust created by the saws and drills hangs in the air like it’s got tenure. Ryan’s standing by the fireplace with his arms folded and a lineup of color cards fanned in front of him. 

I step over a coil of extension cord and drop my backpack hard enough the buckles rattle. “Are you trying to decide on the color palette without me?”

“The board wants a final answer on the colors by the end of the day.” His jaw tightens a fraction. “I thought we could narrow the options together.”

“Options?” I repeat, walking closer.

He turns the cards toward me.

Cream.

Off-white.

Variations of oatmeal that reek of trust fund.

“You’re kidding.”

He shrugs. “They’re classic.”

“They’re beige,” I snort in dramatic but honest disgust.

Ryan watches, eyebrows arching upwards slowly. “I pulled these from the historical register,” he says, handing me a printout.

“Didn’t realize we were painting a hospital,” I mutter, but take the page. It’s a grid of colors that all look identical unless you tilt the paper and squint really hard. I recognize the board’s acceptable colors from Lois’s emails. “Are these even different?”

He points. “That one is Cloudbank. This is Bleached Flax. And this…” he holds up a sample, wrinkling his nose, “This one is Antique Linen.”

I lean in, stare at him then at the swatch, then back at him. “So, eggshell, eggshell, and eggshell’s paler cousin.” I exhale slowly through my nose. “We had a bet.”

“We did,” he admits, slowly shaking his head.

“And you conceded the palette,” I remind him.

“I did.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth and drags one hand through his dark hair. “That doesn’t mean neon assault.”

I raise an eyebrow and reach for my bag.

“It’s about continuity. It’s a historical building. We have to respect the architecture.”

I hold up one hand to stop him.
His lips pull into a tight line as his eyebrows crash together, but his mouth clamps shut. That’s going in my wins column.

“Try these.” I say reaching into my backpack and pulling out my color deck. “None of them have dove or fog in their name.” I add, slapping my own samples onto the dropcloth strung across two saw horses. The labels say things like Radiant Punch, Dijon Dynamo, and Harbor Shark. The last one is a deep teal that makes me unreasonably happy.

Ryan’s eye twitches. “The board expects something timeless. Muted.”

“I can mute,” I say, gesturing at the lineup, “but is that what you want? Is that what your guests will want? Or is that just what you think the board wants?”

He shuffles his cards, silent. For a second, I brace for another argument but instead he circles the room. “You know,” he finally says, keeping his voice level. “Last year, we did a brownstone restoration in Nashville. The designer went with a bold palette in the foyer. Emerald and copper.”

“Okay, but emerald slaps!” I say, getting excited even though I don’t dare to dream he’d let me put emerald on these walls.

He lifts one shoulder, a noncommittal gesture. “I loved it. The clients didn’t. They said it swallowed the light and made the ceilings feel lower.”

“So…” I purse my lips together. “They were cowards.”

He shakes his head and lets out a long sigh. “They were the ones writing the checks. We repainted it before leaving the jobsite. After all, they’re the ones living there.”

I snort. “Well, you’re writing the checks here and if the ghosts in this old place hate the bold palette then they’re going to haunt you.”

He laughs, letting his shoulders soften just a little. Like a tiny bit of that pressure he’s always carrying around finally let go. 

“You know what?” I clap my hands once, sharp. “This is stupid.”

Ryan blinks. “Excuse me?”

“We’re arguing over paper squares in a room that smells like sawdust and the slow death of imagination.” I scoop up my deck and shove it back into my bag. “We need inspiration.”I look at the walls.
He looks at the walls.

---

The Cozy Corner Bookstore smells like vanilla, fresh unturned pages in books, and possibly mildew. I make a mental note to mention it to Jake, since he likes to help local businesses keep their places up to code. It’s giving tax write off but with a community first approach. Most people in this town treat this place like a church, speaking in hushed tones and absolutely never putting the smut novels they’re buying on top of their book haul pile. Me? I treat it like my second home. I dust my hands off. Literally. Chalk from the morning’s mural session at the inn leaves a trail of ghostly handprints on the thighs. Ryan laughs at the sight, which I ignore and head toward the Architecture & Antiques section.

I’ve got my sketchbook jammed under my arm but a stray bunch of hair falls out of my ponytail and tickles my nose. 

“You’ve got—” Ryan stops mid-sentence.

I look up. “What?” I reach up to swipe it away but cringe when I pull my hand back and see the white powder still on them. 

He’s staring at my face like I’ve grown a second head. “Chalk.”

I swipe at my cheek. “Better?”

“Worse, actually.”

I swipe again.

“Still there.”

“Where?” I’m about to wipe my entire face with my shirt at this point. I catch a reflection of myself in the warped glass of the front door. Yep. Sure enough. I wipe it with my sleeve. It only makes things worse.

Renee, the owner of Cozy Corner, snorts from behind the counter, not even bothering to hide it. “You tryin’ to camouflage or is that just a new social media trend?”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” I shoot back.

“Just… hold on.” Ryan says, stepping closer, reaching out to swipe away the chalk dust from my cheek with his thumb. His hand is warm and rough but gentle all at once. He’s focused on the spot like it’s the most important restoration project he’s ever taken on, but there’s this tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there before.

Oh.

My lungs feel tight, like suddenly I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Oh, no…

“There,” he says quietly, letting his hand drop.

Except he doesn’t step back.

I don’t either.

Why do I already miss the way his touch made me feel?

Oh, no.

Nope.

I’m not doing this.

“Thanks,” I say, and wow, 2x points to me for sounding almost normal.

He clears his throat and takes a small step back giving me just enough breathing room for my brain to spiral. 

He’s right there. 

Why do I hate the distance? 

This is ridiculous. 

What day is this?

Am I ovulating?

I must be ovulating. 

“So, the architecture section?” he says, shifting his focus to scan the signs on the walls and the shelves.

“Yeah…” I turn to face the opposite direction as his extremely defined jawline and dark eyes. What the hell? “Yep. Architecture.” I spin toward the shelves before my brain can fully reboot. “But first I need to go wash my hands, so I don’t mark them all.”

I make my way past the Local Authors shelf and the cork board covered in community announcements and keep going through the narrow hallway at the back of the building. The bathroom is barely bigger than a closet with a single bulb overhead and a mirror that’s seen better decades. I lock the door and brace my hands on the sink.

“Okay,” I say to my reflection. “What was that?”

My reflection doesn’t answer, which is probably for the best because I don’t want to hear any of its bullshit right now.

I turn on the faucet and pump the soap dispenser, which wheezes in response. The water runs cold, then lukewarm, slowly growing hotter as I scrub the chalk off my hands like I’m trying to erase the last five minutes from existence.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Once my hands are clean and my skin is now beet red, I dry my hands on my jeans and pull my phone out of my back pocket.

Sophie: How’s the field trip going?

Me: What? How’d you know about that?

Sophie: Jake.

Sophie: So spill

I stare at my phone. 

Then at the mirror. 

Then back at my phone.

Me: Your husband gossips worse than Mrs. Voss.

Sophie: Yeah. He does. Quit stalling. Tell me!

Me: It’s weird. He touched my face

The typing bubbles appear immediately.

Sophie: EXCUSE ME???

Sophie: DANIELLE MORGAN WRIGHT

Sophie: EXPLAIN

Me: I had chalk on my face. He wiped it off. That’s it

Sophie: And???

Me: And nothing

Sigh.

Me: Except I’m hiding in a bathroom having a menty-B

Sophie: OH MY GOD

Sophie: You LIKE him

Me: I do not

Me: I’m ovulating. Obviously. It’s just a hormonal situation

Sophie: Babe that’s not how that works

Me: It’s EXACTLY how that works!

Me: Science.

Sophie: You’re spiraling

Me: I’m FINE

Sophie: You’re texting me from a bathroom

She’s got me there.

Me: You text me first.

Sophie: You replied.

Me: I have to go

Me: He’s waiting outside.

Sophie: Go get him tiger 🐯

Me: I hate you

Sophie: Love you too 😘

Sophie: Use protection

I shove my phone back in my pocket and stare at myself in the mirror one more time.

“Get it together,” I tell my reflection. “You’re a professional. You’re here for inspiration. That’s it. This is a work thing. A professional work thing.”

My reflection looks unconvinced.

“Also, you’re leaving town in a few months,” I add. “So this doesn’t matter. Whatever this is, which is nothing. Because there is no this.”

I sound unhinged.

Great.

I unlock the door, take a breath, and head back out into the main part of the store.

Ryan’s exactly where I left him, standing near the Architecture section with his hands in his pockets, looking at a display of coffee table books about Victorian restoration. Every page is a hate crime against modern taste, but I respect the commitment.

“Okay, I changed my mind,” I announce, maybe a little too loud. “Let’s find some inspiration that doesn’t come from the same section all the other restorations are pulling from.”

He looks up, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. “Everything okay?”

“Yep. Great. Perfect. Why wouldn’t it be?”

His eyebrow raises a fraction.

“But you want the inn to stand out, don’t you?”

“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing toward the shelves.

And I do, because what else am I supposed to do? Have a rational conversation about feelings? Absolutely not. We’re going to look at books that have nothing to do with architecture or restoration so my brain can stay busy playing pattern recognition instead of ruminating on the last ten minutes. “Renee,” I call out, standing on my tiptoes to see over the tops of the book rec piles in the middle of the floor. “Do you have anything that might inspire someone who’s possibly renovating the inn down the street and doesn’t look like it’s been approved by a middle-aged man?”

She looks up from the book she’s reading at the front counter, appraising me with the kind of skepticism that comes from being both the only book store owner in the county and having known me my entire life. A toothy grin tugs at the corners of her mouth. “If you’re serious,” she tilts her chin toward the back room. The Pitch Black Romance section.

“Perfect,” I say, without a second of hesitation. The books in that part of the store have nothing to do with historical architecture or color palettes. It’ll give my brain extra homework, so it can leave me the hell alone about how dark and brooding Ryan’s eyes are when he thinks no one is paying attention.

“Are you sure?” he asks, hesitating at the end of the architecture aisle. “The last time someone invited me into a back room, I left with a tattoo I still can’t show my mother and a permanent distaste for Jaegermeister.”

“Yep, positiv—” Wait. He’s fun? Or at least he was fun in a past life. “What?” He’s got a tattoo hidden under the button down and dress slack look somewhere? 

I wonder where it is…

Shit.

The back room is the size of a luxury walk-in closet and it’s got floor-to-ceiling built-ins with a rolling library ladder. And every single spine is a masterpiece of design. Deep burgundies next to midnight blacks. Emerald greens bleeding into sapphire blues. Gold foil that catches the light like it’s never heard the word subtlety. 

“Holy shit,” Ryan says, and I turn to look at him because that might be the first time I’ve heard him curse. “These covers are real art.”

“Right?” I pull a book off the shelf at random. The cover is a deep plum with gold filigree that looks hand-painted. “This is what I’m talking about. Look at this color combination. Moody, dramatic, bold as hell…”

“Sounds like someone I know.” He chuckles as I cut my eyes at him. He steps closer, close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Why did I notice that? He takes it from my hands and studies it. “That’s… actually incredible.”

“I know!” I grab another one. Forest green with copper accents. “And this one. Tell me this color scheme wouldn’t look amazing in the library area.”

“The board would have a collective heart attack,” he says, but he’s smiling. Actually smiling. 

“The board,” I say, pulling down a third book and handing it to him, “can learn to live a little.”

He takes another book from my hands, turning it so the oxblood red with cream flourish detailing catches the light. “You know what’s funny?” he says, still looking at the cover. “This one has a pirate in it. So that’s technically a historical romance novel, right?”

I nod, slowly.

“Most of these are set in historical periods. Victorian, Regency, whatever.” He gestures at the shelves. “And look at how they’re designed. Bold. Dramatic. Nothing like the actual historical color palettes we’ve been looking at.”

I blink. “Oh my god, you’re right. The actual historical periods were way more colorful than what we’ve collectively decided as ‘period appropriate.’” He makes air quotes around the phrase.

“Exactly.” He’s getting animated now. It reminds me of how I react when I get passionate about something. “The Victorian era thrived in saturated colors. Deep reds, rich greens, golds. We muted history because we didn’t know how to preserve the original pigments.” 

He pulls another book off the shelf. Navy blue with silver. “This would work in the main parlor.”

“See? I knew you had taste buried under all that beige somewhere.” I climb the ladder and push off, letting myself roll down the bookcase a few feet. “What about this one?” I hold up a cover that’s teal and coral. “My personal favorite color combination.”

Ryan tilts his head, considering. “I didn’t peg you for a mermaid girl.”

“Excuse me?” I nearly lose my grip on the ladder. “A mermaid girl?”

“Teal and coral.” He gestures at the book. “Very… Little Mermaid coded.”

“First of all,” I say, climbing down with the book clutched to my chest like he’s personally attacked it, “That happens to be a masterpiece of color theory and if you can’t see that, then I question your entire design education.”

His mouth twitches. “I didn’t say it was bad.”

“You said it with your tone.” I hold it up, letting the colors dance in the soft lighting. “Second of all, teal and coral work because they’re opposites on the color wheel. Warm and cool, energetic but balanced. It’s literally science.”

“So… you are a mermaid girl?”

“I’m a good-design girl who happens to respect Ariel’s aesthetic choices.” I shove the book into his chest and climb back up on the ladder. “And third of all, you’re the one who pulled a navy and silver book two seconds ago, so don’t come for my ocean palette when yours is a broody pirate.”

He actually laughs. Full, genuine laugh that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners and I hate that I noticed it. But what I hate even more is how it felt like butterflies taking flight in the pit of my stomach when I saw him do it.

“A broody pirate,” he repeats, still grinning. “That’s fair.”

“Thank you.” I study another book off the shelf and add it to the pile that’s growing in my arms. “Now can we agree that ocean vibes have a place in historical design, or do I need to give you a full PowerPoint on color psychology?”

“No PowerPoint necessary.” He’s looking at me with this expression I can’t quite read. Amused, maybe. Or impressed. Possibly both. “I surrender to your superior mermaid knowledge.”

“Okay, but which one do you feel like captures what you want your guests to experience when they first step inside the inn?”

He’s quiet for a second. “That’s a hell of a question.”

“I’m full of those.” I climb down from the ladder, arms full of books. “Come on. Let’s spread these out and actually look at them.”

There’s a small table in the corner, meant for people to sit and preview books before buying them. We dump our collection across it like we’re planning a heist instead of a color palette.

Ryan picks up the crimson and gold one again. “If we did something like this in the dining room…”

I pull out my sketchbook. “And maybe gunmetal fixtures instead of brass to update it.”

“Brass would catch the light from the chandelier though” 

“But everyone restoring historical properties tend to choose the brass fixtures.”

He’s nodding now, actually seeing it.

“Silver makes it stand out.”

“Okay, and what about the main parlor?” I flip to a clean page. “You said navy?”

“Maybe navy and gold,” he corrects. “Silver might read too cold for that room.”

“Navy and gold.” I start sketching. “With the original hardwoods…”

“And if we kept the fireplace surround in that natural stone—”

“YES.” I slap the table. “And then we could do the library in that forest green with copper accents.”

He leans over my sketchbook, and I’m suddenly very aware of how close he is. How he smells like coffee and sawdust and something clean I can’t identify. How his sleeve is rolled up just enough that I can see his forearm and…

Focus, Dani.

“What about the guest rooms?” he asks.

“Different palettes for each one,” I say, forcing my brain back to work. “Give them personality. The honeymoon suite could be that oxblood red with cream.”

“Romantic,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes me look up.

He’s already looking at me.

The air does the buzzy thing again that feels like I just got shocked with electrical static in my spine.

“Yeah,” I manage. “Romantic.”

Renee appears in the doorway, breaking whatever spell we were under. “You two finding what you need back here?”

“Yes,” Ryan says, not taking his eyes off the books. “Actually, we are.”

I gather up the books we’ve been using. “Can we borrow these for reference? I promise we’ll bring them back.”

“Take pictures, instead” Renee says. “Some of those are special orders and I’ve got bills to pay.”

“Deal.” I start snapping photos of each cover, the color combinations, the way the foils catch the light.

Ryan pulls out his phone and does the same. Professional. Methodical. But when I catch him taking a photo of the teal and coral one—the one I loved—something warm flutters to life inside my chest.

“Okay,” I say, once we’ve documented everything. “I think we have enough to work with.”

“Yeah.” He agrees, helping replace the books neatly on the shelves. “This was… actually a really good idea.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not surprised.” He holds the door open for me as we head back outside. “I’m just not used to someone making me rethink everything I thought I knew about a project.”

“Get used to it,” I say, sliding another book into place.

He pauses with the pirate book still in his hand as he places it back on the shelf and glances over at me. “I think I already am.”

A loud cackle of laughter echoes through the store. I’ve never been so glad to hear that cackle. It’s normally something I try to avoid, but today… it’s a godsend. 

“I’m telling you,” Mrs. Voss’s voice says from the main part of the store, “Oak Valley needs the inn. People used to come from three states over for the Sunday brunch alone. Now look at it. As empty as a politician’s promise.”

After making sure we’ve returned all the books to their places, I motion for Ryan to follow me. “If we stay to the inside walls, maybe we can avoid them…”

“What?” His nose wrinkles as his eyebrows arch down in confusion.

“Shh,” I hiss, putting one finger to my mouth and crouching down against the wall. “Just follow me.” I lead the way toward the front of the store, doing my best to stay low and quiet so she doesn’t see me.

When we come around the corner of the bargain and discount books, I see her. Mrs. Voss, wearing her trademark cardigan and wielding a cane she one-hundred-percent uses as a weapon of psychological warfare, is mid-rant at a captive audience of two local retirees and a high schooler who looks like she’d rather eat glass.

“The new owner is family of a local. He might—” one of the retirees starts, but Mrs. Voss cuts him off at the knees.

“But not local anymore,” she snaps. “Oak Valley needs local support. History isn’t just something that happens to other towns.” She pounds the cane on the carpet for effect. “Well, I remember when the Oak Valley Inn was the place for every wedding, wake, and scandal worth mentioning.”

We’re two aisles away and trapped because they’re standing right in front of the door. I stand and pick up a book, holding it wide open to disguise my face and inch toward the edge of the row. Ryan gives me a very confused and mildly concerned look, but does the same. I peer over the top of my book and notice the high schooler slips away while Mrs. Voss is on a roll, leaving the two older men to their fate

“I heard the new owner’s some city boy,” the remaining retiree says, not unkindly. “Never ran an inn before.”

“Are they talking about me?” Ryan hisses from behind his copy of Shakespeare’s Complete Works.

“Uh-huh,” I whisper back.

Mrs. Voss’s eyebrows shoot up. “I heard he enlisted some help.” She turns, pinning me with a glare so direct I almost drop the book I’m holding. “Ah,” she says, “speak of the devil. Dani, come over here. Enlighten these gentlemen.”

The last thing I want is to play show pony for the town’s rumor mill, but I’m not about to second guess Mrs. Voss in broad daylight. I shuffle over, book still clutched, and try to look like a functional adult. “Gentlemen. Mrs. Voss.”

She’s already in high gear. “Tell them about the ballroom. The woodwork.”

I shrug. “It’s mostly rotted, but some are salvageable. Floors are shot, but if you squint, you can see the old inlay pattern. Jake said he knows a guy a few counties over who can restore it.”

Mrs. Voss’s face lights up like she’s just been handed a fresh batch of gossip. “See? That’s what we need. Someone who cares about the soul of the place.”

I almost snort, but catch myself. “Mostly, I care about not watching another chain restaurant take a dump on Oak Valley’s history.”

One of the retirees leans in, conspiratorial. “Did you know Al Capone stayed there once?”

I shake my head. “Is that true, or just an urban legend?”

He grins, wide. His eyes spark with wild humor. “Does it matter? Makes a good story.”

Mrs. Voss nods, satisfied. “It’s true. Room 207. He tipped in silver dollars.”

I scribble a note in the margin of my sketchbook. Al Capone’s Room = PR gold. I nudge Ryan in the arm to get his attention on the scribble.

He tries to cover his laugh by dragging one hand over his mouth.

They start swapping stories of who honeymooned there, who got caught skinny-dipping in the fountain, who baked the best carrot cake for the brunch buffet. I don’t want to care, but there’s something about the way their voices layer over each other that makes me want to build a time machine or at least a really solid video essay.

“Let’s go,” I whisper, tilting my head toward the door.

Mrs. Voss catches us mid-step as we try to pry ourselves away. “And where are you going?”

“I have to get back to work,” I say, turning back to the group with my best professional smile. “This has been incredibly helpful. Thank you so much for the stories.”

Mrs. Voss waves a hand. “Oh, you come back anytime, dear. And bring him.” She points at Ryan.

Before I can respond, Ryan speaks up. “Are you sure you want a city boy lurking around?” His tone is light, self-deprecating and absolutely the last thing I would’ve expected from him. “I’ve heard I bring down property values around here just by existing.”

The retirees burst into laughter.

Mrs. Voss’s face turns bright red then it quickly fades as a grin creeps across her face. “Oh, I like him. He’s got good bones and a sense of humor.”

I stare at Ryan like he’s just sprouted wings. “Did you just… make a joke? About yourself? In public?

“Good bone structure,” Mrs. Voss continues, gesturing at his face and shoulders like she’s appraising livestock. “Strong jaw. You’ll age well.”

“I appreciate the architectural assessment,” Ryan says, completely deadpan.

The retirees are cackling now.

I’m still frozen, trying to process this version of Ryan Calloway who I didn’t know existed a few hours ago. “Okay!” I finally manage, way too loud, already backing toward the door. “That’s our cue before one of y’all start checking his foundation for cracks. Thanks again!” I push through the door and the little bell chimes our exit. The afternoon sun hits me square in the face.

Ryan follows, and I immediately round on him. “Cracks?”

“Don’t even start with me.” I gesture wildly back at the store. “What was that?”
“What?”

“The jokes. The charm. The architectural assessment line. Who are you and what did you do with Ryan Calloway?”

His mouth twitches. “You said I should loosen up.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it. It’s…” I trail off, realizing I do not want to finish that statement so I absolutely refuse to finish the thought. Nope. We’re going to glance off into the distance instead and pretend to watch some birds bickering over a scrap of food on the sidewalk.

“It’s what?” He stops on his side of the truck, surprisingly muscular forearms resting on the roof, watching me with that amused expression that I’m definitely not thinking about.

“Self-aware,” I finish. “It’s annoyingly self-aware.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“It’s not.”

“Taking it anyway.” He’s full-on smiling now.

I slide into the driver’s seat, still grumbling. “Unbelievable.”

Ryan falls easily into the passenger side seat, still looking way too pleased with himself. “She’s not wrong though.”

“About what?”

“I’ve been told I do have good bones.”

I turn to stare at him. “Did you just… compliment yourself?”

“I’m just agreeing with an expert assessment.”

“Oh my god.” I start the engine. “This is what I get for taking you out in public. I can’t do this.”

“Actually, you did manage just fine,” he corrects.

“Really didn’t.”

I back us out of the parking spot, catching a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. He’s clearly trying not to smile and failing miserably.

“I’m regretting this field trip already.”

“No, you’re not.”

He’s right. 

I’m not.

And that’s the entire problem.