Jackson’s P.O.V.
The bed at the B&B creaked beneath me as I shifted, propped up against a stack of mismatched pillows with the screen of my phone glowing too brightly in the dim room. I scrolled absently, thumbing past real estate listings that looked more like postcard paintings than actual homes. White porches, wraparound decks, and chimneys that probably didn’t see much use except in December.
Fairview didn’t have many houses on the market—maybe a dozen, tops—and most of them had been up for sale since long before I showed up in town. But still, I kept scrolling. Kept imagining. One of them had this weathered barn on the property, big enough to turn into a home studio if I ever felt like being productive again. Another had this crooked little front gate and a garden that looked like i
