“I’ll apply for all the permits, but there are a lot of specific rules you need to abide by to obtain a license,” Frank says.

“I’ve read up on them and already applied for a license,” I say, pulling out my phone. “The state license office has already become my go-to app, along with Tinder,” I say, trying to make a joke.

“What’s that?” Frank asks.

I think of explaining my joke but stop. “It’s a heartwarming music station,” I say. “The music is very...tender.”

Frank cocks his head. “Sounds nice.”

I pull up the state site on my phone and begin to paraphrase as I read the legalese. “So, according to law, if a Michigan B and B has eight or fewer rooms, a full breakfast can be served without a food service license as long as it is a packaged deal. Any more than that, and I’m going to have to jump through some hoops, it sounds like.” I hand Frank my phone. “I need some backup this morning,” I say with a laugh as he reads. When he looks at me, I ask, “So, I’m good, keeping the inn at eight, right?”

“Right,” Frank says. “I’d suggest you need to make at least one room wheelchair accessible—the fish house would be easiest—and there are some requirements for fire regulations, including signage and reinforced doors to hold back fire and smoke.” He stops. “I also think you need to create an owner’s suite downstairs,” he says. “You don’t want to live on an upper floor with guests. You’ll need a space of your own, big enough to accommodate a living area and bedroom. And you’ll want a separate entrance to, well, avoid the guests when you want.” He points to my renderings. “I’d suggest taking the downstairs bedrooms and make it a big living space for you, maybe add square footage onto the back of the cottage. The lot has more than enough room. It’ll work.” He stops again.

I look at Frank and then at the bid sheet. “I don’t see any numbers attached,” I say, not blinking.

Oh, my God, I think. I’ve become Trish.

Frank doesn’t say a word. In fact, I can actually see him wince noticeably this time, like I do when I watch those Facebook videos of models tripping on the runway or people doing dumb things like diving into a frozen pond.

“Aaannnd...?” I ask.

“I think we’re looking at about $250,000,” he says.

“What?”

My heart stops, and I drop my coffee cup in shock. It falls to the tile floor and shatters.

“Are you okay?” Franks asks.

I look down and nod, and then remember the number he just quoted me. I shake my head no.