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Bright light suddenly beams directly into my eyes. The sun, dipping low, hits every window in the small downtown with blinding force.

For a moment, I can’t see at all. I spin away from the windows, blinking until my vision returns to normal.

I add buying a set of blinds to my ever-growing to-do list.

But first—Galentine.

I clear my throat. She walks toward me, offering the kind of smile that makes concern rise in my chest. It’s sincere, but with a small, knowing edge. Like there’s a cosmic joke she’s a part of—a joke on me.

No need to worry, I tell myself.What can a woman who talks to buildings possibly know that I don’t?

I hold out a hand to shake, but Galentine launches herself at me in what’s more of an assault than a hug. She smells like peaches and sentimentality as she pins my arms to my body with surprising strength.

“You’re in good hands,” she says, patting my back.

As much as I immediately want to break free, there’s something comforting about her embrace. I can’t remember the last time anyone hugged me. It feels … motherly. Though I don’t have any memories or personal experience to draw from there.

I find myself swallowing hard and blinking away … are thosetears?

Clearing my throat, I manage to grunt out a brusquethank you.

Giving me one last squeeze, Galentine releases me and steps back with a sniffle. I offer her a monogrammed handkerchief from my pocket. Her eyes light up as she takes it, dabbing at her eyes.

“I do like a man who carries a handkerchief,” she says, then laughs. “Don’t worry. You’re too young for me. And I prefer blonds.” She winks.

“Good to know.” I wave her off when she tries to hand the handkerchief back. “Keep it. Please.”

With a wide smile, Galentine tucks it away into her overstuffed purse. I wait to see if the bag’s seams will hold. They do. If anything here is magical, it’s her handbag.

“You’ll find everything you need on the desk in the office, all in order,” Galentine says, waving toward the closed door of the second bedroom, which has served as her work space. “Or … somewhat in order. I have my own filing system.”

She laughs, but I suspect I won’t find it funny once I start going through her records. I only glanced inside the office and the clutter made my blood pressure immediately spike.

“Let me know if you have any questions—though I’ll be on a cruise for the next month.” She gives a little shimmy. “Can’t wait.”

“I’ll be in touch if I need anything.”

I won’t. I can think of very few circumstances in which I would need help from a woman who speaks to buildings.

When I finally lock the door behind her, I lean against it for a moment, eyes closed. Waiting for the sense of relief I always feel when I transition from being around people to being alone.

One second, two, three.

But the constriction in my chest doesn’t ease. If anything, it squeezes tighter. A fist, crushing coal into diamonds. Or just pulverizing stones into dust.

I work to breathe steadily through it, which is usually enough to help me pass through these moments of anxiety, most often brought on by spending too much time with unfamiliar people. Or too many people. Or just … people. Normally, it’s so manageable that it’s hardly an issue. But I should have expected an uptick with so many changes all at once.

It takes me longer than it should to regain some sense of normalcy in my heart rate and breathing.

Eventually, I peel myself off the door, and I wander toward the windows and double doors leading to the balcony. With the sun now out of sight behind the small skyline of Serendipity Springs, a peaceful glow descends. The golden hour, I think photographers call it. And truly, it does soften everything, painting the city in the kindest light.

Serendipity Springs is no New York. Not even comparable. A few blocks of Manhattan could swallow up this small city. But there is something special here—something that drew me to this place.

And no—it wasn’t magic.

I was drawn to the surprisingly robust economy of such a small city and the challenge of turning this historic building into something much greater and more profitable. A small task compared to the real estate empire I run in New York, but Ididwant a change. Something more hands-on. This will certainly bethat.

Maybe a littletoohands on, I think, my lip curling as I think of the air mattress I’ll be sleeping on tonight. A hotel really would have been a better option. Even the basic establishments in this city at least havebeds.