Page 23 of The Accidental Innkeeper

I sagged in relief and stepped back under the spray.

Fine. I could work with this. The inn had not won.

Yet.

That was when I realized something important.

I had forgotten shampoo. And conditioner. And body wash.

Damnit.

In my haste to escape New York and my life and possibly my sanity, I’d packed a spare toothbrush and toothpaste in my carry-on. But soap? Soap had not made the cut.

I stared around the tub, hopeful and deeply delusional. Nothing. No little bottles. No hospitality-grade freebies. No lavender-scented anything waiting to save me.

Then I saw it.

A small side dish perched on the edge of the tub held a single bar of soap. Square. Beige. No label. No scent. No visible personality. It looked like it had been made during the Great Depression.

I stared at it. It stared back.

“How old are you?” I whispered and picked it up carefully, like it might crumble in my hands or curse me. After a quick, aggressive rinse, because I have standards, I sighed.

“Okay,” I told the soap. “You’re doing double duty. Hair. And body.”

I scrubbed myself down with it, head to toe, my hair squeaking in protest as the soap stripped away not just dirt, but probably some strands. The scent was… neutral. Not floral or anything.

“This is fine,” I told myself, scrubbing harder. “People survived entire centuries like this.”

By the time I was done, my skin felt tight, like I’d exfoliated the crap out of it, my hair felt like straw, and I smelled faintly like a boarding school.

But I was clean. And at this point, that felt like another win.

I stepped out of the bathroom and pulled on an oversized T-shirt to sleep in. My stomach growled immediately, loudly and dramatically, like I had an entire army of gremlins staging a coup in there.

“Sorry, guys,” I told my belly. “I’m too tired to eat right now. We’ll circle back to this tomorrow.”

It responded with another threatening rumble.

I dragged my ass across the room to my aunt’s bed, which was apparently mine now, and tugged the sheets back before letting myself fall face-first onto the mattress.

I was drained—emotionally, physically, and spiritually. I’d just lived through one of the strangest days of my entire life. I’d left my fiancé, broken down on the side of the road, been silently judged by a ridiculously attractive stranger, inherited a pink inn on a cliff, met a realtor cousin I didn’t know I had, and nearly died naked in a clawfoot tub.

I realized then that I hadn’t even shed one tear about Simon’s cheating ass. What did that mean?

Somewhere in the fog of exhaustion, my brain went to my aunt. She expected me to fail. She’d left me this place knowing it was falling apart, knowing it was too much, knowing I’d be overwhelmed and out of my depth and tempted to run. Maybe this was her final test or her final joke.

I thought of Dust-guy, of his calm voice, his assessing eyes, and the way he’d looked at me when I told him about the inn like he already knew all its secrets. It felt like he’d decided something about me without saying it out loud.

I hated that it mattered. I hated that I gave a crap.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling, too tired to move or even think. I didn’t even bother taking down the creepy life-size portrait of my aunt looming over the headboard. That felt like a tomorrow problem.

Sleep hit me hard and fast, dragging me under before I could spiral any further.

I was so exhausted I didn’t even remember dreaming of being chased through endless hallways by giant paintings of my aunt Edna, all of them smoking cigars and yelling, “Loser!”

Which, if I had, I probably would’ve grabbed her cane and taken her out at the knees.