Page 13 of A Good Egg

As she turned to leave, I found myself reluctant to end our interaction. "Maisie," I called after her. "For what it's worth, I hope your café is a success."

She looked back, skepticism clear in her expression. "Even though that would mean losing your deal?"

"I didn't say I was rooting against my own interests," I clarified with a small smile. "Just that what you’re doing deserves recognition."

She studied me for a long moment, as if trying to decode some hidden meaning in my words. "Goodbye, Logan," she finally said, neither warm nor cold. Then she was gone, the bell above the door jingling in her wake.

I returned to my seat, unsettled by the encounter in ways I couldn't fully articulate. I should have been strategizing, looking for weaknesses in her plan, calculating how to use the new intel to my advantage. Instead, I found myself dwelling on the way her eyes brightened when she spoke about the café, the passionate conviction in her voice, the musical quality of her laugh.

This was dangerous territory. I'd learned long ago that mixing personal feelings with business led to disaster. There was no such thing as true love, anyway. That was only a fairytale told to children too young to know better.

Yet as I nursed finished the last of my sandwich, I couldn't stop thinking about The Little Red Hen and its fierce creator. What she hoped to accomplish in the next few weeks was simply impossible. The paperwork, the renovations, the equipment installation—it was an uphill battle against both bureaucracy and physics.

Which meant that after Easter, when reality set in and their miracle failed to materialize, the O'Malleys would face the same choice: sell to me or lose everything to the bank.

The thought should have satisfied me. It was the most likely outcome, the path to securing my partnership. Yet instead of triumph, I felt a strange hollowness, as if victory might somehow be defeat in disguise.

I paid my bill and stepped outside, decision made. I needed to see that barn for myself—assess the scale of renovation required. It was just due diligence, I told myself. Nothing to do with my growing fascination with a certain redheaded entrepreneur.

As I walked toward my car, I glanced at the Easter decorations adorning the storefronts. I'd always viewed such sentiments as greeting card platitudes, empty comfort for those who needed to believe in miracles.

Yet something stirred within me at the thought—a long-dormant spark of what might have been hope, or perhaps merely curiosity. Could people truly start again? Could broken things be made whole?

My phone buzzed with Victor's number on the display. I silenced it, postponing the inevitable demands for progress. As I drove toward the outskirts of town, planning my reconnaissance of the O'Malley farm, I couldn't quite convince myself that my interest was purely professional anymore.

Chapter Five

Maisie

The barn echoed with the rhythmic pounding of Carter's hammer as afternoon sunlight streamed through the newly cleaned windows, catching dust motes that danced in golden shafts. After nearly a week of back-breaking work, The Little Red Hen was beginning to take shape. We'd cleared decades of accumulated farm equipment and junk, reinforced the support beams, and installed new electrical wiring—Carter pulling strings with the town inspector to expedite permits that would normally take weeks.

"I think this corner would be perfect for the display case," Piper declared, gesturing expansively with a paint roller. She had a streak of "Sunrise Yellow" across her forehead, somehow managing to look fashionable despite being covered in paint splatter. "Clear glass front, rustic wooden frame. We'll arrange your pastries like edible works of art."

I nodded, mentally calculating costs as I sorted through a box of salvaged kitchen equipment. We'd scoured restaurant supply auctions and second-hand stores, stretching every dollar of my meager savings. "Maybe we could repurpose some ofGram's old canning jars for cookie displays," I suggested, lifting a dented but functional stand mixer.

"Brilliant!" Piper beamed. "Vintage farm chic is totally on-trend."

From her perch atop a hay bale in the corner, Henrietta clucked what sounded suspiciously like approval. She'd appointed herself supervisor of our renovation, strutting importantly between workstations and pecking disapprovingly at anything she deemed substandard. Currently, she was eyeing Carter's toolbox with professional interest.

"Don't even think about it, feather-face," Carter warned, pointing a screwdriver in her direction. "Last time you reorganized my nails by pecking them onto the floor."

I laughed, grateful for these moments of lightness amid the overwhelming pressure. The café still needed floors refinished, walls painted, plumbing completed, kitchen equipment installed, furniture acquired, menus planned, permits finalized—all within two weeks before Easter. Sometimes when I lay awake at night, the impossibility of it crushed the breath from my lungs.

"Break time," Piper announced, setting down her roller. "I brought lemonade."

We gathered around a makeshift table—a piece of plywood balanced on sawhorses—and Piper poured tart lemonade into paper cups. Carter wiped his brow with a bandana, his weathered face etched with fatigue he tried to hide.

"You're working too hard," I told him, guilt twisting in my stomach. "You should take tomorrow off."

He shook his head stubbornly. “Got nothing better to do." His eyes crinkled with unexpected tenderness. "Your grandpaloved this barn. Used to talk about turning it into something special someday."

"Guess I'm fulfilling his dream," I murmured, throat tightening.

"You're building your own dream too, honey. Nothing wrong with that."

As we finished our lemonade, I excused myself to hunt for more storage boxes in the hayloft. The wooden ladder creaked as I climbed, emerging into the dusty space where sunlight filtered through cracks in the aged roof. The musty scent of old hay and wood surrounded me as I began sifting through stacked crates.

A faded shoebox caught my eye, tucked behind a beam. Curious, I pulled it out and removed the lid, only to find myself staring at a collection of photographs—mementos of my relationship with Brad. There we were, smiling at a Red Sox game, embracing on a harbor cruise, cooking together in our Boston apartment. Five years of my life, preserved in glossy 4x6 rectangles.

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