Page 66 of The Accidental Innkeeper

“Who,” I gasped, hauling the thing onto the landing, “packs like this.”

I parked the suitcase outside their room, wiped my forehead, and stared at the remaining luggage downstairs in my mind’s eye.

There were two more.

I laughed, which came out slightly unhinged.

Trip two was worse. Trip three was a personal attack. By the time I wrestled the final suitcase into place, my face was on fire, my back screamed, and I smelled like panic and effort.

I stood there, my hands on my knees, breathing like I’d just escaped a burning building.

This was unsustainable. I couldn’t keep this up. I needed help. Real help. Someone full-time, someone strong, someone who could lift bodies—I mean suitcases—without breaking a sweat.

I turned and headed back down, my legs jelly-soft but feeling pretty damn good that I pulled it off. All on my own, thank you very much. Yes, it was hard. Yes, I was sweating and looked like I wrestled for a living.

But I did it. Me.

The dining room came into view. Lola sat at a table, coffee in hand, perfectly composed. Across from her sat Helen, already settled in like she owned the place, which, politically speaking, she sort of did.

I slowed.

“…Pearls & Pints is in six days,” Helen was saying, stirring her coffee. “The town is already buzzing.”

Lola smiled. “Oh, I adore a good buzz. Especially when it involves men and alcohol.”

Helen sighed. “The inn needs to be ready.”

Lola lifted her mug. “It will be. She’s scrappy.”

Helen’s gaze shifted right to me.

I stood there, red-faced, sweaty, my hair escaping its restraints.

“Oh,” said Helen pleasantly. “There you are.”

I straightened. “Hi.”

Her eyes flicked down. Then back up. “Rough morning?”

Lola smirked. “You look like you wrestled a handsome Italian all night and didn’t tap out.”

I wiped my hands on my pants. “It was a suitcase. I won.”

Helen set her cup down. “Good. Because Pearls & Pints doesn’t wait for anyone.” She reached into her bag and slid a folded sheet across the table. “Here’s the arrival schedule. The inn will host the welcome reception and cocktail hour.” She tapped the page. “Light lunch on day one. Mostly seafood. Nothing messy. And absolutely no experimental anything.”

Right. No pressure. I forced a smile. “Yes. Of course.”

Lola snorted into her coffee. “Listen to her. Handing out schedules before nine a.m. That’s not planning, Helen. That’s a lifestyle.”

Helen didn’t look up. “Someone has to run things.”

Lola smiled. “And someone has to make it tolerable.”

I glanced toward the Harringtons, both of them studying the breakfast menu with faintly pinched expressions, like they weren’t thrilled with the options.

Yeah. They were going to be a problem.

Heavy footsteps sounded behind me.