Page 114 of Chasing the Sun
I stared at him. “Tower Business Ventures is not exactly known for small-town charity.”
He scoffed. “This isn’t charity. It’s business. You win. I win. The town wins.” He said it matter-of-factly, withoutapology. There were no strings in his voice—but I knew better.
There were always strings. Sometimes they were just invisible.
I exhaled, nodding once. “Sounds like you’ve thought it all through.”
His slow, confident smile grew. “I have.”
My brows pinched down, searching for the catch. “What happens when I want to change the menu? When I decide we’re going to give away every Friday meal to a local food pantry? Or shut down for a week to host a family who lost everything in a fire?”
He tilted his head. “Are you telling me that’s your plan?”
I didn’t answer, but held his stare.
JP gave a small laugh. “You’re not the kind of man who can be owned, Cal. I’m betting on that.”
He stood. Brushed an imaginary wrinkle from his cuff. “I don’t need an answer tonight. But you should know—I’m not in the business of waiting around. When that property goes to auction, you need to be ready. You’ve got a window to act and to be prepared that someone else will move on it if you don’t.”
I stood, extending my hand. “I understand.”
JP’s handshake was firm, and he held it for a beat too long, as if he was still trying to figure me out. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
He offered a final nod and walked toward the door, his footfalls quiet but unmistakably confident. “Good luck, Cal.”
The room settled back into stillness, the fire crackling low behind me. Outside, the wind stirred the branches of the trees lining the driveway. I stared at the empty cup he’dleft on the table, the faint ring of espresso still marking the rim.
On paper, the plan was perfect. The restaurant I’d dreamed of, the land I’d grown to love, a business partner who knew how to play the long game. All of it was sitting in my lap, waiting to be claimed.
As the silence thickened, curling around the corners of the inn like fog off the lake, something in my chest refused to settle.
Maybe it was the way Elodie still tended that pumpkin patch like it might save her. Maybe it was the way Levi had started talking about her in the plural—like we were awenow, and not just two separate people orbiting the same four walls of this home.
Maybe it was the part of me that knew, deep down, that dreams built on someone else’s ashes never tasted the way you imagined. I sat there for a long time, staring at the dying fire, thinking of all the ways a man could love something enough to let it go.
And how sometimes, that was the only way to make it real.
THIRTY-FIVE
CALLUM
By the timeI made it to the cottage, the sun had already slipped behind the tree line, casting long, lilac-colored shadows over the pumpkin patch. A soft light glowed from the cottage window, golden and warm, like the place itself had a heartbeat. It was the kind of light that made you slow down, the kind that felt like an invitation you didn’t deserve but couldn’t walk away from.
I shifted the paper grocery bags in my hands and knocked with my boot.
The door creaked open. Elodie appeared in the doorway, wearing leggings and an oversize sweatshirt that had a faint streak of paint along the sleeve. Her curls were piled in a messy knot at the top of her head, and her eyes looked tired—but vibrant.
She was still there. Still trying, and that did something to my chest.
“Dinner delivery?” she asked, eyeing the bags with cautious optimism.
“I thought maybe I could cook for you,” I said, holdingup the bags like a peace offering. “Figured you could use a night off—and I could use an excuse to see you.”
Elodie grinned as she stepped aside for me to enter.
The cottage smelled like lavender and something faintly citrusy. A record played low and scratchy in the background—Otis Redding, if I wasn’t mistaken. The air felt thick with something I couldn’t name, like maybe she’d been crying earlier. I shook my head. I was probably just projecting and overly worried about her.
I caught sight of the wall just beyond the dining table and stopped short. Bright Post-it Notes—pink, yellow, green—lined up like tiny soldiers. Scribbled names. Phone numbers. A few were crossed out. Others had full paragraphs crammed onto them in her looping scrawl. Below them, pages from her notebook and a few printed emails sat tacked up like battle trophies.
