Page 16 of The Accidental Innkeeper

This was it.

I leaned back and let out a shaky laugh. “Well,” I said, “that’s unfortunate for her.”

Becca’s brows rose. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t come all this way just to sell and leave,” I said. Then, quieter, more to myself, “I came because I needed something new. I needed to get away from my old life, from my ex and his skinny-ass yoga instructor he’d been bumping uglies with.”

Becca pressed her lips together. “That feels like a later conversation with a bottle of wine.”

I smiled at her. I didn’t know her well, but I had the feeling we were going to get along just fine. “Make that two bottles.”

Becca threw back her head and laughed. “Well. I challenge you to even more scandalous stories. But first, you’re tired. Where are you sleeping tonight.”

I looked around the den. If the suite was half as bad as this, I could stay here. “Here,” I told her.

“You’re staying here?” she asked as she stood up.

“I mean,” I said, forcing brightness into my voice, “it’s my inn. Right?”

Becca glanced back at me, amused. “That’s the spirit.”

Or I was mad. Yup, I was mad.

“You know,” said Becca as she stepped out of the den, me behind her pulling my suitcase. “You don’t have to decide anything right now. Take some time to think about it.”

“Good,” I said. “Because I’m currently sweaty, dusty, mildly injured, and being silently judged by a bronze woman with a cigarette.”

My life might be going down the crapper, but I wasn’t a loser.

And I was going to prove it to my aunt Edna, even if she was beyond the grave.

I would.

4

ALEX

After staring at New York’s shapely ass as she strutted down the street—because I was only human, not dead—I did what I always did when something threatened to derail my focus.

I went to work.

Harbor Lane. My newest flip. A solid American foursquare with good bones, decent setbacks, and just enough problems to keep things interesting without turning into a money pit. It needed love, an extra garage and updated systems. But the architecture? Untouchable. You keep the soul, modernize the rest, and people line up with checkbooks.

This one would sell in a week.

The crew was packing up when I pulled in, their tools stacked, the site clean, and no bullshit. I walked the property the way I always did—slowly, methodically, my eyes everywhere. I had a schedule, and if they were behind, we’d talk about it. If they were lazy, we’d talk about it louder.

But they were right on track.

Good work meant I didn’t have to say much. I liked that. I didn’t hire idiots. I hired guys who knew their shit and didn’t waste my time.

I hated surprises. I hated interruptions. I hated messes that weren’t planned, which made it deeply annoying that once I left Harbor Lane, I found myself turning onto Main Road instead of heading home.

I didn’t need to look up to know where I was going. You could see the inn from half a mile away.

It was hard to miss, impossible, really. That fucking pink slapped you in the face whether you wanted it to or not—loud and aggressive, like the building itself was daring you to say something. I hated that color.

I’d told Edna Hartwell once, very calmly, that I’d repaint it for free. A nice gray. Maybe white. Something dignified.