Page 24 of The Accidental Innkeeper

6

SARAH

Iwoke the next morning feeling like my body had been through a meat grinder. My neck was stiff, and muscles hurt in places I didn’t even know I had muscles. If it weren’t for the loud, aggressive growling coming from my stomach, I would’ve stayed in bed, possibly slept until noon, maybe even until retirement.

I groaned and rolled onto my back, immediately regretting it.

Nope. That was worse.

I grabbed my phone and squinted at the screen. Seven a.m. glared back at me. I had a single text from Hugh’s Garage.

Hugh: Car’s ready.

“A man of little words,” I said. “Truly a poet.”

I dropped the phone onto the bed and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Please,” I whispered to no one. “Pray to the gods that there’s coffee in this place.”

Making up my mind, I swung my legs off the bed and stood, my joints protesting like they’d unionized overnight. I pulled on yoga pants, the universal uniform of women who have given up but still have things to do, brushed my teeth, used the bathroom, and stared at myself in the mirror long enough to confirm I was not fit for public consumption.

Coffee first. Everything else later.

If I didn’t get caffeine into my system in the next ten minutes, I was going to kill someone.

My slippers padded softly against the wood floors as I made my way down the stairs, moving carefully because the house had already proven it enjoyed betrayal. Morning light spilled through the tall windows, bathing the inn in a soft, golden glow. In this light, the place looked… good. Charming, even.

I paused halfway down the stairs, squinting. The inside actually looked better in the morning, warmer and less judgmental, like it was trying to pretend it hadn’t tried to murder me naked the night before.

Interesting.

I hadn’t explored the kitchen yet, which meant I had no idea what kind of fresh disaster awaited me. A raccoon colony. An ant apocalypse. Mold. Just… mold everywhere.

“I just want some damn coffee,” I mumbled.

I found the kitchen at the back of the inn on the first floor, through a heavy white-painted door. And I stopped short. “Huh.”

That was because I was genuinely surprised. The kitchen was… clean. Not abandoned-for-six-months clean. Not we tried our best clean. Actually clean.

It was a large, professional kitchen with restaurant-grade stainless steel appliances, a massive island in the middle, and pots and pans hanging from a rack above. The white tile backsplash matched white cabinets, stretching all the way to the ceiling, and the terracotta tiles on the floor somehow managed to feel warm instead of grimy.

No wild animals. No evidence of animal poop. And most importantly, it wasn’t pink.

I exhaled slowly, like I’d just walked away from danger. I crossed the room and opened the fridge, even though I knew, logically, I wouldn’t find anything edible in there if the inn had been closed for six months. But my stomach had hope. Delusional, dangerous hope.

Empty. Damn.

I checked the cupboards next. “Maybe there’s a cereal box,” I whispered. “Something sealed. Something forgotten.”

Five minutes later, every cupboard stood open, mocking me with bare shelves.

Nothing. Not even a can of tomato sauce. Not a crumb for the mice.

I sagged against the counter. “Figures.”

And then, on the back counter, half-hidden behind a stack of unused mugs, I saw it.

A tin of ground coffee.

“Hello, pretty,” I said reverently, grabbing it like it was a rare artifact.