Page 131 of The Accidental Innkeeper

I glanced at the screen. “It’s an email,” I said. “And it’s addressed to you and to the innkeeper at—hey—that’s me. But I never got this.”

“Who cares,” snapped Helen. “The important thing is I got the email. I’m the mayor.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s… not how inboxes work.”

She ignored me. “Harbor & Hearth is sending a reviewer, a very important reviewer. He’s doing a feature on coastal towns with ‘heritage charm and modern hospitality.’”

I blinked. “Okay. That sounds interesting.”

“His name is Michael Waverly,” Helen continued, pacing now. “He’s influential. He’s picky. He once wrote three paragraphs about bad towels. And poof—the town was a ghost town after that.”

I rolled my eyes. “Come on. I seriously doubt that.”

“He’s coming tomorrow.”

I froze. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Tomorrow.” She stopped pacing long enough to point at me. “He’s reviewing the town. This town! And the inn. Specifically this inn.”

I took the phone again, scanning. “Okay, but… he never booked.” Because I would remember that.

Helen waved that off. “Of course he didn’t book. He’s a reviewer.”

“He still needs a room,” I said calmly. “Even reviewers need beds.”

Helen’s eyes widened. “He needs the best room.”

I nodded. “Yes, but, the best room is booked.”

Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “What do you mean booked.”

“Booked-booked,” I said. “Paid deposit. Checks in tomorrow morning. Loves ocean views. Very excited.”

Helen made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. “We have to bump them.”

“We absolutely cannot bump them.”

“But it’s Michael Waverly.”

I didn’t give a rat’s ass. “And this is a business. My business.”

She plucked her glasses off her face, dragged a hand down her eyes, and stuffed them back over her nose. “This is a catastrophe. This is how towns die. First a bad review, then a slow decline, and then suddenly we’re a trivia question.”

Before I could respond, Lola appeared from the dining room, coffee in hand and eyebrows raised. “Why does it sound like someone just yelled the word catastrophe like it’s a cocktail order?”

Dottie followed, wiping her hands on her apron. “Why does Helen look like she’s about to have a stroke. You know… I have something to calm your nerves.” She reached into the depths of her apron pocket and produced a small glass vial filled with a cloudy green liquid. “Stress-Away Spritz,” said Dottie proudly. “It’s chamomile, lemon balm, something I found in the back garden, and a touch of vodka. For absorption.”

Helen spun toward them. “We have an elite reviewer coming tomorrow and no room to put him in.”

Lola sipped her coffee. “Oh. Is that all?”

Helen stared. “Is that all?”

“Is he handsome,” Lola said. “Single? Rich? Is he great in bed?”

Dottie dropped her vial back into her apron pocket. “We’ll feed him. Don’t worry. Everyone loves my food.”

“That’s not…” Helen looked back at me, clearly expecting me to join the meltdown.