1. Caroline

"No offense," Cade says. "But you look like someone just served you a shit sandwich and asked for a tip, Miss Prince."

"Thank you for that, Cade," I say with forced sweetness. "That's really helpful to hear."

He's on a ladder in the middle of the bed and breakfast's kitchen. He ducks his head out from the hole in the ceiling, which is currently dripping water from a toilet upstairs. Cade gives me a crooked, youthful smile. He's fourteen, a troublemaker, and cocky. But he's also handy and much cheaper than his dad, the town's local mechanic. He rests his forearms on the top of the ladder, looking down at me. I'm pretty sure the water dripping from his chin is toilet water.

Ick.

"So?" he says. "What's got you so blue?"

I fold my arms and stare up at him. "Other than the toilet water dripping all over my kitchen right now, you mean?"

"Right," Cade says.

"I've got a pair of elderly troublemakers masquerading as employees out in the lobby trying to rip off my guests in a rigged game of bingo," I say, holding up my thumb. I raise a forefinger. "I'm blessed with a regular guest who can't seem to stay with us for more than two days before he violently clogs a toilet," I add, nodding to the leak. "Oh, and I just let a young couple sneak a dog into their room this morning because they put it in a stroller and hoped I wouldn't notice. I'll probably be cleaning up pee from the carpets in a few days."

"That's it?" Cade asks.

"Oh, no," I say calmly. "I was just catching my breath. I also have a two-month-old baby sleeping in my room right now who could wake up at any moment screaming for my boobs. And let me tell you something, Cade. My boobs hurt. You know those guys at the end of marathons with bloody stains from chafed nipples? That's how it feels. Except they don't have to wake up in the middle of the night and have those bloody, chafed nipples sucked on."

Cade is grinning wide. "Boobs," he says. "Nice."

I glare. This is what happens when you vent to teenagers. "Really?"

"Hey, I'm practically a child, Miss P." He says with a shrug. Then he looks around, leaning in a little and lowering his voice. "Speaking of which, I'm pretty sure you paying me for all this stuff is some kind of herpes violation or whatever. But it's cool. I know how to keep things on the down-low. Like your bloody nipples? Won't tell a soul."

I shake my head. "It's HIPAA. And that's not… just, no."

He shrugs, then gestures to the ceiling. "You need new pipes, by the way. Badly."

Now, I'm the one who feels like a child because his reference to my rusty, desperately in need of attention "pipes" feels like an all-too-accurate innuendo.

He gestures to the ceiling. "Yep," he says, nodding to himself. "Rusted and old. Really it's kinda sad. You see it a lot in these old buildings. The pipes just get forgotten about for years. ‘Course, the old stuff they made them from isn't like that new stuff. Everybody wants the new stuff, so you get people just wanting to knock down the whole damn building and put up something fresh and less old."

I'm staring at him now. Is he talking about the bed and breakfast or me?

"I'd suggest the new PEX stuff."

"Right," I say, feeling half-dazed. Things aren't that bad with me, right? "That's sounds expensive."

Cade nods, eyebrows raised. "Oh, yes, ma'am. Definitely. Job like that is beyond my pay grade, too. I can get the leak stopped up. But you're gonna want to get the pipes changed out soon. Could pretty much go to shit any day now."

"Great. Thanks, Cade."

"Yup. Hey, can you give me like sixty bucks for this? I've got a date tonight, and I'm strapped."

"Yeah," I say with a sigh. "Give me a few minutes."

I glance down at the baby monitor in my hand. Walker is asleep in his crib with his dinosaur lovie draped over his arm. He sleeps like he just landed from an explosion–limbs sprawled and legs splayed. It never fails to make me grin.

Even with everything on my mind this morning, I still get that earth-shattering flutter of emotions when I realize for the thousandth time that it's real. I'm actually a mother. That little guy on the baby monitor is my little guy. Even if things with Walker's dad didn't go how I would've hoped, I still wouldn't change a thing–not if it meant losing Walker. He's everything to me. I wouldn't have believed you could love someone or something so much until I had him. Honestly, I'm practically convinced he's all I need. Why even bother with big, frustrating, full-sized men? Why can't I just love my baby and call it a day?

An unwelcome voice in the back of my head doesn't realize the question is rhetorical. Because deep down, you're still hurting, it whispers. Deep down, you're just scared to care about someone again because you don't believe they'll care about you back. And now you know the stakes are higher because you don't want your son to grow up watching his mother bounce from unsuccessful relationship to unsuccessful relationship.

I conjure a mental image of myself blowing a raspberry at that inner voice.

This is probably what crazy feels like. Voices in my head, and I'm blowing raspberries at them? Great. But I chalk it up to new mommy brain and a lack of sleep, among other things.

I shake my head, put on a bright smile, and focus on the day at hand. The world has been nice enough to serve me a heaping plate of too much shit to deal with already. I don't need to go asking for seconds and thirds.

The plumbing issue is being taken care of. The couple with the "baby" got to make it to their room, thinking they'd pulled a fast one, even though I love animals too much to have turned their secret pets away. And the senior hooligans in the lobby are about to get an earful.

It's under control. As long as you don't mind defining "under control" as slapping that infomercial "flex tape" stuff on a raging water leak.

Thankfully, I've always thrived with the pressure. The more there is to do, the better. And there's always plenty to do when you own and operate a bed and breakfast in a small town. Especially when your building is over a hundred years old and constantly trying to fall apart under your nose.

In the lobby, I confront a few of my guests who have been cornered by Grams and Edgar. Grams is my best friend, Mia's grandmother, and Edgar is her elderly lover. I made the mistake of asking them to cover for me at work once so I could see my brother's NHL game. Ever since, they've started showing up at the BB whenever they can. They think they're helping, but mostly, they just cause trouble and terrorize my guests.

"Leave them alone," I say to Grams. I don't need to hear what's going on to know Grams is trying to scam them out of money in a rigged Bingo game. Grams is eighty-something, stooped over with bent posture, sports a happy poof of white hair, and has the energy of a toddler on Halloween.

"I'm just making sure they know there's money to be made," Grams says. She's using her "innocent old lady" voice, I see. "Edgar and I over there aren't that good at Bingo. We just enjoy the fun of it."

"Bingo isn't a skill, Grams," I tell her for the hundredth time. "And nobody should play with you," I say, raising my voice. "Since you two tape the games and rig it from the start to steal people's money."

Grams throws up her arms in frustration and lets down the act. The guests she was trying to convince all give her the stink eye and head out. Most of them are dressed to ski, which is usually why people book rooms here this time of year.

"That was some bullshit, and you know it," Grams complains. The little, sweet old lady voice is gone now.

"I'm not going to let you rob my guests," I say simply.

Grams grins. "Well, I can at least respect your trying to have their backs. But you can't always watch them."

"I could just kick you and Edgar out."

Edgar turns in his seat, raising his palms. "Who would do all the helpful things we do around here, wise guy?" He's around Grams' age with a thick New York accent. "I saved that fuckin' batch of biscuits just the other mornin'. The lack of salt and butter was criminal."

"Nobody's ever minded my biscuits," I say, feeling just a touch defensive. What's wrong with my biscuits?

"No," Edgar agrees. "But they have never raved about them like they raved about mine, have they?"

I glare with my fists on my hips. Edgar works at the local fine dining restaurant, Taste, and admittedly has a way with food I can't quite match. "Fine," I say. "You're right. I can't imagine how I would manage to harass and annoy my guests at all hours of the day without you two around. And who could I find to rush outside and shake their fist if someone drives by on a loud motorcycle?"

Edgar actually looks offended. "You tellin' me you want them assholes makin' all that noise? They're lucky it's only my fist shakin'."

"She's just too stubborn to admit she needs us," Grams says. "Don't listen, Daddy."

I groan. "Please stop calling Edgar ‘daddy,' or I will find a way to block TikTok on your phone. You watch way too many thirst trap videos for anybody, let alone an old lady. I'm pretty sure your lubrication department tried to retire decades ago."

"Old lady, my ass," Grams says. "I'll be wet and ready till the day I–"

"Oh my God," I say, halfway between horror and amusement. I put my hands over my ears and shake my head like a dog trying to get something out of its ear. "Nope. No. I didn't hear those words, and I will purge them from my memory."

I can still see Grams' mouth moving as I leave her and Edgar to their nonsense in the lobby. I go to my bedroom to get money for Cade.

I catch myself in the mirror, noticing I look just a touch like a train hit me. I take two seconds to try to tame down my hair, realize it's pointless, and lean over Walker in his crib to check on him. I know I always have the baby monitor with me, but I still like to swing by and lay eyes on him every ten or twenty minutes, just to be sure.

I've learned that babies sleep way more than I expected. If it wasn't for him keeping me up at all hours of the night, I'd almost go as far as saying it was an easier job than people make it out to be. Well, that, and the hormones, the unexpected difficulties of breastfeeding, the diaper explosions, and constantly needing to slip away for feedings. Okay, yeah. Babies aren't really that easy, but I love the crap out of him.

"You're lucky you're so cute," I say softly as I look down at his sleeping form.

I kiss his forehead, smile, and then dig out some twenty-dollar bills from my wallet to pay Cade for his help. I pause in front of the framed picture of my mom hanging by the door inside my bedroom. There's a familiar weight in my chest when I look at it.

It's a picture of her hugging me from behind. She has both arms around me, and she's beaming wide. I'm trying not to smile in the picture, but it's obvious how much I love her and how much she loves me. It's my favorite picture of us, but it never fails to make me feel the weight of responsibility she left on my shoulders when she passed away.

My mom was this town. Frosty Harbor orbited her like the planets orbit the sun, and I know I'll never be able to replace what she was to everybody here, but I also know I'm not going to forgive myself if I don't at least try.

So I wake up early every morning, just like she did. I start the day with homemade breakfast for my guests, schedule fun games and events for the bed and breakfast and the town, and make sure I'm always doing it all with a smile. I do it all because that's what my mom did and what she would still be doing here if life was fair and hadn't taken her away from us before it was her time.

"You don't need to worry, Mom. I've got this. And now I've got Walker, just like you had me." I look sadly toward his crib, feeling the fresh sting of wishing my mom could meet him so much it physically hurts. But I know I will love him enough to cover for both of us, and I will make every moment count because I know sometimes parents don't get to choose how much time they have with their kids.

I kiss my fingertips, press them to the picture, smile softly, and then head back to the lobby. Maybe my life isn't perfect. And maybe one particular mistake in recent memory looms above everything else. But I'm doing my best, and that's what I'll keep doing as long as I'm breathing. If nothing else, I can be proud as hell of that.

My smile fades when I see a man in a suit waiting by the front door.

I don't have any check-ins left for today, but it's not completely unheard of for someone to walk in and ask for a room. I put my fist on my hip. "Hey there. You're in luck. We've got one vacant room, assuming you're okay with mountain views and the most powerfully flushing toilet in the whole building."

"Bullshit," Edgar coughs. "I clogged that toilet last week. It was barely even a turd, too. I'd suggest you get yourself a good poop knife if you plan to use that john."

I know I shouldn't engage, but I turn toward Edgar. "What the hell is a ‘poop knife'?"

Edgar shrugs. "It's what it sounds like. Look it up if you want. I ain't gonna explain the birds and the bees or poop knives to you. I ain't your daddy."

I give him a hard glare, then smile back at the man in the suit. "Sorry about him. The toilet is fine. I promise."

"I'm actually here to talk with Caroline Prince." The man is a little taller than me, but so is just about everybody on the planet. His dark hair is slicked back with too much product, and he has a somewhat weak chin. There's a badger-like quality to his eyes, which I have to admit I don't like.

And then it hits me.

I know him.At least I did.

I lift a finger; eyebrows furrowed in remembrance. "Peter Ralmadue, right? We had an English class together, I think." I'm smiling now, even though there's an uneasiness about him I can't quite shake.

His smile is one-sided and a little bit slimy. "I didn't think you'd remember me."

"You wanted to talk? What's up?"

"You may want to sit down for this."

I arch an eyebrow but lead him to my mini office in the kitchen. I give Cade the money when we enter. He thanks me, gives Peter a suspicious look, and then leaves the two of us alone.

Peter follows me and sets down a thick folder on the table between us, waiting for me to sit and settle before he continues.

I sit at my little kitchen desk, where I sometimes check in guests, and motion for Peter to sit across from me.

"What's this about?" I ask once he's seated.

Peter opens his folder, pulls out a very old-looking document, and turns it toward me so I can see. It looks like some kind of deed of sale from the Middle Ages. "Recognize this?" he asks.

"Should I?" I'm halfway scanning the document and not understanding why Peter would have a deed with the bed and breakfast's address on it. I recognize my great-great grandmother's signature on it, though. There's another signature with the last name "Ralmadue."

Peter is grinning, and it's not a friendly grin. "I can let you read if you'd like, or I can cut to the chase."

My smile is tight. I'm already pretty certain I don't like this man or where this is going. "Why don't you summarize for me? Then I'll read," I say in an overly sweet voice.

"You turn thirty-five in six months. Section B, article 12 here," Peter says, pointing. "Clearly states that I'm obligated to inform you six months before the execution of this document. Today is six months, and this is your notice."

"Inform me of what?" I ask through my teeth.

"In short, you have six months to get married, or you violate our dearly deceased ancestor's contract regarding this building. If you're not married in six months, the property reverts back to my family's possession, and I'll be within my rights to sell it, demolish it, or whatever else I may please."

I take a few seconds to compose myself, blink, and then plaster a bewildered smile on my face. "I'm sorry. What? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

"I'd be happy to fill you in on the history. If you'd like."

I raise my eyebrows. "Let's do that." Mostly, I'm just stalling because my head is spinning.

"My great-great-grandfather, James, and your great-great-grandmother, Beatrice, were involved romantically. James only agreed to sell this building to Beatrice because she led him to believe it would be the next step in their relationship. But Beatrice tricked him and refused to talk to him once the sale was completed. James suspected something like this might happen, so he worked a few contingencies into the original contract. The relevant one here is the marriage clause. If any member of the Prince family wasn't married by the age of thirty-five, they would pass the ownership of this building back to my family. Beatrice was your age at the time, and James believed his romantic gesture would compel her to see reason and accept his proposal to avoid losing the building. In one last dirty trick, she found a man to marry her at the last hour, kept the building for herself, and stole it from my family."

I shake my head. I want to tell him this is all complete nonsense, but bits and pieces of the story sound familiar to something I remember my mom telling me when I was younger. I also know my mom talked about how she never had real plans to marry but suddenly changed her heart when she was thirty-four. "This is insane. There's no way this is still legally binding." My words are strong, but there's less conviction in them then I'd like. My stomach is heavy and twisted. I keep thinking about Walker back in my room in his little crib for some reason. I have an almost overwhelming urge to go pick him up and cuddle him close to me–to assure him that Mommy isn't going to let this man take away our building and our livelihood. Or worse, demolish it and plant some kind of commercial monstrosity in the center of the little town I love.

"I'm afraid it is, Caroline. I spent the last twelve years in law school, and–"

I stifle a laugh. "Isn't law school supposed to take like seven years?" Mostly, I'm just mad now. I want to sting him, even if it's only a bee sting next to the bullet wound he just finished putting straight through my heart. Married? In six months, no less? It's literally impossible.

Peter's face goes red and he pulls the contract back to his side of the table, closing the folder. "There's an official record of this document in the county registrar's office. You"re free to look if you'd like to see it for yourself. And if you'd like to waste your money, you're welcome to hire your own legal counsel to confirm this contract is, in fact, legally binding." He stands up, adjusts the button on his suit, and gives me a cold smile. "I look forward to taking back what's rightly mine. If you need a recommendation for good movers, I hear there's a budget-friendly crew in town, so long as you don't mind them dinging and scuffing your things a bit."

I put on my best customer service smile and quietly try to figure out if I could get away with murdering Peter and stuffing him in the cellar.

He matches my smile with pure slime, nods, and walks out of the building.

I flop back down into my chair. For once, I wonder if I might have finally found myself in a mess I can't find my way out of. Because how the hell would I get a husband in six months? I've kind of been trying to find one for most of my adult life and haven't managed it.

I rest my face in my hands and rack my brain for ideas, but nothing comes.