Page 112 of Not Just a Trick Play

And then that smile of hers. The one I had to earn each time, but whenever I did, had me feeling like I was finally doing something right.

I rub my chest, the ache sinking in. Love always brings the risk of pain. Guess that’s the cruel joke.

I steal another glance at Noah. Maybe he’s not wrong. Maybe the only way to end this hurt is to cut my losses and walk away. I should’ve known the path to happiness wasn’t just a trick play.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

AMELIA

It’s beenforty-eight hours since that world-shattering row with Jake, and my soul is a fractured, twisted mess of grief and despair. Yet a relentless voice within grates, “Buck up, and move on, girl.”

The rational course is clear: return to England, slip into the role of innkeeper, and accept my future making a living with a stiff upper lip. But “making a living” doesn’t seem enough when I’ve actuallyliveda life.

I shake my head. Useless thoughts. Unproductive. I need to pull myself together.

There’ll be lots to tackle when I get back. Modernizing the inn’s reception software. Refreshing the exterior paint. Revamping the breakfast menu—nothing wins hearts like a trendy avocado toast.

All worthy causes that would have the inn running better. Not five-star upgrades, but serviceable. Adequate. Mediocre.

Mediocre. Jake’s pronouncement of my life.

I was livid at that verbal slap. But now his assessment verdict haunts me.

Is it truly a mark of shame, though? In a world awash with the ordinary, my story is one of many. There’s no disgrace in the everyday, no dishonor in the mundane.

At least I got this brief, incandescent interval to live my dreams, each more vivid with Jake by my side. But stars are meant for gazing, not grasping, and I cannot hitch myself to his light.

I need to come to terms with the new-old direction of my life, pull on my big-girl knickers and face the music—or in this case, the deafening silence of the British countryside.

I should call Gran. A straightforward task: pick up the phone, scroll to her name, hit connect. Yet somehow, every time I try, my hand recoils like I’m reaching for a loaded trap.

Deep down, I know the truth—it’s not the thought of England that terrifies me, it’s the vacuum my life will be when I leave Jake behind.

Maybe that’s why Fordwich, once synonymous with home, now whispers of surrender.

But haven’t I already given up?

Thunderous knocking yanks me out of my wallow-fest, and I bolt up.

Has Jake come back?

Unlikely.

The tenants are returning any day and have booked a cleaning service. I’ve made room for them to work by corralling my belongings in the dining nook.

Flanking my bulging suitcase is a collection of odds and ends I haven’t been able to stuff inside: A tote filled with RhythmRoutes swag—that can go in the rubbish. Then there’s my gala gown, enshrouded in a plastic garment bag, and draped over a chair.

At its feet, my heart-achingly beautiful red shoes sit atop their box.

Fitting them into my carry-on might be feasible, but the stark truth is Fordwich is less glitz and glamour, more messes and mops.

Sell them? Or donate? It’s like choosing between ripping off a Band-Aid or slowly peeling it away.

Dragging my feet, I head to the door.

It flies open before I fully twist the knob, revealing a visibly irritated Yvonne.

Dread and joy engulf me, and my heart wrenches. How do I miss her already? She must know I botched things with Jake.

---