Page 113 of Chasing the Sun

It wasn’t just that she looked beautiful. It was that she looked like she belonged. Elodie was still fighting for this place even though every logical reason told her not to. Most people would’ve given up by now—hell, they would’ve packed up and gone the second the will was read.

But Elodie was out there with her hands in the soil, probably whispering soft encouragements to vines like they were old friends or acting like pumpkins needed pep talks and stubborn hope to grow.

She was breaking my damn heart.

I scrubbed a hand over my face and turned away, the backs of my boots crunching through the gravel as I walked. I didn’t want her to see me watching. I certainly didn’t want her to catch the look on my face and realize what it meant.

I was on the cusp of a final decision. I wasn’t exactly certain of the details, but my mind was dangerously close to being made up.

A part of my brain rioted against the only option that didn’t make me ill at the thought of it.

Back at the inn, I moved through the kitchen on autopilot, checking that the sourdough starter hadn’t collapsed, that Levi’s snack stash hadn’t been raided, that the walk-in fridge was holding its temp. Mundane things. Easy things. Things I could control.

The air inside smelled like rosemary and burned sugar from the morning’s failed scone experiment. I opened a window to let in the breeze and leaned on the counter, staring out across the property. From here, you could just barely make out the edge of her pumpkin patch.

My throat tightened.

I’d spent the last five years holding things together—for Levi, for the inn, for the memory of a life that had cracked wide open and never quite healed right. I kept thinking if I just worked harder, if I just stayed steady, the rest would fall into place.

And now?

The opportunity I’d always wanted was sitting in front of me ... and I wasn’t sure I could take it.

Not without the risk of losing her.

Early eveningsat the Drifted Spirit always had a quiet rhythm to them. The lobby glowed with lamplight, warm and familiar. The fire in the hearth crackled low, a soft hiss echoing off polished wood floors. Most guests were coming in from their adventures, stopping in their rooms, and the hum of conversation from the common areas was slowly growing.

JP King didn’t belong here.

He sat in one of the armchairs by the window, his posture straight, phone in hand, a suit sharp enough to slice through the quiet. He looked like a man used to closing deals in boardrooms, not small-town inns. His watch caught the firelight when he reached for his espresso, the gold glinting like it had something to prove.

I crossed the room slowly, wiping my hands on the towel tucked into my back pocket. I hadn’t even had time to change after the day’s work—boots still muddy from a walk around the orchard, shirt clinging to the sweat of midsummer. I probably smelled like cedar and kitchen grease.

He smelled like money.

He stood when I approached, extending a hand like we weren’t already sizing each other up. JP had the kind of cool confidence that screamedmoney. His dark hair was styled neatly, and his eyes were a cloudy bluish-green that added to the confident air about him. The corner of his mouth twitched in a half smile as he extended his hand.

“Callum,” he said smoothly, like he’d already decided I was someone worth investing in.

I shook his hand. Firm. No bullshit.

“Mr. King.”

“JP, please.” He gestured for me to sit, but I stayed standing a beat too long, just to feel the weight of control settle somewhere closer to even. Then I dropped into the chair opposite him, legs wide, arms resting heavy on my thighs.

He wasted no time. “You want to own something. Build it from the ground up. Something with roots.”

I didn’t respond, but let him talk.

“I’ve looked at the numbers. Your concept—a farm-to-table restaurant, built on heritage and sustainability—it’s very smart. Timely. Romantic enough for tourists, real enough for the locals.”

“You got all that from a few conversations over the phone?” I asked, not bothering to hide the skepticism.

JP’s smile didn’t waver. “I make it my business to know potential when I see it. Tower Business Ventures invests in ideas that last, and you’ve got one.”

I leaned back, letting the chair creak under the weight of the moment. “So you’re on board with being a silent partner?”

“I want a stake in something meaningful.” His gaze was sharp and assessing. “I think you want a way to make this dream happen without selling your soul or drowning in loans.” JP set down his cup with precision. “I’ll front the capital. You secure the property. We structure it so you maintain operational control, and my company sees returns over time.”