Page 57 of The Accidental Innkeeper

Whoever had last worked on this panel should be barred from touching electricity ever again. Possibly from touching tools. Possibly from being left alone with crayons.

Wires crossed where they shouldn’t cross. Labels had been written in three different handwritings. A strip of electrical tape was doing a job electrical tape was never meant to do. One breaker was marked maybe kitchen??? with three question marks like even the guy who wrote it had lost confidence halfway through.

“Christ.” I exhaled slowly through my nose. If this were one of my flips, I’d fire the electrician on the spot. After getting my money back. Then I’d fire him again for emotional damages.

I crouched and pulled the panel cover fully open, careful not to disturb anything until I understood the mess. Old cloth-wrapped wiring ran alongside newer plastic-sheathed cable, spliced together in places that made my jaw tighten. Some of the newer runs were clean and thoughtful. Whoever had done that part knew what they were doing.

Other parts looked like Edna had stood there with a cigarette, pointing and saying, “It works. Don’t touch it.”

And the electrician had listened.

I traced a line with my finger, following it along the wall, over a beam, and then back into the panel—original wiring, old as the house, still intact. It wasn’t pretty, but it was solid. Someone back then had built things to last because failure wasn’t an option.

I respected that.

Then there were the shortcuts. The additions. The “temporary” fixes that had become permanent by sheer force of time. The kind of things inspectors hated and owners ignored until something sparked or screamed.

I checked the grounding—better than I expected. Then I checked the load balance—worse than I hoped.

I leaned back on my heels and scanned the basement, my eyes adjusting to the low light. Pipes ran overhead, some replaced, some original. The boiler sat nearby, humming now instead of shrieking like it had this morning. At least that problem had been straightforward.

The panel wasn’t.

And somehow, despite all of it, the place was still standing. Lights on. Heat working. No scorch marks. No burn smell.

Which meant one thing. Someone, probably Edna, had known exactly how far she could push things without crossing the line.

I stood and rolled my shoulders, tension settling in. This wasn’t a quick fix. It wasn’t even a clean one. It was a careful, methodical untangling that would take time and attention. Time I didn’t usually give to places like this.

I pulled my phone from my back pocket and started taking pictures. Then I flipped to my notes: fix, upgrade, reroute.

“Fuck.” That was already more than I’d planned. And it would cost thousands. Real money. The kind people didn’t casually have lying around, especially someone who’d just inherited an old inn and a ticking clock.

I leaned a shoulder against the concrete wall and scrolled through the photos again. Bad splices, a mess hidden behind a working system. The kind of thing that waited until the worst possible moment to fail.

My mind flicked back upstairs without asking permission. New York on the floor of the den, her hair loose and face flushed with sweat at her temple. Caught between stubbornness and gravity, refusing to give either one the win. She’d looked up at me like she’d been surprised by her own resilience, like she hadn’t planned on needing help but accepted it anyway.

That look stuck. It had no business sticking.

Damnit.

I shook my head once and locked my phone, shoving it back into my pocket like the thought had been a loose wire I’d just taped over. This was work—a job, a client who needed things fixed before a deadline that made sane people say no and walk away.

I didn’t get involved with clients. I didn’t blur lines. I fixed problems, collected payment, and moved on.

And I definitely didn’t stand in basements thinking about women who looked better sweaty and furious than most people did dressed up.

I pushed off the wall and went back to the panel, grounding myself in the hum of the system, the weight of the tools, and the work that needed doing.

This place needed attention. That was all. Anything else was a distraction. And distractions were expensive.

I moved deeper into the basement, following another run. Newer wiring here. Clean install. Staples properly spaced. Someone had cared at least once, probably during one of the last renovations. I could work with this, build from here instead of tearing everything out.

The inn wasn’t a disaster. It was layered, patched, adjusted. Held together by stubbornness and just enough skill to keep it alive. That counted for something.

I straightened and glanced toward the stairs as footsteps crossed the floor above me.

New York’s voice drifted down a moment later. “Yes,” she said. “Next weekend.” A pause. “I do have availability.” Another pause, longer this time. I pictured her flipping a page, her pen already moving. “Pearls & Pints Bachelor Weekend, yes. That one. Two nights. Friday through Sunday. One queen room.” A pause and then, “No, breakfast is included. Coffee starts early.”