Page 11 of Forty, Flirty & Fall Inn

TERMS AND CONDITIONS APPLY

SAGE

The phone starts ringing at seven AM sharp, cutting through the October morning quiet like a caffeinated rooster with boundary issues.

I stumble from the office couch where I spent the night—Buttercup curled up in her makeshift pen beside me—and grab the front desk phone before it can wake half the county.

"Cascade View Inn, this is?—"

"Sage Winters, you little minx!"Eleanor Fitzgerald's voice booms through the receiver with the enthusiasm of someone who's been awake for hours plotting."I just saw Mira's Instagram post.When were you going to tell us about your billionaire boyfriend?"

I nearly drop the phone."My what?"

"Don't play coy with me, dear.Luke Sterling?The man from TechCast magazine?The one who's apparently spending intimate midnight moments in your lobby?"

Through the lobby windows, I can see the morning sun trying to break through the lingering rain clouds, casting everything in that pale, washed-out light that makes the mountains look like a watercolor painting.

It should be peaceful.Instead, it feels ominous.

"Eleanor, it's not?—"

"I'm calling an emergency breakfast meeting at the diner.Sarah's already working on a special menu for couples.We need to strategize how to maximize this publicity for the whole town."

The line goes dead.

I stare at the phone for a moment, then set it back in its cradle just as it immediately rings again.

"Cascade View Inn?—"

“SAGE.”

My older sister Harper's voice is sharp enough to exfoliate.

“Claire just sent me screenshots from the Alder Ridge Facebook page.Care to explain why you’re playing pajama peekaboo with Seattle’s hottest CEO in the middle of your lobby?”

“Can I explain?Technically, yes.Will you let me?Probably not.”

“I can’t believe you did it.You actually got him out there.”Claire joins the verbal ambush—eight months pregnant, breathless, and clearly mid-scroll.“What he’s like?Is he tall?Does he smell good?He looks like he smells good.”

“He smells…fine.And,” I inch closer to the receiver, “it would help if you could keep your voice down.I’m not exactly trying to broadcast it.”

Harper snorts.“Trying to broadcast what, Sage?The fact that you pimped yourself out on an app to trap a billionaire?”

“I’m not pimping anything.I’m managing a situation.And I swear to God,” I whisper into the phone, “one of you texts this to Aunt Marcy and I’m deleting you from the family tree.”

“Relax, no one’s texting Marcy,” Harper says, not even a little convincingly.

“She’s already in the Facebook comments,” Claire adds.“She said, and I quote, ‘Sage always did like a man in glasses.’”

I cover my face with my hand.“Jesus take the whole damn wheel.”

The groan I make is covered by the sound of footsteps outside the office.

I turn at the sound of footsteps—measured, deliberate—as Luke Sterling descends the main staircase like a perfectly curated press release in motion.

Dark-haired with threads of silver.Broad-shouldered.Sharp angles softened just enough to be dangerous.

He's every inch the Seattle CEO prototype: expensive watch, perfectly rumpled button-down, and the kind of quiet confidence that usually hides a portfolio of red flags.