Page 65 of The Accidental Innkeeper

The man shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting toward the windows. “Honey…”

She cut him off with a look. “We were very clear.”

Of course you were. Crystal. Like a manifesto.

I disliked this woman and her face. I disliked her voice and her stupid perfect hair and eyebrows. But this was a business. And I was a professional. Or at least, I could fake it in short bursts.

“I do have you booked in 302,” I said, pleasant and steady. “It’s the only sea-view room currently available. It’s what you agreed.”

Her lips pressed together. “I don’t remember.”

“I understand,” I said. Not really. “The only other option with immediate availability is a ground-floor room.”

There it was. The pause. The internal calculation. The horror. A ground floor with no views.

Her mouth tightened. “Fine. We’ll take 302. I hope this place lives up to the reviews.”

Ouch.

But there it was. Victory, small and deeply satisfying.

“Wonderful,” I said, smiling. Inside my head, I imagined sticking out my leg and tripping her, watching her go down spread-eagle on the floor. It was quite satisfying.

Her posture relaxed immediately. Amazing how people softened when they thought they were winning.

“And our luggage,” she added, snapping her fingers at me. “It should be brought up.”

Yup. I hated the bitch. “Yes. Of course.” I smiled again. “Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable in the dining room while I take care of that?”

I gestured toward the back just as Dottie appeared like a benevolent kitchen witch, already holding a coffee pot.

“Morning,” Dottie said cheerfully. “Coffee?”

The woman’s eyes lit up. “I hope it’s strong and not watered down.”

Dottie looked at me and smiled. “It is.”

They were ushered to a round table with four chairs, Dottie already pouring like this was a performance she’d rehearsed. I turned toward the front door. Their suitcases sat just inside the entryway, plural, large, black, and hard-sided. The kind of luggage you used when you planned to be away for a while or dispose of evidence.

“Awesome,” I said. “Nothing like surprise homicide cardio before breakfast.”

I crouched and grabbed the handle of the first one. It did not budge.

I tried again, engaging what I hoped were core muscles. It lifted exactly half an inch and then slammed back down with a thud that echoed through the lobby.

“Oh, come on,” I hissed. “What is in you. Rocks. Dumbbells. Bodies?”

I glanced around. No help. Maria was upstairs. Dottie was pouring coffee. Lola was… Lola. And Dust-guy was nowhere in sight.

My brain helpfully supplied an image of him lifting this suitcase with one arm while sipping coffee with the other. Muscles. Shoulders. Effortless competence. Me watching his tight ass as he climbed those steps…

I shook my head. “Nope. Not thinking about that.”

“I can do this.” I remained resolute because I had no one else to help me. I hauled the suitcase upright and tipped it onto its wheels. The stairs loomed ahead.

My arms shaking with effort, I dragged it up. Step by step. Thump. Thump. Thump.

By the second floor, my arms felt like my bones were made of Jell-O. By the third, I was sweating through my shirt, my hair sticking to my neck and breath coming out in dramatic little huffs like I was training for something Olympic.