Page 99 of The Wake-Up Call

It’s a rare acknowledgement of real life outside of our evenings together. I pounce on it.

“You seemed irritated with Poor Mandy this afternoon.”

“She said she’d help me find out who Goldilocks is, and then got distracted doing a reel for Instagram. I love that woman, but she gets scattier by the day, and introducing her to social media means she’s pulled in even more directions at once.”

I hear Izzy sigh. An owl hoots in the forest and another answers. Through superhuman effort, I manage not to point out that asking for help to find the owner of the last ring coulddefinitelybe regarded as cheating. The bet was between me and Izzy. But I suppose I should have known she would play dirty.

“We’re all stressed with the new year looming, I do get that,” she continues. “I feel pretty scatty, too, to be fair. The renovation work is just so... consuming, but in a really good way, like I feel as though I’m doing somethingme, and...” She pauses. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about work.”

“I don’t mind.”

“No, it’s... it’s better that we keep it separate.” She pulls her knees up underneath her, face upturned, pale in the moonlight.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying work on the renovations. Is it what you’d like to do, longer term?”

“Lucas...”

I am prepared for this.

“We said no talking about the past. I’m talking about the future.”

I can feel her hesitation. This conversation is making her uneasy. I wish I knew why. She’s so determined to keep me out of her life—I can’t understand it. What’s the risk? Why can’t she just try?

“Well... yeah. I still have a bit of a yen to do the upcycling business thing. I would never want to leave Forest Manor, though, if it still existed. It’s my home.”

“You could work part-time at both.”

“I guess.” She reaches down to pull a blanket out from under the chair, tucking it over her knees, hair swinging across her face so I can’t even see what little the moonlight gives of her expression.“But starting my own business feels so risky. It’d be safer just to get a waitressing job if the hotel goes under.”

I frown. Izzy never particularly enjoys waiting tables at the hotel.

“Time sometimes feels like it’s... I don’t know,” she says. “It’s just streaming by, and I’m happy, obviously, I’m so content in my life, but, like, I haven’t eventhoughtabout the upcycling project for months, and it’s been years since I first came up with the idea, and I’ve just...” She rubs her face. “Anyway.”

“Go on.”

“No, it’s fine, I’m all good. Ignore me.”

The oven dings.

“And there’s the lasagne,” Izzy says with audible relief.

She flicks the light on as she heads back inside, and the stars blink out, washed away by the artificial glare. I stay where I am, running over what she told me.Content, she said. As though it means the same thing as happy. But I don’t think it does.

“Oh, you burned it!” she calls from the kitchen.

I sit bolt upright, horrified. “Did I?”

I hear her snort with surprised laughter. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

I look over my shoulder as she appears in the doorway, overbaked M&S lasagne on a tray in her hands.

“Sorry, I just had to see your face, Mr. Perfectionist.”

She’s grinning. Her hair is half tucked into the neck of her jumper. Izzy always seems at home wherever she is, but right now she looks particularly comfortable. This is good. This is progress. When we’re in bed together, Izzy relaxes, but when we’re not, she’s usually wary, as if I’m about to sprout devil horns.

“What?”

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