Page 14 of A Good Egg

I sank down on a crate, a familiar hollowness expanding in my chest. The betrayal still stung, but something else gnawed more deeply—the realization that I'd abandoned my family's legacy to follow a man who'd never truly valued me. I'd put Brad's ambitions above my own, above my grandparents' needs, convinced that sacrificing for love was noble rather than naive.

A tear splashed onto a photo where we posed on the Cape Cod beach, not ten miles from where I now sat. I'd been home for a vacation, and he'd come reluctantly, complaining about sand in his designer shoes and the lack of decent restaurants. The signs had been there all along—I just hadn't wanted to see them.

"Everything happens for a reason," Gram always said. Maybe my heartbreak had been necessary, forcing me back to where I truly belonged. With sudden resolve, I gathered the photographs and stuffed them back in the box. The past was finished. I wouldn't waste another moment mourning what I'd lost when there was so much to rebuild.

I was descending the ladder, empty-handed but lighter-hearted, when my phone buzzed. Balancing precariously, I fished it from my pocket and felt my stomach drop at the caller ID: First Bank of Cape Cod.

"Hello?" I answered, stepping off the final rung.

"Ms. O'Malley? This is Arthur Jenkins from First Bank. I'm calling about your grandmother's mortgage situation."

I moved outside, away from the hammering and Piper's cheerful chatter. The spring afternoon had turned cool, a brisk breeze carrying the scent of sea salt and emerging blossoms. "Yes, Mr. Jenkins. We're planning to make a significant payment after Easter. Our new business venture—"

"That's why I'm calling," he interrupted, his voice professionally detached. "There's been a change in your timeline. Our loan committee reviewed the case yesterday and accelerated the schedule due to the extended arrears."

My fingers tightened around the phone. "Meaning what, exactly?"

"You'll need to bring the account current by April 20th—the Monday after Easter weekend—or we'll be forced to begin formal foreclosure proceedings immediately."

"But that's—" I calculated frantically. "That's only giving us one weekend of café revenue. We were counting on at least a month to build momentum."

"I understand this is disappointing," Jenkins continued, sounding anything but sympathetic. "However, your grandmother has been in default for nearly six months. The bank has been more than patient."

A sickening suspicion formed. "Did someone from Sheffield & Associates contact you about our property?"

The slight pause told me everything. "I'm not at liberty to discuss other client relationships, Ms. O'Malley. But I will say that the bank has received inquiries about the property from interested parties."

Fury burned through me. Logan Westbrook was manipulating the bank, accelerating our demise to force our hand. "This is unethical," I hissed. "You can't—"

"The terms were clearly stated in your grandmother's mortgage agreement," Jenkins replied coolly. "April 20th, Ms. O'Malley. I suggest you explore all available options."

The call ended, leaving me trembling with rage and panic. All available options. Translation: sell to Westbrook or lose everything. The café would need to be an instant, overwhelming success—an almost impossible bar to clear for any new business, let alone one cobbled together on a shoestring budget.

I leaned against the barn's exterior wall, fighting back tears of frustration. We'd been set up to fail. And I had no doubt who was behind it.

As if conjured by my thoughts, a sleek black car appeared at the end of the driveway, crunching slowly over gravel. I recognized it immediately—Logan Westbrook's luxury sedan, as polished and presumptuous as its owner. Just like Brad.

Squaring my shoulders, I strode toward the approaching vehicle, determined to confront the architect of our misfortune. The car stopped, and Logan emerged, looking irritatinglyhandsome in charcoal slacks and a light blue button-down with rolled sleeves—his version of "casual," I supposed.

"Before you say anything," he began, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm not here to pressure you."

"Really?" I crossed my arms, fury bubbling dangerously close to the surface. "Because I just got off the phone with the bank. Suddenly our timeline has been cut in half. Curious coincidence, don't you think?"

A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his face. "I didn't—"

"Save it," I snapped. "First you harass my grandmother, then you spy on our plans, and now you're manipulating the bank. What kind of person destroys a family's livelihood and sleeps soundly at night?"

"I had nothing to do with the bank's decision," he insisted, his brow furrowing. “Victor might have made inquiries, but I swear, I didn't ask for any acceleration."

"Victor? Your boss?" I laughed bitterly. "So you're just the hatchet man, not the mastermind. That's supposed to make me feel better?"

Logan ran a hand through his perfect hair, mussing it in a way that would have been attractive if I weren't so furious with him. "Look, I came here to see how the renovations were progressing."

I gestured toward the barn. "Come to circle the carcass? See how close we are to giving up?"

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" My voice rose. "You want to talk about fair? Is it fair that your company is trying to force my grandmother from the only home she’s ever known?"

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