After getting dressed, I hurry from the east wing and grab my To Do list from Ellen. The first item is a broken drawer behind the front desk.

Just as I reach the lobby, Haley bursts through the front door, her giant purse falling off her arm as she rounds the desk.

“I’m here, I’m here!” she announces to no one, completely out of breath.

Haley has punctuality problems.

Her orange shirt is dotted with dark spots of rain, and her shoes squeak against the wood floor as she rounds the desk. She throws her purse down with a heavy thud, water droplets running down the material in thin rivers, and tucks her thick black hair behind her ears.

“Hey, Levi!” She waves at me even though I’m only a foot away.

I step over her giant bag.

“Hey.” I start assessing the drawer damage as thunder cracks outside and vibrates the front windows.

“Ellen’s not here yet, is she?” She looks around nervously as she clicks on the computer and starts rummaging through things, trying to act like she’s been hard at work for an hour.

“She’s in her office,” I say.

Haley sighs in relief, picks her purse back up, and digs around inside until she comes up with a candy bar. “So… how have you been?”

“Fine.” I remove the drawer and study the broken track.

She takes a bite. “And… how’s the job going?”

“Fine.”

“And… how’s Pixie?”

I frown. “How would I know?”

She shrugs. “You live with her.”

“I don’t live with Pixie.”

“You live by her.”

“Which is not the same as living with her.” I kneel on the ground and start working on the broken track.

“So you don’t know how she is?”

“No.”

A moment passes where Haley takes another bite of her candy and watches me closely. “You know what I think?”

I sigh.

“I think Pixie’s sad,” she continues. “And not because of the whore thing.”

Damn gossip.

Haley says, “I think she’s sad because she misses you.”

I unscrew the broken track with more fervor than necessary. “Nah. I think it’s the whore thing.”

I can feel her eyes searing the back of my neck. “Would that make it easier for you?”

“Make what easier?”

“Missing her.”

I stare at the drawer, cursing small-town nosiness and the uncomfortable conversations it brings, and open my mouth to spew a well-crafted denial—when the fire alarm goes off.

Chaos ensues, and guests start spilling out of their rooms and into the lobby, flustered and excited. Dropping my tools, I rush to the system control box at the back of the lobby and throw open the panel door to see which room triggered the alarm. My heart stops.

The kitchen.

It’s all I can do not to knock guests over as I run that way. If anything happened to Pixie, if something exploded and hurt her, if she got burned—

Oh God. Oh God.

The screaming alarm drowns out all other noise as I skid around corners and through doorways. When I finally reach the kitchen, I see Pixie crouched on the floor with her back to me.

“Pixie!” I don’t think. I just swoop down and pull her into my arms, icy fear shooting through my veins as I turn her to face me.

She looks at me in confusion, covering her ears from the blaring alarm, and it takes a few moments for me to register that she’s not hurt. I look around. No fire. No smoke. She’s fine.

She’s breathing. She’s alive. She has a smudge of something white on her cheek, but otherwise she’s fine.

Her eyes fall to my chest and that’s when I realize I’m clutching her to my body, one hand cradling her head and the other pressed against her back.

She’s fine.

I slowly release her and we both stand. I rub a shaky hand over my mouth.

She must have seen the fear in my eyes because she starts explaining, raising her voice to be heard over the screeching of the fire alarm. “I heard the alarm go off and Mable and I started to leave out the back door, but I forgot to turn off the gas, so I came back in and then I knocked the powdered sugar all over the floor—”

“Pixie!” Mable gives a panicked wave from the back door. “Come outside.”

Outside, I see guests and employees congregating under the gazebo at the back of the field, rain falling steadily on the lavender flowers surrounding them.

Pixie looks at me for a second before moving toward Mable. Once she’s out of the kitchen, my heart starts beating again and I hurry back to the lobby. Ellen is guiding people out of their rooms and to the back doors as Angelo leads everyone to the gazebo.

“Where’s the fire?” Ellen yells over the blaring lobby.

I shake my head. “There isn’t one!”

“What?” She can’t hear me over the alarm and the rushing guests.

I run back to the control panel and disengage the alarm, throwing the inn into silence. As the last of the guests hurry out the back door, I start running around the west wing just in case, looking in every room, sniffing the air. Nothing. I search the dining room, the bathrooms, but there’s no fire anywhere.

As I make my way back to the lobby, I slowly start to relax. There’s no danger. Pixie’s fine.

“What happened?” Ellen asks, standing by the front desk, looking incredibly stressed.

“Something must have tripped the kitchen alarm,” I say. “It was probably the rain seeping into the old wiring system.”

“No fire?” Pixie, who clearly didn’t follow Mable’s orders and join everyone under the gazebo, comes up to Ellen with a concerned look.

“No fire,” Ellen confirms.

My eyes catch on Pixie’s, and we stare at each other. Powdered sugar is still on her cheek. Why is my heart pounding?

“Charity’s on the phone.”

We whip our heads to Haley, who is holding a phone out to Ellen.

“Charity from the alarm company,” Haley quickly clarifies, looking at us apologetically.

“Oh.” Ellen takes the phone and walks away as she answers.

“Good grief, woman! Answering the phones?” Angelo shouts at Haley from the back door. “What, are you trying to give me a heart attack? Get your cute butt out here, where I know you’re safe.”

“I’m coming. Geez.” She hurries toward the door. “I had to get the phone, Ang. It was Charity from the alarm company…” Their voices disappear as the back door closes.

And then it’s just Pixie and me, standing in the lobby, thinking about Charity and not making eye contact.

I should say something she needs to hear.

Something like, I’m sorry I killed your best friend.

Or, I’m sorry I almost got you killed.

Or better yet, I’m sorry I intervened with fate and fucked everything up.

But I say nothing. I realize my guilt isn’t entirely rational, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling it.

Pixie looks at me with unreadable eyes and swallows. “I’m glad you’re okay. When I first heard the alarm go off—” She presses her lips together. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

And for the second time today, my heart stops.

“Pix, I… if anything ever…” Am I brave enough to say something real here? Something honest? “I’m glad you’re okay too,” I say, because I’m chickenshit.

She nods, and we stand in silence.

I shift my weight. “About the other day—”

“It’s fine.” She waves me off.

“No, it’s not.” I shake my head. “It’s not fine. I shouldn’t have called you a whore. I’m an ass and I’m sorry. I really am.”

She shrugs. “Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen.”