Page 117 of The Accidental Innkeeper

Every night ended the same way—quiet and unfinished, like I’d walked away from a job before the last bolt was tightened.

That was one of my rules. Don’t leave things unfinished.

It hadn’t come from something I’d read in a book or picked up from a motivational quote taped to a gym wall. It was earned, learned the hard way, and etched in place by one specific mistake I’d promised myself I wouldn’t repeat.

I’d broken the rule once. It had been years ago, another property, another town. A place I’d told myself I was only passing through. Short-term work. Temporary presence. I’d stayed longer than planned because things kept needing attention. One more inspection. One more repair. One more week and then another.

There had been a woman. There was always a woman when lines blurred. She hadn’t asked for anything unreasonable. That was the problem. She’d asked for things that sounded small at first—dinner, time, consistency. Those kinds of requests don’t feel like demands until you realize you’re answering them without thinking.

I hadn’t promised her forever. I hadn’t lied, but I hadn’t been clear either. I’d let her believe the staying meant something it didn’t. Or maybe I’d let myself believe that if I didn’t name it, I wasn’t responsible for it.

By the time I realized I was in too deep, the damage was already done.

Leaving hadn’t been the mistake. Staying too long had been.

That was the lesson.

Don’t stay long enough for someone to build a life around you if you’re not willing to stand still inside it. Don’t let proximity turn into promise. Don’t confuse being decent with being careful.

So I made rules.

I finished jobs. I left when it was time. I didn’t cross lines that couldn’t be uncrossed without consequence. And most of the time, those rules worked. They kept things simple. Organized. Predictable.

They kept me from doing damage.

I tightened my grip on the wheel, my mouth set hard as the road hummed beneath me.

The problem was, New York hadn’t asked for more. She hadn’t leaned. She hadn’t tried to make me stay. She’d just been there, steady, capable, and holding everything together without expecting me to become part of the structure.

Yet somehow, I’d applied an old rule to a situation that didn’t match the memory that created it.

The cab smelled faintly of leather and sawdust, the ghost of work days that had bled into nights. My phone sat face down in the console, silent. It had been silent all day.

Good. Silence meant I hadn’t made things worse.

I replayed the kiss anyway. I didn’t want to, but my body did it for me. Muscle memory. Heat. Whatever the fuck it was. The way she’d gone still for half a second before leaning in like she’d decided something.

It had been impulsive, I got that. But I’d liked it. A lot.

That was the problem.

I’d known exactly what it meant. I just hadn’t known what to do with it.

The sign came up fast—green, reflective, and familiar. I read it without thinking. MAPLEWOOD FALLS 2 MILES

I didn’t slow down. Didn’t hit the brakes either. Just stared at it a beat too long before my foot eased off the gas on its own.

Damnit.

I exhaled through my nose, long and controlled, like I was lowering something heavy into place.

So that was that.

I’d left Maplewood Falls a week ago. I hadn’t planned on coming back so soon.

But apparently my brain and body had already made that decision for me because I couldn’t remember how the fuck I’d ended up back here.

I passed roads I’d driven too many times, turns that lived in my hands. I’d told myself I was leaving town, clearing my head, putting space between me and Maplewood Falls—between me and something I didn’t have the right to want.