Page 19 of A Good Egg

"I built my career on a simple principle," I began, choosing words carefully. "Property is an asset to be leveraged, nothing more. Sentiment clouds judgment and leads to poor decisions."

"Where did you learn that cheerful philosophy?" she asked, her tone softening the sarcasm.

"My parents' divorce court." The admission slipped out before I could censor it. "My father lost everything—the family home, his business, his dignity—because he valued sentiment over legal ownership. My mother's attorney eviscerated him. Mom walked out on us both after the proceedings were finalized. Dad did his best to raise me single-handedly, but he sank into depression and really has never come out of it. Alcohol is his therapist."

Maisie's expression softened. "I'm so sorry. That must have been so difficult for you."

I shrugged, uncomfortable with her sympathy. "It was educational. I learned that attachment creates vulnerability. I promised myself I'd never make the same mistake."

"So you became a corporate realtor who specializes in removing people from their family homes," she observed without heat. "Preemptive detachment."

Her insight was uncomfortably accurate. "I prefer to think of it as helping people transition from properties they can no longer afford to maintain, while creating new spaces that benefit communities."

"A convenient narrative," she remarked, though her tone remained thoughtful rather than accusatory. "Does it usually convince you?"

Under normal circumstances, I might have bristled at her challenge. Instead, I found myself answering honestly. "Most of the time. Until recently."

"What changed?"

I met her gaze, those ocean-blue eyes studying me with unexpected openness. "I met someone whose attachment to property might not be misguided after all. Someone whosedetermination to preserve a legacy makes me question my own certainties."

The implication hung between us, neither of us willing to acknowledge it directly. Maisie looked away first, focusing on her paint-spattered hands.

"My ex-boyfriend thought I was ridiculous for caring so much about this place," she confessed quietly. "He couldn't understand why I'd drop everything to save a 'money pit farm,' as he called it. Said I was throwing away my career for sentimentality."

"Was he the reason you left Starlight Bay originally?" I asked, sensing we were approaching something significant.

She nodded. "Five years ago. I followed him to Boston, convinced myself that building a life with him was more important than my ties here." Her laugh held no humor. "Turns out he didn't share my view on commitment. I caught him with my coworker in our apartment."

"I'm sorry," I said, meaning it. "That's a special kind of betrayal."

"It was educational," she echoed my earlier words with a wry smile. "I learned that some people view relationships as disposable—easily discarded when something newer comes along."

The parallel to my business philosophy wasn't lost on me. "And now you're determined to prove him wrong by saving the property."

"It's not about proving him wrong," she corrected, leaning forward intently. "It's about proving myself right—that some things are worth fighting for, worth sacrificing for. This land has been in my family for generations. It's not just dirt and buildings to us. It's... home."

Home. The concept had always seemed abstract to me—a place to sleep between business trips, nothing more. My apartment in New York was sleek, expensive, and utterly impersonal. I couldn't recall the last time I'd felt the kind of belonging that radiated from Maisie when she spoke of the farm.

"What if you can't save it?" I asked gently. "What if the café doesn't generate enough revenue in time?"

Her expression clouded. "Then at least I'll know I did everything possible. I won't have abandoned it without trying by best." She straightened, squaring her shoulders. "But that's not going to happen. The Little Red Hen will succeed."

Her certainty was admirable, but I knew the accelerated bank timeline made her goal virtually impossible. I knew this yet couldn't bring myself to press the point.

"Why The Little Red Hen?" I asked instead, genuinely curious. "The name, I mean."

Her face brightened. "It was my favorite story as a child. Gram used to read it to me. The little red hen who asks for help planting wheat, harvesting it, grinding the flour, baking bread—but no one will help until it's time to eat. Then suddenly everyone's interested."

"And the moral is that those who don't contribute don't deserve to share in the rewards," I concluded.

"Partly," she agreed. "But I always saw it differently. The hen didn't give up because no one would help her. She did the work herself and created something wonderful."

Like Maisie herself, tackling an impossible renovation against overwhelming odds. The parallel wasn't subtle.

"For what it's worth," I said, surprising myself, "I think you're creating something wonderful here too."

Her cheeks flushed slightly, the color enhanced by the golden evening light. "That's... thank you." She tucked another strand of hair behind her ear. "So where does that leave us, Logan? Are you still determined to acquire our farm for your boss?"

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