2. CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Holland

"Do not feed him any more scones, Beatrice." I look over at Slate, licking his lips over and over, crumbs still on his snout.

Bea gasps, "Don't full name me!" She points at me, with her free hand, not the one about to give Slate another piece of scone. It did feel odd to say her full name, since she's known me since I was a kid, and she's worked at the lodge for as long as I can remember. I might be 36 years old but Bea keeps the upper hand like she always has.

Slate, the most spoiled French bulldog, whimpers and tilts his head—more effective than any type of puppy dog eyes.

My phone vibrates and I dig it out of my pocket. The lapse in attention has Bea throwing the last piece of peanut butter scone to Slate. I give her a side eyed look while opening my text messages: a selfie of Ivy and Vivian, eating donuts somewhere in the city. Ivy's wearing a smile that reaches her eyes. There's some sort of light in her face whenever she's with Viv. If she's not with me, I'm glad she's with someone like Vivian.

"How's our girl, Ivy?" Bea questions, petting Slate who is now in her lap.

"How do you know it's Ivy?"

"No one else makes you smile like that, one, and two, I don't think anyone else even has your phone number," she jokes.

But she's sort of right.

Me

your sixth sense is finding donuts

Ivy

lol good thing I love them

you know it's the only way I can get to yoga

sugar fiend

what are you doing?

I snap a picture, less blurry than a typical first take, of Bea and Slate sitting outside at the lodge.

Ivy

tell them I love them

"Ivy says she loves you," I say to Bea before petting Slate's ears, "and you too." His soft gray blue fur is like velvet on my hands.

"How's New York?" Bea asks.

"Seems good and by that I mean chaotic, too many people, people who can't drive… typical."

"You're such a grump. You got the girl, and she lives with you out in the middle of the woods." She rolls her eyes. "You should be in a better mood."

It's not lost on me how much my life has changed since meeting Ivy. Definitely for the better. She's a force to be reckoned with, sometimes almost like my very own tornado. She whipped into my life like the quickest of summer storms, and honestly, I wouldn't change a thing.

Wait. That's a lie. I do wish she was here instead of across the country.

"I'm in a fine mood." I tell the lie I've told so many times.

I'm fine . Why does it feel like I can feel my jaw clench even when I'm just thinking about it?

This time, it's something completely different. Something unexpected.

"What are you even doing here? Today's your day off." Bea interrupts my thoughts, just in time.

"I own The Lodge. Do I need a reason?" I press, while looking around the mostly empty sitting area.

Sometimes my place is too empty, especially when Ivy is gone for work. The square feet is small and manageable but it's too quiet—it makes me miss her so much my chest hurts. Per my therapist, the pain is a physical manifestation of anxiety and missing Ivy.

I never went to therapy before meeting Ivy but I've learned a lot. For example, all the times I was feeling like my brain couldn't compute situations or everything was out of control when I was in public or large gatherings, was mostly undiagnosed social anxiety.

When I first started, I'd go once a week and dread getting out of my truck. Instead of scolding me for being late, my therapist would point out that she could see my truck in the parking lot, early, and she'd try to get me to understand why it was difficult to walk into the building.

Now, I see her once a month—prompt and on-time.

"You're the owner, but you now have a very competent general manager and staff who have everything under control."

She's right. I made the decision to hire a general manager last year and Mackenzie has been perfect. Giving up tasks is easier when someone who knows what they're doing is there to help. To be honest, Mackenzie hasn't let me down.

"Wildflower Fiction wants to do a popup event. I'm trying to figure out the best layout and brainstorming some sponsor ideas, things that will bring people here." I take in the spacious patio.

"Bailey! She's such a doll," Bea slaps her hands on her knees. "She has the best book recommendations, plus she gave me my smut for breakfast sticker I love so much."

I give her a side-eye look, "Smut for breakfast? What the hell is smut?"

Bea rolls her eyes like a dramatic teenager. "Smut. You know. Like sexy books." Bea shakes her shoulders, emphasizing the point.

I can't help but laugh. This is the same woman who signed guest room cards with LOL, thinking it meant lots of love. Now she's telling me about smut?

Since hiring Mackenzie, one of the funniest and most capable people I've crossed paths with in the employee sense, I get to work on, well, whatever the hell I want. Lately, I've been involved with small businesses in the community. So far, it's to give them the space to host events, which The Emerald Canopy Lodge has.

"Let me know how I can help with the pop up," Bea says, while setting Slate on the ground. "I'm headed back to the front office. Don't just lurk around here all day. Go do something." She puts her hand under my chin and then points at me, just like a parent would. Her eyes are on my mine, like she's waiting for me to say something.

I almost tell her my secret.

Almost.

But I don't.

I will, probably, but I need to wrap my head around this—figure out what I want.