Page 42 of The Accidental Innkeeper

“You can relax, now,” I said. “I’ve got it.”

“I’m not dropping it,” she said. “Not after everything else today.”

I glanced up. She wasn’t looking at me. She was staring straight ahead, her jaw still set, like letting go of anything right now was not an option.

I had no idea what that was about, but something in my chest shifted. Subtle. Fucking annoying.

“Be careful with your hands,” I said. “You’re a writer. You don’t want to sprain them.”

She frowned at me like I’d just spoken a foreign language.

I ignored it. Whatever that was, it meant nothing. Her hands weren’t my problem.

I drove the next screw in. The drill kicked slightly, and she adjusted again without thinking.

My hand brushed hers as I reached for the last screw, and our fingers grazed. Skin caught, warm and solid. This time, neither of us moved away immediately.

Too much awareness for a moment that should’ve meant nothing.

That was my line.

I straightened abruptly and finished the last screw, setting the drill down harder than necessary. “Okay. You can let go.”

She did, flexing her hands like they’d gone numb.

The door swung shut cleanly. No sag. No scrape. It clicked into place like it was supposed to. Solid and now fixed.

I stepped back, giving her space I hadn’t realized I’d taken.

She glanced at the door and then back at me, her gaze holding as she searched my face like she expected something else to be said. “Thank you.”

I nodded once and looked away, my jaw tightening for no good reason. “It’ll hold.” I grabbed the toolbox and straightened, rolling my shoulders like I could shake off whatever had just happened.

Fixed door. Job done. Move on.

“Before you start celebrating,” I said, already turning away, “you’ve got a leak.”

She blinked. “A leak?”

“Roof,” I said. “Third floor. Back corner. You can see the stain if you know where to look.”

Her eyes widened. “How do you—”

“I was up here last month,” I cut in. “After a storm. Dottie asked me to check the exterior.” I didn’t add that I’d gone up into the crawl space because something hadn’t smelled right. Or that I’d already filed the problem away in my head, cataloged it, priced it out.

That wasn’t my job anymore.

She pressed her lips together, processing. “Is it bad? Like very expensive bad? Or Band-Aid bad?”

“It’s not good,” I said, not knowing how else to answer that. “Not catastrophic, yet. But water always wins if you let it.”

She exhaled slowly and then nodded like she was bracing herself for a punch. “Right. And then there’s the mold thing with water. Can’t have guests breathing in mold.”

“And,” I added because apparently I hated myself, “your boiler’s acting up.”

Her head snapped up. “Yeah. Dottie mentioned that to me.”

“It’s cycling wrong,” I said. “Pressure’s off. You’ll lose heat if it drops again. Not a big deal now in July, but you should have it fixed.”