In some of the bedrooms, closets have disappeared to accommodate tiny, new baths, and I am holding a tape measure and calculator trying to determine how much room—and money—I will have left to add a wardrobe, a bed, nightstands, a TV and, of course, two people.

“Hello?”

The Dragoon Lady! I think, my heart racing. She’s like winter. She just won’t leave.

“Hello? Hello?”

I rush down the stairs in my paint-spattered sweats, seeing red.

“If you came here to gloat—” I start, before I can see her face.

“I didn’t, but I can. I’m good at it.”

“Trish!” I exclaim as her face comes into view. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d surprise you,” she says. “Maybe even help you out a bit. And I needed a break. I’m a month ahead on billable hours. I think the whole city of Chicago is getting divorced.” She looks at me. “No offense.”

I laugh and then—just as quickly—start to cry, half blubbering and half laughing on her shoulder. She hugs me tightly. “Evan would make so much fun of me for doing this,” I say.

“Never be ashamed to cry,” Trish says. “Men think they’re stronger than women because they don’t. But their inability to confront and deal with their emotions is why they’re ultimately, consistently weaker than we are.”

I think of Nate. “You’re right,” I mumble into her neck.

I hold Trish at arm’s length. Though it is only midmorning on a Friday, and I know she left Chicago at dawn to get here, Trish still looks dewy, fresh, hip and pretty in her skinny jeans and cute sweater.

“Is this what normal looks like?” I ask, staring at her.

“I’d say human,” she says, giving me a once-over from head to foot.

“Then this is what inhuman looks like,” I say.

“Poor thing,” she says. “How’s it going?”

Before I have a chance to respond, Sonny comes flying down the stairs and hits the wood floor with such velocity that he slides across it and directly into Trish’s legs. “Who do we have here?” she asks.

After I tell her all about Sonny, she says, “Like you need two major projects to focus on. Oh, Adie Lou. You’ll never change.” Trish crouches on the floor with Sonny, who licks her face all over. “He is a cutie.” She laughs. “So, get me a cup of coffee already.”

When I start to grab her bag, Trish says, “I have another one just like it in my car.”

“Excuse me,” I say, “but the inn has yet to open for business. For now, guests carry their own bags.”

“What if the owner’s clothes are in the guest’s bag?” Trish asks.

“What?” I ask, my eyes growing wide. “You didn’t?”