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But that’s not what keeps me up.

It’s the dance.

Well… dances. Plural. We only agreed to one, but somehow, we had two. Somehow, I let him hold me just a little longer than necessary. Somehow, I let myself forget.

People noticed.

Ana mentioned it later, when we were closing up, how she overheard a few guests whispering that Cal and I “looked cute together.” One woman apparently even said we were a couple.

I should’ve been upset. Embarrassed, at the very least. It’s unprofessional. Inappropriate. The kind of thing I used to roll my eyes at when it happened in other inns.

But instead?

It was a struggle to hide my smile.

And now, lying here in the dark with damp hair and warm sheets, I can’t stop thinking about how his hand felt at the small of my back. How he looked at me like I wasn’t just someone he liked—but someone he trusted. Like I was a harbor.

Like I was his peace.

I shouldn’t feel this way. He’s a guest. A stranger. A man with more secrets than he lets on, even if he says “Cal” is his real name. Even if he says he came here to hide, not to deceive.

I don’t want to be someone’s hiding place.

I turn over, trying to push the thoughts away. I try to focus on the night’s success. On the laughter in the parlor, the way the fire pit glowed outside, how everyone seemed genuinely happy. That’s what matters. That’s why I came back. To build something that lasts. Not to flirt with guests who look at me like I’m more than I am.

But then I remember his hand reaching for mine. The way he whispered “Thank you” after the second dance.

And I realize… I’m already in trouble.

I’m about to put a pillow over my head and summon silence in my mind when I hear a knock on the door.

I frown, glance at the clock. It’s almost midnight. I hope it’s not a guest complaining about the water pressure or asking for a spare toothbrush. Again.

I pad to the door, already bracing myself.

“Who is it?”

A beat. Then, quietly:

“It’s me. Cal.”

My stomach drops.

Of course it is.

I hesitate. My hand rests on the knob, frozen. I could tell him now’s not a good time. I could say anything that keeps the lines neat and professional and safe.

Instead, I find myself pulling the door open before I can stop myself. He’s standing there in the hallway in a soft gray hoodie, his hair mussed like he’s been running a hand through it for hours. There’s something uncertain in his eyes. Like he almost didn’t knock. Like part of him still wants to turn around.

“Hi. Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

A beat. “Do you want to come in?”

“I’d love to.”

I open the door wider and step aside. He walks in.