Page 6 of A Good Egg

I checked into the Starlight Inn—a modest but clean establishment with nautical-themed decor and a view of the small harbor that gave the town its name. The elderly proprietor eyed my designer luggage with a mixture of curiosity and disapproval as she handed me the key to Room 7.

"Business or pleasure?" she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.

"Business," I replied. "I'm a real estate developer."

Her smile faded slightly. "Well, there's not much to develop around here, Mr. Westbrook. Most folks like Starlight Bay just the way it is."

"Progress is inevitable," I said with a practiced shrug. "Better to shape it than be steamrolled by it."

She regarded me thoughtfully. "You know, it's almost Easter. Season of miracles and second chances. Even the hardest hearts can crack open, given the right circumstances."

I forced a polite laugh. "I'm afraid I've never been much for religious sentiment, ma'am."

"Doesn't have to be religious to be true." She pushed a pamphlet across the counter. "Town's Easter Festival starts next week. Might give you a different perspective on what matters around here."

I took the pamphlet to be polite but had no intention of attending quaint small-town festivities. I was here for one reason only: to acquire the O'Malley property and secure my future with Sheffield & Associates. Distractions were irrelevant to that goal. The O'Malley farm would be mine—or rather, Sheffield & Associates'—by Easter. The old woman would eventually see reason, especially once the financial pressure intensified.

And if she didn't? Well, I hadn't earned my reputation by giving up easily. Everyone had a price, a pressure point, a weakness that could be leveraged. I just needed to find Nora O'Malley's—and perhaps her granddaughter's too.

I glanced at the colorful brochure on the nightstand. Who knew? Perhaps the holiday celebrations would provide the perfect opportunity to gather intelligence and formulate a new strategy.

Setting my resolve, I opened my laptop and began drafting a revised offer letter for the O'Malley property. Victor expected results, and Logan Westbrook did not disappoint. The farm would be ours—it was only a matter of time and tactics, of course.

Chapter Three

Maisie

"Would you look at what the tide washed in?" Piper Summers squealed, dropping the box she was carrying and racing across the barn to envelop me in a fierce hug. "My God, Maisie O'Malley! You didn't tell me you were coming home!"

I returned her embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of coconut shampoo and vanilla perfume that had been Piper's signature since high school. "It was... unexpected."

Piper stepped back, her bright brown eyes scanning my face with the penetrating gaze that had always seen right through me. At five-foot-two, she was shorter than I was, but what she lacked in height she made up for in energy. Today she wore jeans with embroidered flowers climbing up one leg, a bright yellow sweater, and dangling earrings shaped like tiny birds.

"Unexpected like surprise party unexpected, or unexpected like 'my life imploded' unexpected?" she asked, arching a perfectly manicured eyebrow.

"The second one." I picked up a dusty box labeled 'Christmas Decorations' and hauled it toward the growingpile by the door. "I dumped Brad. Or he dumped me. It's complicated."

"Oh, honey." Her expression softened. "He never deserved you anyway."

I managed a smile, grateful for her loyalty. When Gram had called Piper yesterday to ask for help with my "barn project," she'd dropped everything and shown up this morning with coffee, donuts, and her boundless enthusiasm.

"It was for the best," I said, brushing dust from my hands. "Besides, I've got bigger concerns now. Like turning this barn into a functioning café in less than three weeks."

Piper followed my gaze around the cavernous space. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, illuminating decades of accumulated farm equipment, furniture, and miscellaneous junk. We'd spent the morning clearing the central floor space, creating pathways through the clutter. It was progress, but we still had a mountain to scale.

"I still can't believe you're doing this," Piper said, shaking her head. "The Little Red Hen. It's perfect—the name, the concept, everything. I can already see the social media campaign. Hashtag FarmToTable, hashtag StarlightBay..."

"Let's focus on actually building the café before we worry about Instagram," I laughed, heading back for another box.

"But they go hand in hand!" Piper protested, falling into step beside me. "We need buzz, Maisie. Pre-opening excitement. I'm thinking a soft launch over Palm Sunday weekend, then the grand opening for Easter brunch. I already started a Facebook page."

I stopped mid-stride. "You did what?"

Piper's grin was unrepentant. "What? You need customers. I need a project. Win-win."

"But we don't even have—" I gestured helplessly at the barn around us. "Tables! Or chairs, or a working kitchen, or—"

"Details," she dismissed with a wave. "We've got three weeks. That's practically an eternity."

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