Page 50 of Saving it with My Best Friend's Brother

“Who?” Amelia pressed.

“Deputy Roberts and Sophie.”

My arms tightened around Amelia as she swayed. The deputy who’d been so helpful, taken our statements and knew every detail of our protection plan. Sophie, who’d brought cookiesto staff meetings. Who’d decorated the front desk for every holiday? Who knew every regular guest’s preferences and anniversary dates?

Claire’s revelation about Sophie hit me like a physical blow. Sophie, who’d teared up when I shared stories about my father’s time here. Every interrupted moment, every conveniently timed appearance, all calculated, all betrayal.

“Both been on Crystal Ridge’s payroll,” Agent Blake confirmed grimly. “Sophie’s been feeding them information for months, and Roberts has been on their books for years.”

“So every time Sophie interrupted us...” Amelia’s voice trailed off as the pieces clicked into place.

“She was gathering intel,” I finished grimly. “All those convenient interruptions...”

“The festival,” Amelia straightened. “All those people coming tomorrow...”

“Will be perfectly safe,” I assured her. “This?” I gestured to the vandalism. “Are desperate people making mistakes.”

Agent Blake nodded. “We’ve got both Roberts and Sophie under surveillance. They’ll lead us to Wheeler.”

“In the meantime,” Claire added, “we’ve got cleanup crews coming. The festival opens in eight hours.”

I expected Amelia to crumble. Instead, she squared her shoulders.

“Then we better get to work.” She turned to me. “Still have those marketing contacts who owe you favors?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Call them. We’re not just cleaning this up; we’re turning it into a statement.”

The vandalism transformed through the night as the community rallied. Fiona Jones from the flower shop arrived with her teenage art students, armed with brushes and inspiration.

“We’ll make it beautiful,” Fiona promised, sketching flowing designs to incorporate the red paint streaks into rising phoenixes.

Tom Parker and his sons worked on the windows, their truck loaded with salvaged stained glass from the old church renovation. His hands moved with practiced skill as they turned broken windows into canvases.

“See these patterns?” Tom traced the aged glass. “By morning, those broken windows will tell Pine Haven’s story in colored light.”

Marie arrived with thermoses of coffee and fresh pastries for the volunteers. “Can’t work on empty stomachs,” she insisted, passing out still-warm cinnamon rolls—the familiar scent wrapped around us like a hug, fighting back the night’s chill.

Claire coordinated it all, but her tablet was forgotten as she helped direct artists and organize supplies. Her usual snark gave way to fierce protectiveness. I caught her wiping tears when the Wilsons showed up with their grandchildren, everyone carrying cleaning supplies.

“Forty years of memories here,” Mrs. Wilson said firmly. “Not letting some bully ruin it for the next generation.”

Amelia moved through it all with grace, though I saw the tension in her shoulders. She stopped to hug Fiona, admire Tom’s designs, and thank each volunteer.

“You’re amazing,” I told her as we took a brief break. We sat on our deck, watching the transformation below.

“I’m terrified,” she admitted quietly. “But I keep thinking about Mom, about your father. They didn’t back down. Neither will I.”

I took her hand, marveling at her strength. “Have I told you today that I’m falling in love with you?”

She turned to me, surprised and something softer in her eyes. “Actually, you haven’t.”

“Well, I am.” I brought her hand to my lips. “More every minute.”

“Even with all this chaos?”

“Especially with all this chaos.” I smiled against her fingers. “You’re extraordinary, Amelia Horton.”

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