Page 19 of Middle Ground

When I make it back to Fraisier Creek after my dinner with my mom, I stop at home to feed my cat, then trek across the path to the main building to make my rounds of the inn.

Trystan, the manager in charge of the hotel aspect of the business, mans the front desk again this evening. I compliment him on the new pin tacked to his lanyard—a heart the colours of the bi flag.

I then swing by the restaurant. Even though it’s only been a day, Pippa has already transitioned gracefully into her role as manager here, just as I knew she would. She’s not working tonight, but the staff are keeping things running smoothly.

I always feel a bit uneasy leaving this place, like as soon as I drive out of the parking lot, a sinkhole will open and swallow the inn whole. I wonder if this is how parents feel when they start letting their children have bits of independence. It’s not a pleasant feeling, which is why I barely leave.

As I’m just about to head inside my office, a thought occurs to me. I catch myself on the doorframe and stick my head back out. When Trystan finishes up with a guest, I call his name.

“Have you seen Mr. Vaughan?”

We haven’t said anything official to the employees yet, but Pippa has been in the loop since the beginning, so it only seemed fair to bring Trystan in, too.

It doesn’t take long for news to spread in Fraisier Creek, especially when you have an argument as loud as ours on Sunday. By now, I’m sure everyone and their mother hasheard some version of the latest development, but only Pippa and Trystan know the full truth.

Trystan shakes his head. “Not since he was down for breakfast this morning.” He glances at the computer and clicks a few buttons. “Looks like he checked out.”

Huh.

I nod, my thoughts whirring. “Thanks.”

When I fall into the chair behind the desk, I try to focus on the paperwork crowding the surface in front of me. Instead, all I can think about is Jackson.

Why did he leave? He seemed very intent on making my life miserable by inserting himself into the inn’s operations, so where did he go?

Not having to face him today means that my pride has undoubtedly been spared a blow. I remember everything about our interaction last night, and there is no doubt that he does, too. The last thing I need is his smug reminder. Yet I still find myself oddly disappointed by his absence.

“Stupid Jackson Vaughan,” I mutter.

Even when he’s not here, he’s messing with my life. With my head. I’ve been wanting nothing more than for him to leave, and now that he has, I question it?

My office door clicks open, and then Trystan pokes his head in. “Sorry, did you say something, Meyer?”

I wave a hand. “Just talking to myself. Don’t worry about it.”

He holds up a piece of paper and approaches my desk with it. “After you walked away, I remembered this was left out front for you earlier.”

“Thanks, Trys.”

When he leaves, I unfold the paper.

My cheeks heat. For one, because I find the slight messiness of his scrawl kind of endearing. But mostly because he has a penchant for figuring out exactly how to burrow his way under my skin. To press on the bruise that is just beginning to fade.

I crumple the note and toss it toward the wastebasket. It circles the rim and promptly falls to the floor. A fitting metaphor for my life. I slump in my seat, utterly defeated.

Stupid Jackson Vaughan.

CHAPTER 8

MEYER

Five days.

Jackson hasn’t shown his face infivedays. I keep telling myself that’s a good thing—I don’t need said stupid face distracting me from my work—but I can’t shake the anxious feeling. Like I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Mom was right when she said I’m not a fan of change. Especially when it comes to the inn. What we have going right now is working—ithasbeen working for as long as my mother was in charge.

Letting Jackson come in and disrupt that flow, potentially to the detriment of the business I love with everything I have, is nerve-wracking, to say the least.