Page 32 of Your Place or Mine

“Good,” she said. “Because neither am I.”

I sighed. “Look, I just… She’s trying to take away the charm of this town. Dress it up like something it’s not. Make it shiny and marketable. Reckless River doesn’t need a facelift. We don’t need more visitors.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Riley raised both eyebrows. “Huh. If you say so.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s it? If you say so?”

She pointed to the ceiling. “Have you looked up lately?”

I tilted my head, reluctantly following her finger.

There it was. The same brown water stain that had been there since last fall. Probably from the same leak that left a permanent ring on the cabinet above the fridge. The tile was sagging slightly now, the edge curling like it was embarrassed to still be hanging on.

“That’s not charm, Callum,” Riley said, voice soft but firm. “That’s rot. That’s patchwork. That’s me ignoring it because I’ve been doing this alone for a long time and couldn’t afford to fix it, and you know the Ludlowes weren’t in a position to keep this place how it neededto be.”

I didn’t have a response for that.

She shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong. I like the soul of this town. But soul and decay aren’t the same thing. If someone wants to help, maybe don’t assume she’s trying to tear it all down.”

I looked away, jaw tight.

She didn’t press.

Riley wasn’t like that. She just handed me a napkin and nodded toward the door.

“Go stomp around outside if you have to, but maybe think about whether you’re protecting the town… or just your pride.”

I took my coffee, muttered a half-hearted thanks, and stepped back out onto the sidewalk.

The breeze had picked up, rustling the hanging flower baskets along the awning's edge. A couple of kids with helmets rode by on their bikes, one of them shouting something about jellybeans and dinosaurs. The usual morning chaos of a sleepy little town that pretended it didn’t care about much but knew everyone’s birthdays and which dog belonged to which porch.

I leaned against the building, took another sip of coffee, and stared down the street.

Of course, I didn’t see her.

That would’ve made too much sense…her waltzing back up to deliver another smug remark or offer me a dandelion.

Still, I looked for her.

A flicker of a denim jacket, a bounce of dark curls, that quick little smirk she had when she was holding back something clever.

Nothing.

And I shouldn’t have been looking anyway. I wasn’t ready to even think about the opposite sex.

Just my luck, I’d have to run into her later when I was elbow-deep in grease or hauling kegs, and she’d comment onrustic authenticitywhile I pretended not to care that her eyes lingered for half a second too long.

I shifted my weight and looked down at the sidewalk. A crack split one of the squares clean down the middle. Someone had stuffed a penny in it, right between the lines. Probably a kid.

Probably someone who hadn’t yet figured out how complicated it could be to care about a place so much it hurt.

I did care. That was the whole damn problem.

This town had roots. People with history. Businesses that held each other up when times got hard. The Rusty Stag wasn’t just a bar. It was a living room for the whole damn town. And yeah, the floors creaked and the lights flickered when someone ran the microwave too long, but itmeantsomething.

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