Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

REMINGTON

The next morning, Lawson meets me at the old library, coffee in hand and that same insufferable grin plastered across his face. I ignore it—mostly. I’m here for the town, not him.

I start with the original blueprints of the inn, spreading them across a worn wooden table. “This? This is the Caldwell Inn as it was in 1908.” I trace my finger along the faded ink lines. “My great-grandfather built it from scratch, hauling lumber by hand from the mill just outside town. It wasn’t some luxury getaway back then. It was a place for drifters and travelers to catch their breath, get a warm meal, and rest for a night or two.”

Lawson leans in, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne, but I shove that distraction aside and focus on the story.

Next stop, the docks. “This harbor used to be the lifeblood of Cedar Cove,” I explain, the sea breeze tugging strands of hair loose from my braid. “Boats from all over New England docked here. My grandmother said summer nights used to smell like salt and diesel and frying fish.” I smile at the memory, though it’s not mine to keep. “But it wasn’t just about the boats. It was about community—fishermen sharing stories, their families gathering to help unload the catch.”

He listens, hands in his pockets, looking out over the water. For a second, I wonder if he actually hears what I’m saying—or if he’s just waiting for me to stop talking.

At the town square, I gesture toward the gazebo in the center. “This is where the summer fairs happen. Kids eating cotton candy until they’re sick, old couples dancing to folk bands that can’t quite stay on beat.” I laugh under my breath, a flicker of warmth blooming in my chest. “It’s cheesy, but it’s ours.”

We then wander through Main Street, and I point out the old storefronts. “See that bookstore? My mom used to take me there after school to pick out a new book every week. And the bakery next door? Mrs. Halloway still makes her maple scones from scratch. She’ll tell you they’re secret family recipes, but really, it’s just love and a lot of butter.”

Lawson’s gaze flickers toward me, something unreadable passing through his eyes. “It sounds . . . nice,” he murmurs, almost reluctantly.

“It is nice.” I pause, meeting his gaze. “That’s what you’re missing. You don’t see it yet, but this place? It’s not just a project. It’s people. It’s stories. You can’t just slap a fresh coat of paint on it and call it fixed.”

For a moment, we stand in the middle of Main Street. There’s a stillness between us, like the town itself is waiting to see what he’ll do next. Finally, Lawson exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay,” he says, voice quiet. “I see your point.”

It’s not much. But it’s a start. I have two weeks to show him that this isn’t just some lot to deface and modernize. Nope. It’s an important town with history.