Page 19 of The Accidental Innkeeper

Besides, she wasn’t my type.

My type didn’t show up sweaty and pissed off and covered in dust and then look at me like she wanted to fight me and kiss me in the same five seconds.

My type didn’t stare at my crotch like she was trying to solve a mystery.

My type didn’t make me laugh.

Fuck. Stop. Just stop.

I ran my fingers through my hair, thinking of that ugly pink inn. I trusted the bones of that place more than the paint. I’d seen worse. I’d fixed worse.

What I didn’t trust was what that place did to people.

It pulled them in. It demanded things—time, money, attention. It wasn’t a house. It was a creature, and New York had walked right into its mouth like she was looking for a story.

Maybe that was her problem. Maybe that was her gift. She was a writer.

Either way, I didn’t need it in my life.

My eyes drifted to the ceiling, and I saw that pink inn again. I pictured New York standing inside, looking at that life-size statue of Edna, and I almost smiled.

Almost.

Edna had been a pain in the ass. I’d had more arguments with that stubborn old woman than any of my crew. She’d cared about appearances but not about people’s opinions. She’d run that inn with an iron fist and a cigarette.

And somehow she’d left it to New York. Why? The why of that still didn’t sit right with me. Edna didn’t hand over her kingdom unless she meant something by it.

Which meant New York wasn’t here by accident. She was here because Edna had wanted her here.

Damnit. What the hell was I doing? I didn’t wonder. I didn’t get distracted by a woman I’d known for half a day.

Besides, she’d never stay. She’d sell, I told myself again.

Six months closed? A screaming boiler? A leaking roof? That kind of mess didn’t get solved by a writer with a suitcase, great tits, and a stubborn chin.

New York didn’t know what she was getting into. She’d realize it fast.

She’d put it on the market. Becca would list it. Some out-of-town couple would buy it and paint it white and turn it into a wedding factory.

And New York would leave. That was how this went.

The truth was, I didn’t want to see her fail—not because I wanted her but because I didn’t like watching someone get eaten alive when they didn’t even know the teeth were there.

And if she stayed… if she decided to fight for that inn…

That would make her stubborn like her great aunt. And stubborn was dangerous.

Stubborn people pulled you in. They made you care. They made you break rules.

I exhaled through my nose and stared at the floor. No. Not my problem.

“Fuck.” I closed my eyes. This was how it started, attention where it didn’t belong.

She’d sell. She’d move on. She wouldn’t last.

I wasn’t getting involved in something with an expiration date.

Not my problem.