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She expected the house to be dark. Instead, a faint light spilled from the kitchen entrance. Emma slowed her steps. She crept toward the doorway, half-expecting to find a badger and ready to scream, but luckily she just found Victoria sitting on a wooden stool at the island.

She wore the white t-shirt she’d bought that afternoon, paired with silk pajama pants. Her hair, usually a perfect shield, was clipped up in a messy twist at the back of her head, strands falling against her neck. She was bathed in the glow of her laptop, completely absorbed, chic reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. Emma’s brain stalled. Of course Victoria Sterling wore wire-rimmed glasses that made her look devastatingly hot and intelligent.

Emma leaned against the doorframe, watching in silence. She assumed Victoria was finalizing the corporate merger she had been barking about on the phone all week. But as Emma's eyes adjusted, she recognized the spreadsheet on the screen. It wasn't a New York real estate portfolio.

It was the Rosebrook Summer Festival budget.

"We move the cider margins up by ten percent," Victoria murmured to herself, tapping a fingernail against her mug, "and… yeah, we can cover the plumbing repair for the second-floor bathroom by July. And if I move them up by eight percent…"

Emma stared at the screen. At three in the morning, Victoria Sterling was figuring out how to repair the shower in Room 4.

"You know, normal people count sheep when they can't sleep," Emma said softly.

Victoria jumped, her hand flying to her chest. She spun around, eyes wide behind the lenses. "Good God, Emma. Are you trying to kill me?"

"I live here. I'm allowed to walk around my own kitchen," Emma pointed out. She walked to the fridge, the cold air washing over her face as she grabbed the water pitcher. "What are you doing? It's three in the morning."

Victoria cleared her throat, minimizing the spreadsheet and pulling off her glasses. "I was experiencing insomnia. I thought I would utilize the time efficiently."

"By budgeting my plumbing repairs?" Emma asked, taking a sip of water.

A faint heat rose in Victoria’s cheeks, but she held Emma's gaze with steady resolve. "Our plumbing repairs," she corrected, tapping the edge of the screen. "And I'm just looking at the festival revenue. The list of things that need fixing is absurdly long, and if we don't direct the money where it actually matters, the east wing roof isn't going to make it through winter."

Emma felt a quiet flutter beneath her ribs. Victoria was trying to sound like a detached financial advisor, but she was sitting barefoot in a dark kitchen at three in the morning, taking on the burden of a leaking roof as if it were hers to carry.

"Thank you," Emma said softly.

Victoria paused, caught off guard by the absence of a retort. "I'm just being practical."

"I know." Emma smiled. "Thank you anyway. Now close the laptop and get some sleep. The roof isn't going anywhere tonight, and you look exhausted."

Victoria looked ready to argue, her jaw setting stubbornly, but a massive yawn betrayed her. She snapped her mouth shut, looking horrified by her own human bodily functions.

"Fine," Victoria conceded, closing the laptop with a click. She gathered her things and paused at the doorway, looking back at Emma in the dim light. The tension from the afternoon had softened into something intimate. "Goodnight, Emma."

✽✽✽

Five-thirty in the morning arrived with the rudeness it always did.

Emma dragged herself out of bed, tied her hair up, and stumbled into the kitchen. Her hand automatically reached for the vintage radio on the windowsill. She usually blasted country music while prepping the breakfast service.

Her fingers brushed the plastic dial, and she stopped.

She looked up at the ceiling. Victoria had gone to bed at three-thirty.

Emma pulled her hand back. She brewed the coffee in silence, whisked the eggs with care to keep the metal bowl from clanging, and baked three trays of muffins without dropping a baking sheet. Every time she thought about Victoria’s dark circles, Emma found herself tiptoeing.

By nine-thirty, the morning rush was over. Emma poured herself a cup of coffee and walked into the sunlit dining room, sliding into a chair at a corner table. Sitting across from her were Harry and Martha Caldwell. They were in their late seventies, wore matching cardigans, and had been coming to The Amber House for the first three weeks of May for the last ten years.

"I'm telling you, dear, the lemon blueberry muffins this year are your best yet," Martha said, patting Emma’s hand. "Harry had three. His cardiologist would have a fit."

"My cardiologist is a miserable man who doesn't understand the emotional value of butter," Harry grumbled, smiling as he took a sip of tea. "But Martha is right. Joe would be incredibly proud."

Emma’s smile faltered before she forced it back into place, the now familiar ache of Joe's absence pulsing in her chest. "Thanks, Harry. That means a lot."

"Now," Martha leaned forward, eyes twinkling with gossip. "Are we going to talk about the striking woman I saw marching through the hallway yesterday? Because she certainly doesn't look like our usual bird-watching clientele."

Emma choked on her coffee. "That’s, um. That’s Victoria. She's Joe's granddaughter."