Page 6 of The Accidental Innkeeper

“Ah,” I said, focusing. “So you buy problems and make them pretty.”

“Something like that.”

I glanced at him. “Do you also rescue stranded, sweaty New Yorkers as a side hustle?”

“Only the dramatic ones.”

I snorted before I could stop myself and then immediately regretted it because laughing shifted my body and, yep. Still sweaty.

I crossed my arms tighter and stared out the window, heat creeping up my neck.

This was bad. Not the car. Not the town.

Dust-guy.

He drove in easy silence for a minute, like he was letting the town do the talking. Or he was trying hard not to comment on the fact that I smelled like road death.

“So,” he said casually. “You planning on keeping the inn?”

Ah. There it was.

I shifted in my seat, which was a mistake because sweaty leather is not forgiving. “Why?” I asked, keeping my tone light while my brain immediately went to defensive positions.

He shrugged, eyes still on the road. “Just curious.”

“That’s not an answer.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “You don’t strike me as someone who does things halfway. The inn’s a big undertaking.”

I narrowed my eyes at the windshield. “You’ve known me for, what, ten minutes? Half of which I was covered in dust.”

“Still counts.”

I rolled my eyes. “I haven’t decided yet.” And that was the honest truth. I mean, what the hell did I know about inns? Running an inn? Absolutely nothing, that’s what.

He nodded like he’d expected that. “Figured.”

“And before you ask,” I added, “no one has offered me a suitcase of cash for it. If that’s where this is going.”

That finally earned me a glance. “I wasn’t going to ask.”

“Sure.”

“I was going to ask if you’d sell because the place needs work. A lot of work.”

I felt my spine stiffen. There it was again. That word. Work.

“Excuse you,” I said. “It’s old, not falling apart.” Was it falling apart? Shit. I had no idea.

“I didn’t say falling apart,” he said calmly. “I said work. And you don’t look like the type that works in construction.”

Oh. Oh no, he did not just say that.

I turned slowly in my seat, the leather creaking beneath my sweaty ass like it was bracing for impact. “Excuse me?”

He glanced over, clearly confused by the sudden temperature spike. “What?”

“You don’t look like the type,” I repeated, sweet as acid. “Wow. That’s bold. Incorrect. And deeply sexist.”