Page 20 of The Accidental Innkeeper

5

SARAH

Iwaved goodbye to Becca as she slid into her sleek SUV, the door shutting with a soft, expensive thunk that probably cost more than my entire suitcase. She pulled away, her taillights disappearing down the road like competence itself was leaving town.

It had been nice of her to stop by. Really nice. At least now I could say I’d met one actual, functional human being who might eventually turn into a friend in my new pink nightmare—someone calm, someone capable, someone who didn’t live inside my head rent-free after less than a day.

Dust-guy didn’t count.

I didn’t think I could ever be friends with a man who looked like he’d just stepped out of a Polo ad and watched you with that infuriating half-smirk, like you had something in your teeth, and he was enjoying your suffering too much to mention it. Or whose stare made my lady V throb like she was warming up for a drum solo.

And then—because the universe enjoys humiliation—I’d gone and stared at his man-junk.

I was in hell.

This felt like the beginning of a very distracting side quest, and I absolutely did not have the time, energy, or emotional bandwidth for that. I was busy. I had a full plate, a pink, peeling plate with a screaming boiler and possible mold colonies.

Besides, I was over the whole relationship thing. Capital O Over. Men sucked. Period. Full stop. The end. I’d done the emotional labor, the compromise, the pretending not to care when I absolutely cared. I was retired—emotionally, possibly spiritually.

And I had a book to write. And an inn to… what was I going to do with the inn? No idea. Not even a vague idea.

But first things first. Before I could have an existential crisis, I needed a place to sleep that didn’t smell like dust, mice poop, or my own sweat. Which meant cleaning. Or at least aggressive surface-level denial.

Making up my mind, I grabbed my shoulder bag and my one loyal suitcase and turned toward the stairs.

The stairs turned back at me. Lots and lots of stairs.

“Of course.” I sighed. “Why wouldn’t there be like a thousand stairs? This place hates me already.”

I hoisted the suitcase up the first step. The wheels caught. I yanked harder. The suitcase resisted, like it was considering staying downstairs and starting a new life without me.

“Don’t do this,” I warned it under my breath. “We’re in this together.”

The stairs creaked ominously. Step by step, I hauled myself upward, my shoulder bag sliding and the suitcase thumping behind me in protest. By the second flight, I was breathing like I’d just run from zombies. I figured the owner’s suite was at the top floor with the best views.

And I was going to make it, damnit.

Somewhere between gasping and swearing, my brain betrayed me by drifting, completely uninvited, back to Dust-guy.

To his stupid calm voice. His stupid competent hands. His stupid everything-is-under-control posture. I pictured him taking these stairs two at a time without breaking a sweat and immediately resented him for it.

“Stop it,” I told myself. “He is a distraction in expensive jeans.”

When I finally reached the top, I collapsed against the wall, my suitcase upright beside me.

“Okay,” I panted. “We live here now.”

The third-floor hallway stretched out in front of me, narrower than the ones below. The ceiling sloped just enough to feel like the house was leaning in. The light was softer up here, filtered through small windows at the far end, and dust floated lazily in the air like it had nowhere better to be. Floorboards creaked under my weight, old and vocal, announcing my presence whether I liked it or not.

The inn felt different up here, less public and more private, like I’d crossed an invisible line from guest to mine now, deal with it.

I straightened, squared my shoulders, and wiped my hands on my jeans. “I can do this.”

I walked past the first two rooms and peeked inside. Both were clearly guest rooms. One had faded floral wallpaper and a brass bed with a lumpy-looking quilt, the kind that smelled of lavender and mothballs. The other was surprisingly crisp, white walls, lace curtains, mismatched furniture that looked like it had been collected slowly, one estate sale at a time.

I kept going. At the very end of the hallway, I spotted the last door. Something about it felt… intentional.

“This has to be it,” I panted because hope is dangerous but persistent.