Page 20 of A Good Egg

The question hung between us, weighted with implications I wasn't prepared to face. My professional obligation remained clear—secure the property by Easter, achieve partnership, advance my career as planned. Yet sitting here, watching twilight shadows play across this stubborn woman’s beautiful face, those objectives felt suddenly hollow.

"I don't know," I admitted, the uncertainty in my voice foreign and frightening. "My entire career has been built on seeing opportunities clearly and pursuing them without hesitation. But this situation..." I gestured vaguely between us.

"Because you think The Little Red Hen has potential?" she asked.

My gaze locked with hers. "Your passion, your vision... it's compelling."

Her eyes widened in surprise, and her lips parted as if to speak. But before she could respond, the side door opened, and Piper's head appeared.

"Sorry to interrupt whatever is happening here," she announced with obvious curiosity, "but Carter needs help unloading the salvaged appliances from his truck."

Maisie stood quickly, the moment broken. "I should go. We have a lot to do if we're going to open by Easter."

I rose as well, suddenly aware of how close we'd been sitting. "Of course. I should get back to town."

As I moved toward the door, she called after me. "Logan? Why did you really come here tonight?"

I turned, considering my answer carefully. "I wanted to see if The Little Red Hen was just a desperate last stand or something with genuine potential." It wasn't the whole truth, but it wasn't entirely false either.

"And your verdict?"

I thought of Victor's instructions to create obstacles, to ensure the café's failure. I thought of my partnership prospects and the career I'd built. Then I looked at Maisie—dirty, exhausted, yet radiating with pride—and knew I couldn't be the one to destroy her dream.

"I think," I said slowly, "that you might just pull off your Easter miracle."

Her smile was worth the professional treason of that assessment. "Careful, Westbrook. You're starting to sound like a believer."

"Don't tell anyone," I replied with a matching smile. "It would ruin my reputation as a soulless corporate shark."

As I drove back to town, the twilight deepening into true night around me, I found myself in unfamiliar emotional territory. For the first time in my career, I was questioning not just a specific deal but my entire approach to business—to life. Maisie's bright energy was like a sun to my ice planet, awakening something dormant within me.

Victor expected me to undermine The Little Red Hen, to ensure the O'Malleys would have no choice but to accept our offer. My career trajectory demanded it. Yet as the holiday approached, I found myself wondering if redemption might take an unexpected form—not in professional advancement, but in helping a fiery-haired café owner achieve the impossible.

The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it filled me with an unfamiliar sensation that took me several miles to identify.

It was hope.

Chapter Seven

Maisie

The official foreclosure notice arrived on a morning that should have been beautiful. April sunshine streamed through the kitchen windows, casting golden rectangles across the worn wooden floor. Birds called cheerfully from the apple trees, now dressed in delicate white blossoms that resembled a dusting of spring snow. The world was busy being reborn while our family legacy faced extinction.

I'd found Gram at the kitchen table, the ominous legal document spread before her, her normally steady hands trembling as she traced the cold, impersonal language that threatened everything we held dear. She looked impossibly small, diminished by circumstances beyond her control.

"I should have been more careful," she whispered, not looking up as I entered. "Your grandfather always handled the finances. After he passed, I just couldn't... I didn't want to..."

I slid into the chair beside her, covering her weathered hand with mine. "This isn't your fault, Gram."

"Of course it is." Her green eyes, usually so bright and determined, were clouded with shame. "Four generations ofO'Malleys kept this farm afloat through depression, war, and drought. I'm the one who let it sink."

"That's not true." I squeezed her fingers gently. "Agricultural economics have changed. Small family farms everywhere are struggling. And after Gramps died, you were grieving. You couldn't be expected to manage everything alone."

"I should have asked for help sooner." She carefully folded the notice along its creases, as if containing its power. "I was too proud. Now look at us—twelve days until we lose everything."

The timing couldn't have been worse. Easter was less than two weeks away, and though The Little Red Hen had made remarkable progress, we were racing against a clock that seemed determined to outpace us. The accelerated timeline—which I still suspected had Logan’s firm’s dirty fingerprints all over it—had turned our ambitious plan into a dream that was quickly disappearing.

Yet looking at Gram's defeated posture, I couldn't voice my doubts. For her sake, I had to project absolute confidence.

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