Chapter 4 One Room, One Promise

Thirty days was not a deadline. It was an execution date.

I sat at Grandma Clara’s small oak desk until three in the morning, two mugs of black coffee cooling beside me. I pulled out my yellow legal pad and divided the page into two clean columns.

On the left, I wrote down everything I could do with my own two hands: stripping waterlogged wallpaper, painting trim, deep-cleaning carpets, oiling hardware, and clearing out the choked back garden. On the right, I listed the things the town inspector would fail instantly if they lacked a licensed stamp: the sagging ceiling in Room 2, the old wiring in the pantry, the main plumbing stack, and the load-bearing beam in the parlor.

I did not need a full renovation crew. I just needed one person with the right license and the right tools.

At seven sharp, I walked back down the hill toward the harbor. The morning fog was still thick, clinging to the salt grass along the road.

Vale Woodworks was already awake. The heavy carriage doors were slid back, and the smell of hot coffee and fresh pine sawdust drifted out into the cold air.

Rowan was at his bench, wearing the same canvas work pants and a faded navy thermal shirt. He was measuring a piece of pale ash with a wooden folding ruler. When my shadow crossed the floor, his hands paused for half a second.

"You're persistent, Miss Hart," he said, not looking up.

"Thirty days," I said, walking straight to the edge of his bench. I laid my legal pad flat against the smooth wood. "The town planning board moved the inspection up. I don't have sixty days anymore."

Rowan set his ruler down. He looked at the paper, then up at my face. His amber-brown eyes were steady, but I caught the small line tightening between his brows.

"Crane," he said quietly.

"Elliot visited me yesterday morning at June's shop," I said. "He offered to buy the inn. I told him no. By five o'clock, this notice was taped over the old one."

Rowan let out a short, dry breath through his nose. He crossed his arms over his broad chest. "Crane owns half the planning board. You shouldn't have said no so loudly."

"I'm not selling my grandmother's life to a man who smells like expensive cologne and smiles too much," I replied, keeping my voice firm. "Look at the list, Rowan. Please."

He looked down at the legal pad.

"I'm not asking for your sympathy," I said, leaning in. "I am asking for your license. Look at column A. That's me. I will haul trash, scrape walls, and paint until my hands bleed. Column B is only the safety codes. Four items. I have three thousand dollars saved from my last event bonus. I will pay half today and half the morning the inspector signs the certificate. No delays, no scope creep, and I won't ask you about my family."

Rowan stared at the neat handwriting for a long time. The only sound was the low tick of a battery clock on the wall and the distant cry of gulls over the marina.

"You don't know what you're asking," he muttered.

"I know I have thirty days to save my home."

He uncrossed his arms, picked up his heavy canvas jacket from a hook on the wall, and grabbed a battered leather tool bag from under the bench.

"Get in the truck," he said, walking past me toward the drive.

"Wait. You're taking the job?"

"I'm looking at the bones," Rowan said without turning around. "If the foundation is rotten, three thousand dollars won't buy you enough timber to keep it standing. Move, Hart."

The ride up the hill in his beat-up green pickup was completely silent. The cab smelled like cedar shavings and spearmint gum. He drove with one hand on the wheel, smooth and easy on the bumpy dirt turns.

When we pulled into the inn’s driveway, he stepped out and looked up at the three-story building. His face was unreadable, but his jaw was tight.

We went straight to the second floor, down the narrow hallway to Room 2 where the ceiling had buckled. Rowan pushed open the door, set his tool bag down with a heavy clatter, and looked up at the brown, swollen plaster.

"The roof leak isn't coming from here," he said, tapping a pocket flashlight against his palm. "It's running down the rafters from the attic crawlspace. Where is the access hatch?"

"The linen closet," I said.

The linen closet was tucked between Room 2 and Room 3. It was barely three feet wide and five feet deep, lined with cedar shelves stacked with faded floral sheets. At the very back, high above the top shelf, was a small square wooden door.

Rowan squeezed into the closet first. His broad shoulders took up almost the entire opening. He clicked his flashlight on, looking up at the high ceiling.

"Hold this," he said, handing me the heavy metal light.

He stepped onto the sturdy lower shelf, reached up, and shoved the wooden trapdoor upward with the heel of his hand. A shower of dry insulation dust fluttered down like gray snow.

"Smell that?" he asked, his head disappearing into the dark space above.

"Smells like old paper," I said, holding the light steady.

"Old water," he corrected from above. "The flashing around the south chimney gave out. The water has been running down the main joist for at least three months."

He dropped back down to the floor with a soft thump. The closet was so tight that when he turned around, his chest was barely inches from mine. I could feel the heat radiating off him through his thermal shirt, and the scent of pine and crisp sea air filled the tiny space.

My breath hitched. I looked up into his eyes, caught completely off guard by how close we were. His gaze flickered down to my lips for a split second, then snapped back up to meet mine. Neither of us moved.

"It's fixable," he said, his voice lower and rougher than before.

"It is?" I whispered, my heart thumping against my ribs.

"If we brace the joist and replace the flashing before the rain hits on Thursday." Rowan reached out, his hand brushing against mine as he took the flashlight back. The touch was warm and sent a sudden spark through my fingers. He stepped back out into the hallway, giving us both room to breathe.

I followed him out into the cooler air, trying to smooth down my sweater.

"So you'll do it?" I asked.

Rowan set the flashlight down on a hallway table. He looked at me, serious and completely focused.

"Under three conditions," he said, holding up three fingers. "First, I work seven in the morning until four in the afternoon. When four hits, I leave. You don't call me with emergencies unless the house is actually falling down."

"Fair," I said.

"Second, you don't talk to Crane. If he comes onto this property while my truck is here, you send him away."

"Gladly."

"Third," he continued, looking right into my eyes, "you do what I tell you on the job site. When I say a board is unstable, you don't step on it. You leave the structural work to me."

I nodded, then lifted my chin. "Deal. On one condition from me."

Rowan raised an eyebrow. "You're adding conditions?"

"You don't just fix it while I watch," I said, meeting his gaze without flinching. "You teach me. Show me how to use the saws. Show me how to set the brackets. I need to know how to take care of this house when you're gone."

Rowan looked at me for three long seconds. The corner of his mouth twitched, almost like he wanted to smile, but he caught himself.

He stuck out his right hand. His palm was rough with thick calluses, his grip warm and solid.

"Be ready at seven tomorrow, Hart," he said, giving my hand a firm squeeze. "And find yourself some real work boots."