Page 63 of No Room in the Inn

I lean against the counter, looking contentedly around the kitchen. When my eyes spy a piece of paper on the counter I haven’t seen before, I amble over, leaning down to look at it better.

It’s a sketch, clearly done by Willow, of some sort of building. It takes me a second to realize it’s a greenhouse. She’s noted dimensions and even done another sketch of a possible layout for the interior.

And I can’t stop my smile. Did she do this for the inn?

When I hear a phone ringing, I look away, patting my flannel pants only to realize that my phone is still in my bedroom. I glance around, spotting Willow’s phone on the counter by the fridge. I don’t know where she is, but I’ll have to remember to tell her someone called.

Shortly after the phone stops ringing, it starts again—another call.

“Willow?” I say loudly.

No answer.

I finish my hot chocolate in one big gulp and set it down, moving to the bottom of the stairs. Maybe she’s upstairs. “Willow?” I call again, louder this time.

And now the phone is ringing once again. I deliberate for just a second before making up my mind. This is the third time they’re calling in a row; it must be important, and I don’t know where Willow is.

So I pick up the phone and answer. “Hello?” I say. “This is Willow’s phone.”

There’s a static silence on the other end before I hear a man’s voice saying, “Hello? Is Ms. Scott available?”

I crane my neck around, peering out of the kitchen to see if I can see her. “She’s not,” I say. “But I can take a message and have her get back to you as soon as possible.”

“This is Ivan Yevstigneyev from the law office. I have the paperwork she requested, for transferring ownership of her bed and breakfast.”

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. My mind flicks back to the last man who looked at the inn. Willow said his offer was high. “Transferring ownership?” I say.

There’s another pause. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“She’s selling it?” Something painful is rising within me, and it takes me a second to realize it’s hurt—betrayal.

The silence this time is longer before the man says, “I would really prefer to talk to Ms. Scott about this.” He sounds uncomfortable now, like he shouldn’t legally give me any more information.

“Of course,” I say automatically, my brain barely functioning. “I’ll have her call you as soon as she’s able.”

“Excellent. I’m leaving town tomorrow, so I’d like to get this paperwork to her today if possible.”

I nod before realizing that he can’t see me. “I’ll have her call you,” I say. “Thanks. Bye.”

We hang up, and for a second I just stare at the phone, my mind churning.

Maybe there’s an explanation.

But what? Because if she were giving the inn to me, she probably wouldn’t be filling out a bunch of paperwork, would she? There’s no financial transaction. Not yet, anyway.

Crap.

How could Willow do this? How could she sell the place without even telling me? She acts like she’s considering my proposal, all while selling it to someone else behind my back?

I take a deep breath, trying to control my anger. I’m the world’s biggest idiot. For thinking I could trust her, for thinking she understood, for thinking she would respect me enough to at least explain to my face that she wanted to sell to someone else. I knew getting attached to Willow was a bad idea. Iknewit. So why did I?

But I know why. Because I couldn’t help it.

I pace the kitchen for a minute, waiting anxiously for Willow to come back from wherever she’s gone. I have to talk to her about this. I have to confront her.

My gaze catches on the kitchen chairs where she and I sat looking at Granny’s photo album. I tear my eyes away only to have them land on my empty mug of hot chocolate that she made.

She added cinnamon. How could she add cinnamon for me and yet do something like this?

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