Page 33 of A New Home

Charlotte felt her pulse quicken, her hands clenched into fists as she ducked behind a stack of lobster traps. From this new angle, she could see the intensity in Isla's eyes—a fierce, almost predatory focus. It was clear that whatever unresolved history they shared, it still had a powerful hold on Isla.

"Darn it, Isla, what game are you playing?"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Old Crown Inn seemed to groan in the whispering wind as Charlotte pushed through its heavy, oak door. Sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns that danced mockingly on the faded wallpaper. Charlotte's chest heaved with fatigue and her gaze swept across the quiet lobby, past the grand staircase with its worn carpet runner, and then it halted. There, leaning casually against the reception desk, was a figure that made Charlotte's heart sink further into the pit of her stomach.

Isla Wagner stood draped in effortless elegance, her willowy frame clad in something chic yet simple, a stark contrast to the antiquated charm of the inn. Her presence was like a drop of ink in clear water, spreading and impossible to ignore. Next to her was Thomas Windnell.

"Charlotte," Isla called out, her voice smooth as poured cream, but with a hint of frost that could chill the bones. "I didn't expect to see you back so soon."

"Nor did I expect to find you here, Isla," Charlotte responded, the muscles in her jaw flexing as she struggled to maintain cordiality. Charlotte had expected to be able to dash out and come back before anyone else was stirring at The Crown—but that was obviously not possible. She could feel the weight of Isla's cool appraisal, the silent judgment that seemed to question every choice Charlotte had made since arriving in Chesham Cove. “Or you, Thomas.”

“Oh, we just met here, waiting for you,” Thomas explained. “May I have a word?”

“You may not,” Charlotte said, savoring the shock on their faces. "Excuse me," she said, brushing past Isla with a rigidity in her posture that defied the fatigue that clung to her limbs like ivy. She needed to regroup, to shake off the shadow that Thomas Windnell—and now Isla—cast over her sanctuary.

As she ascended the staircase, each step creaked underfoot, echoing her internal pledge. This inn, with its peeling paint and creaky floorboards, was her battlefield and her refuge, her canvas and her muse. She would not be swayed by slick city men or enigmatic ex-wives. The Old Crown Inn was hers, and every fiber of her being screamed that she would fight for it.

Charlotte's heels clacked against the wooden floorboards as she descended the staircase, her descent seemingly in rhythm with the hammering of her heart. The Old Crown Inn, with its labyrinthine corridors and rooms that whispered secrets of bygone eras, wrapped around her like a protective shawl. But the security it offered felt momentarily pierced as Thomas Windnell’s silhouette loomed like an ominous cloud at the foot of the stairs.

"Charlotte, may I have a moment?" His voice was smooth, the words perfectly enunciated, each syllable a calculated step closer to his goal.

She paused on the final step, gripping the banister as if it were the mast of a ship caught in a storm. "Thomas," she acknowledged over the railing, not a quiver betraying the tempest brewing within.

"Your dedication to this place is admirable," he began, gesturing broadly to encompass the inn's rustic charm. "But you must consider the financial advantage of my offer."

"Offer? Advantage for whom?" Charlotte replied, each word laced with skepticism. It wasn't just money he was offering—it was surrender, capitulation to a future she didn't want.

Thomas jogged up the stairs, hand out. Charlotte's hand was trembling slightly as she took the folded paper from Thomas Windnell. She could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy with expectation, as she unfolded it with care not to tear the crisp edges. The numbers inside were neatly typed, each zero a round hole into a future she had never envisioned. Her heart thrummed in her chest at the sight—double the price of what she'd paid for The Old Crown Inn.

"Think of it, Charlotte," Thomas coaxed, his voice smooth like the fine silk of his tie. "That's financial freedom. Security for you and Amelia."

She let her eyes drift over the figures again, each digit a siren call to a life devoid of the worries that shadowed her dreams. Could money carve out a sanctuary from the relentless tides of change? The amount was staggering, a sum that could indeed secure a comfortable future, free of the chaos that had become her daily bread since moving to Chesham Cove.

But somewhere beneath the allure, something tightened in her chest—a visceral tug of war between the promise of wealth and the pull of her soul toward the inn's charming decay. The Old Crown Inn wasn't just mortar and stone to her; it was a canvas, weathered and worn, waiting for her to bring it back to life with careful strokes of love and perseverance.

“Why do you want this place so badly?” she questioned, narrowing her eyes at him.

“I have an interest in maintaining the local history, of course. My guests will want to come into town, see the sights. Maybe The Crown could become a second pub. Who knows?”

She sensed he was lying, but said nothing.

"Your daughter could go to any college," Thomas pressed on, mistaking her silence for consideration. "And think about it, no more scraping paint or dealing with leaky roofs."

Her fingers brushed against the paper as if it were a talisman capable of dispelling the storm of thoughts within her. For a fleeting moment, she saw herself elsewhere, unburdened by the ceaseless demands of renovation. A different life flickered before her eyes—one lined with ease instead of bristles dipped in paint.

Yet, as she held the offer in her hands, Charlotte's gaze unconsciously swept across the room, catching the slant of light as it danced upon the oak-paneled walls, the way it played hide and seek with the shadows, promising a day full of potential. Her breath caught in her throat. This inn, with its stubborn leaks and peeling wallpaper, was her testament to hope, a symbol of everything she had dared to dream since stepping away from the life she once knew.

"Money isn't the only currency I value, Thomas," she said at last, her voice steadier than she felt. The inn whispered through her, the gentle creaks and sighs of its old bones speaking of resilience and reinvention. It was more than an investment; it was a piece of her, intertwined with the wild beauty of the land and the community she was becoming a part of.

"Consider it," he urged one last time, the finality in his tone suggesting this was his end game.

"Thank you, but my decision stands," Charlotte replied, her conviction resonating deeper than the hollow echo of profit. The inn was more than a business venture—it was where her heart had chosen to anchor itself, amidst the rolling greenery and the salt-kissed air of Chesham Cove. It was home, and no amount of money could sever the roots she was nurturing here.

Charlotte's fingers trembled slightly as they enfolded the paper, its edges as sharp as the decision before her. Her gaze drifted upward, catching a glimpse of the wooden beams that stretched across the ceiling of The Old Crown Inn like the embrace of an old friend. She inhaled deeply, the scent of beeswax polish and aged wood filling her senses, grounding her. This was more than a building; it was a sanctuary she had resurrected with tender strokes of her artist's brush, infusing life into its every corner.

"Are you sure?" Thomas's voice broke through her reverie, his tone a mix of incredulity and something akin to admiration.

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