Page 9 of A Good Egg

A movement near my feet caught my attention—Henrietta had appeared from around the porch corner, drawn perhaps by the sound of raised voices. She strutted between us, head bobbing with each step, then stopped to investigate Logan Westbrook's highly polished leather shoes.

"What the—" He startled as Henrietta began pecking insistently at his left shoe, apparently fascinated by her own reflection in its gleaming surface.

"That's Henrietta," I informed him, making no move to intervene. "She's our quality control officer. Clearly, she finds something lacking in your presentation."

He took a step back, but Henrietta followed, determined in her assault on his footwear. "Could you perhaps call off your attack chicken?"

The absurdity of watching a man who probably made more in a month than I had in the past year being terrorized by a middle-aged hen was too much. A laugh escaped me before I could suppress it.

"Henrietta," I finally called, "that's enough inspection for today."

To my surprise, the chicken abandoned her target and strutted back to my side, clucking softly as if delivering her assessment:unimpressive, lacking substance, nope—not worth our time.

"Smart bird," I remarked. "She knows an outsider when she sees one."

Logan brushed imaginary dust from his sleeve, attempting to reclaim his dignity. "Charming. Is livestock harassment part of your business model for saving the farm?"

"If necessary." I smiled sweetly. "Now, if you'll excuse us, Mr. Westbrook, we have actual work to do. Work that doesn't involve bullying elderly women into selling their homes."

His jaw tightened. "I don't bully anyone, Ms. O'Malley. I present opportunities. What people do with those opportunities is their choice."

"Well, here's our choice: No. N-O. Not interested. Not now, not ever." I gestured toward his sleek car parked in our driveway. "Feel free to take your 'opportunity' elsewhere."

For a moment, he just looked at me, his expression unreadable. Then, to my surprise, a corner of his mouth twitched upward. "You know, most people would at least read the offer before rejecting it."

"I'm not most people."

"No," he agreed, tucking the envelope back into his jacket. "You're certainly not."

The way he said it—not as an insult but almost as a grudging observation—momentarily threw me off balance. I felt a strange flutter in my chest that I immediately attributed to righteous indignation.

"I'll be in town for a while, Ms. O'Malley," he continued, stepping back. "When reality sets in, my offer will still be on the table."

"Don't hold your breath," I retorted, channeling Gram's phrase from yesterday. "The only thing setting in around here is our resolve to succeed."

"We'll see." He nodded politely, then turned to go. At the bottom of the porch steps, he paused. "By the way, what exactly is your plan for saving this place? I'm curious."

"That's for me to know and you to find out when we've succeeded," I replied, unwilling to reveal our café plans to someone who would undoubtedly try to undermine them.

He studied me for a long moment, and I had the uncomfortable sensation of being assessed, measured, cataloged. "Then I look forward to it, Ms. O'Malley. More than you might expect."

With that enigmatic statement, he returned to his car, the hem of his expensive coat fluttering in the spring breeze. I watched him drive away, Henrietta still squawking indignantly at my feet.

"Don't worry, girl," I murmured, bending to stroke her warm feathers. "We're not going to let that man anywhere near our home."

But as I turned back toward the barn, where Piper and Carter waited to continue our renovations, I couldn't shake the unsettling awareness that Logan Westbrook wasn't what I'd expected. He wasn't a cartoon villain twirling a mustache.He was intelligent, persistent, and—most dangerous of all—convinced he was offering us salvation.

Well, I didn't need his kind of salvation—or anyone else’s for that matter. I’d save the farm, this family legacy, and my own battered heart, all by myself.

Squaring my shoulders, I headed back to the barn. We had a café to build, a farm to save, and a determined corporate realtor—who was unfortunately too handsome for his own good—to prove wrong. Three weeks until Easter. It wasn't much time, but with faith, hard work, and maybe a small miracle, it would be enough.

It had to be.

Chapter Four

Logan

"Westbrook, tell me you've got good news." Victor Sheffield's voice crackled through my phone, sharp with impatience. I held the device away from my ear as I gazed out my hotel room window at Starlight Bay's small harbor, where fishing boats gently bobbed in the morning light.

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