Page 120 of The Accidental Innkeeper

“Hi,” I said brightly. “Welcome to the Hartwell Inn.”

“Hi,” the woman replied. Well, I think she muttered the word, but it was so low you needed superhearing to catch it. But her lips had formed the word hi, so I was going with that.

I leaned forward slightly. “Hi back?”

“Yes,” the man added, a bit louder than the woman but still ridiculously quiet. More like a loud whisper.

Ah. Low talkers.

This was going to require focus. “I’m Sarah,” I said, pitching my voice down a notch, like I was trying to communicate with woodland creatures. “How can I help you today?”

“We’re the McGees,” the woman said, at roughly the volume of a confession. “We have a reservation.”

I nodded, leaning in again, my eyes narrowed in concentration. “The… Magees?”

“McGees,” the man whispered.

“McGees,” I repeated. Nailed it.

I typed quickly. “Room 303,” I said, checking the screen. “One night?”

“For the day,” the woman said softly. “We’re… resting.”

I paused. “Like… a nap?”

The man smiled faintly. “Like… a long nap.”

Got it.

“Perfect,” I said. “Room 303 is ready and freshly cleaned.”

Their faces relaxed in unison, like I’d just delivered excellent news about weather conditions.

I reached under the desk and slid the key across to them. “Your luggage will be brought up shortly. Feel free to settle in.”

“Thank you,” the woman mouth-whispered.

They moved toward the stairs at a measured pace, whispering to each other the whole way, like they were afraid to startle the inn.

I waited until they were out of sight and then exhaled. That had been… weird… intense and strangely exciting.

I grabbed my coffee and headed toward the kitchen. “Jason,” I called out as I pushed open the kitchen door.

He looked up from the counter. “Yeah?”

“Room 303 has luggage,” I said. “The McGees. They’re very nice. Also very quiet. Like… emotionally whispering.”

Jason nodded solemnly. “Got it.” He finished whatever he was drinking, an energy drink from a can, got up, and disappeared with the luggage cart. The wheels squeaked faintly as he headed for the stairs, and the kitchen settled back into its familiar production. Pots simmered. A pan sizzled. Something smelled aggressively comforting.

Dottie stood at the stove, barefoot, her hair piled on top of her head in a way that suggested gravity had given up. She was humming, loudly and off-key, while flipping something with unnecessary confidence.

“What is that?” I asked, setting my coffee down.

“Portable breakfast,” replied Dottie cheerfully. “For people with places to be and things to do.”

She turned, revealing a stack of tortillas and an apron I hadn’t seen before. It was neon pink, splattered with something that might’ve been egg, and read:

POWERED BY CARBS.