Hello darling,

The festival coordinator called me an imbecile for putting up the map boards incorrectly—can you believe that? Well, good luck to him with putting them up right, because I’ve come home and that poxy little festival can carry on with one less volunteer. I didn’t really want to meet the Dixie Chicks anyway.

Good morning, darling,

It’s been eight days since Cecelia’s wedding. I’m sorry I didn’t write sooner, but you are an inanimate object, so it doesn’t really matter.

She remembered writing that last entry, just like she remembered the wedding itself. The rush of success that had soured so easily, and the familiar lick of fear when everything started to go wrong. It had seemed easier to give up completely than to face yet another fucking failure. Had been such a relief to come home and vent in her journal and then forget it had ever happened.

But Eve didn’t feel that relief anymore. Now, she read over that last entry and wanted to call Cecelia, apologize for the dress, then demand the slander against Eve Antonia Weddings be removed from the internet because those doves had needed rescuing, and all that aside, Eve had done a bloody good job.

Her mind stumbled over the words a little, the first time. But the more Eve repeated them to herself, the smoother they came. She’d done a bloody good job. She knew she had. She’d tried her hardest, she’d been organized and capable, she’d bent over backward to make someone else’s dreams come true. She’d been good.

Just like she’d been good at Castell Cottage, no matter what Jacob said.

Yes, you’re good. But that doesn’t make you irreplaceable.

The old Eve might accept that statement. The new one wanted to throw a chair.

How dare he think the worst of her, after treating her like she was the best? How dare he push her away after making her feel needed? How dare he act as if she was the same scared, thoughtless woman he’d first met when he must know by now that she was so much more? If he’d given her a chance to explain, she could’ve told him that she was passionate about Castell Cottage, that her commitment meant something.

Although . . . it suddenly occurred to Eve that, despite Jacob’s devotion to the B&B, maybe it wasn’t her commitment to Castell Cottage he’d wanted to hear about.

Hm.

Hmmm.

It was too soon to tell him about the little seed of love sprouting in her chest, putting down deep, delicate roots. It had to be too soon. That’s what Eve had thought, anyway.

But what if she’d been wrong?

A knock at the door startled her out of her tangled thoughts. “It’s only me, darling,” Gigi called, just like she had yesterday evening.

“Come in,” Eve said, but her mind was still churning, replaying that last edgy, uncertain conversation with Jacob. Everything had come crashing together without warning, two sides of her life that she’d been learning to handle separately, and she hadn’t known what to do for the best.