Page 14 of Finding Home at Hearts Hotel

"This... this is an overreach," Debbi stammered, her hands visibly shaking as she tried to gather her composure. "We are legitimate consultants?—"

"You are nothing of the kind," Gill cut her off, her voice slicing through the air like a razor. She opened the federal folder, sliding a set of yellowed, fragile archival papers across the polished wood until they rested right under Debbi's trembling fingertips.

Gill leaned in close, her eyes narrowing into cold daggers.

"Andthis," Gill whispered, her voice ringing with absolute triumph, "this is the evidence that you lied ten years ago. You didn't just steal a concept. You plagiarized my foundational research word for word."

Debbi looked down at the papers, her breath catching in her throat as she stared at the undeniable proof of her academic theft.

Without missing a beat, Gill pulled out an even thicker stack of documents from her folder, tossing them across the table. "And just in case anyone in this room had any lingering doubts about your integrity, here are the original manuscripts, peer reviews, and whistleblower statements from three other brilliant researchers whose entire life's work you and your uncle Hyrum stole, repackaged, and sold as your own." Gill straightened up, a fierce, brilliant smile touching her lips as she looked down at the pale, ruined fraudsters. "You aren't developers. You aren't experts. You are two pathetic, desperate frauds at the very end of your road."

Darius

Present Day: The Final Stretch of the Race

The chilled, sterile air of the Sanibel conference room vanished in a heartbeat, replaced by the blistering heat of the morning sun and the heavy, cool spray of the lake. Darius snapped back to the present, his muscles burning as he drove his legs back against the footrests. The heavy wooden oar bent under the resistance of the water, the damp scent of cedar and lake water washing away the lingering memory of the boardroom.

"That is unbelievable," Michael gasped, his broad shoulders tensing as he threw his weight into the stroke. "They really thought their political connections made them untouchable."

"She spent ten years hiding behind those stolen credentials," Owen grunted, his knuckles white against the dark grain of his oar. "It's about time the truth caught up with her."

"Good riddance," Martin added from the bow, his face flushed crimson under his tropical hat as he struggled to keep his rhythm. "That family won’t harm anyone again."

"Less talking, more pulling!" Baxter shouted from the stern, his hands white as he gripped the rudder lines. "Sanibel is turning on the gas! We have fifty yards to the docks! Slide, pull! Give me everything you've got left!"

Darius locked his eyes on the back of Michael’s shoulders, matching the rapid, grueling pace. His palms were raw andburning, the wood ofSalty's Pridegroaning under the immense strain as they entered the final stretch. The sleek carbon-fiber boat of the Sanibel team was hovering right beside their bow, their oars slicing the water in a rapid, clinical synchronization.

"Three, two, pull!" Baxter yelled, his voice cracking over the splashing water.

Darius dug deep, his thighs screaming as he threw his entire frame into the final three strokes. The heavy wooden gig surged forward with a heavy, wet splash, the bow slicing through the white wake of the finish line just a fraction of a second ahead of the neon green jerseys.

A loud horn blared from the starter's raft.

"Heat one winner, Salty's Pride!" Pete's voice boomed over the PA system, building the suspense across the shoreline.

The banks erupted. On the grassy banks behind the diner, the Hearts Hotel crowd went wild. Linda was standing at the very edge of the wooden dock, her navy baseball cap waving in the air as she cheered, her face lit up with a joy that made Darius's burning muscles feel light as air. It was a slim margin, but a win was a win.

OWEN

Owen leaned his upper back against the thick wooden piling of the marina dock, letting out a slow, heavy breath. His shoulders felt tight, and a persistent, dull ache was settling deep into his biceps and thighs after the grueling final stretch of the men’s rowing heat. Winning that race by a slim margin had been exhilarating, but his body was paying the price. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his fingers catching on the damp collar of his t-shirt as he focused his attention on the shoreline.

The women’s division was up next. Down by the water’s edge, the sleek wooden rowing gig,Salty’s Pride, was bobbing against the rubber bumpers of the dock. He watched as the team began to climb aboard. Isabel was moving with a careful grace, adjusting her life vest as she stepped into the boat. Linda followed her, her movements steady and focused, while Maggie and Penny settled into their respective seats with determined expressions. Maggie was in her element, checking her grip on the heavy wooden oar.

Sophia climbed into the stern, taking the small coxswain’s seat that Baxter had occupied during the previous race. The teenagerlooked remarkably confident, her shoulders squared and her eyes bright with a sharp, competitive focus she’d shown on her school’s rowing team. She adjusted the rudder lines with a practiced flick of her wrists, her voice already rising over the lakeside chatter as she began barking out structural positioning commands to the four women.

On the grassy bank, Michael had taken his position as the team's loud, encouraging captain. He stood near the water’s edge, his broad shoulders squared under his team shirt as he shouted instructions across the water, his voice easily carrying over the gentle lapping of the lake. His co-captain and vice-captain were both in the boat, and he was determined to see them dominate the heat.

"Watch the slide!" Michael bellowed, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Keep the rhythm synchronized from the very first pull!"

Beside him, the rest of the sideline crew, Owen, Martin, Baxter, Darius, and Gill, joined in, shouting encouragement as the anticipation across the shoreline reached a fever pitch. In the adjacent lane, the neon-green clad team from Sanibel sat in their carbon-fiber shell, looking polished and ready.

"On your marks..." Pete's voice boomed over the PA system from the starter's raft.

The four women crouched forward in the boat, their oars hovering just above the glassy water. Sophia leaned forward, her eyes locked on the starting line.

"Get set..."

CRACK!