Like You Love Me (Honey Creek 1)

“You want me to quit trying after one failure?”

I raise a brow.

“Okay, more than one,” she says, blowing out a breath. A chunk of bangs flutters in the air and then sticks to the black residue at her temple. “I’m not a quitter, Soph. Besides, why should we pad the pockets of men when we are capable of some of this stuff ourselves?”

Her golden eyes shine.

This is the reason that no matter how big of a mess she makes, I can never be mad. Her heart is always in the right place. It’s just that sometimes her competence is not.

I pluck a piece of fuzz off her cheek instead of hugging her, which is what I want to do. Despite working her own nine-to-five at Haute Insurance, she helps me almost every day out of the goodness of her heart, because God knows I can’t pay her. She always says I can make it up to her when the Honey House is featured on a southern destination show and becomes the hottest ticket in Tennessee. Of course, she also says that if that ever happens, she’ll deny she ever called it an insolvent mess and claim she always had faith in the place. But whatever.

Liv adjusts her bandanna. “We might have to call Jobe in for a consult.”

“I am not calling our brother.”

“This was a bigger job than I thought it was going to be,” she says, cringing. “A little on-site guidance may not be a bad thing.”

“It would be such a cop-out to call a man now after that ‘I’m not a quitter’ speech.”

“I’m not quitting. I didn’t say that. I don’t quit.”

“Sounds an awful lot like quitting to me,” I tease.

“Sophie . . .”

The grandfather clock in the foyer chimes. It reminds me that I need to get Mr. and Mrs. Inman, my only guests this week, something whipped up for dinner. My insides twist as I imagine Liv’s rant that I shouldn’t be making them dinner when it’s not included in the rate. She’s probably right. I’m just a sucker.

I’m definitely a sucker for Holden McKenzie’s smile.

I grin at the thought.

“What?” Liv asks.

“Nothing.”

Needing some space and a change of scenery before my older sister starts poking around, I make my way into the hallway that runs down the center of the home. The hardwood floors let me know that she follows me down the corridor, past the staircase, and into the room beside the powder room.

My calendar is open on my desk. Doodles of hearts and flowers cover the white area around the edges. Giant Xs mark through every day that has already passed. What’s not there is the countdown running in my head—the countdown to the day next month when I have to come up with almost $5,000 or lose everything that’s precious to me.

“I was brainstorming today,” Liv says. “And don’t even look at me like that. This idea is pure gold.”

I sit in my chair. Peering up at her, I try not to roll my eyes. “Your last idea included square dancing.”

“Which I still stand behind. It’s a lost art that I think, no, I believe, people would love to revisit. But we’ll come back to that. We need to focus on the fall tourist season right now. We need those northerners staying here when they come down to fish or pick persimmons or whatever it is they do.”

“We absolutely do need them staying here.” I tap a pen against the desk. “I know what will help. I’ve been thinking about it. We need a gazebo in the back and to repaint the upstairs bedrooms too. I have plans, Liv. Big ones. And I’m getting my feet under me again. I just . . .”

I tap the pen harder and ignore my sister’s cocked brow.

Liv knows the Honey House is in financial crisis—mostly because she was here when my ex-husband, Chad, cleaned out more than his half of our savings as he left. She’s also aware of the fact that the Honey House needs sprucing up. It needed it before the Sweet Tea, Rockery’s newest establishment, opened three towns over. As soon as that fancy-schmancy bed-and-breakfast set up shop, it dipped into my bottom line. But all that beautifying will have to wait until I can save the Honey House from the tax auction next month.

Ugh.

“I just need a fairy godmother,” I lament.

“Ew. No. Those are creepy. What you need is a knight in shining armor with five thousand dollars handy.”

I laugh. “That’s the only way I’d get married again.”

Liv takes an embroidered pillow off the chair across from me. After setting it aside, she plops down and grins. “You need to ease up on your anti-maleness.”

“I’m not anti-male. I’m just anti-dating.” I lean back in my chair and sigh. “I have no need for sweaty palms and compulsory smiles and fake interest in why one of you wore a particular gray sweater. Dating is forced experiences ruined by pressure, expectations, and having to wear real pants in public. Not my jam.”