Page 69 of The Accidental Innkeeper

My jaw tightened. What the fuck was I doing? The roof was my job today. The inspection. The list. The fixes. That was where my attention belonged.

I took a breath, forced my gaze back to the shingles in front of me, and kept walking.

Voices rose again from below. A dog barked, deep and excited. Nails skittered on wood. A leash snapped tight. Someone laughed, breathless.

I smiled. Boomer.

New York’s voice followed right after, calm as a hand on the back of a neck. “Okay, okay. Yes, yes. I love you too. Good boy, Boomer.”

Boomer barked again.

She was all in on him. Talking to him like he mattered, like he was the only thing in front of her.

I frowned at the shingle under my boot. That was new.

And I definitely wasn’t jealous of a dog.

Irritated, I took another step along the ridge, my jaw tight. I had rules for a reason. Don’t get involved. Don’t get distracted, especially not with clients. I forced my focus back to the job. No time for mistakes.

A violent gust came in off the water and pushed at my balance. I adjusted my footing. My boot slid half an inch…

The world dropped in my gut for one sharp second. My hand shot out and slapped down on the shingles, my palm flat and body low.

Shit.

My heart punched once, hard. I stayed still until the roof stopped feeling like it was moving under me. Then I looked down at my waist.

No harness. No line. No rope.

My throat went tight—rookie mistake, a stupid mistake, one I wouldn’t forgive in my own crew. I’d fired guys for things like that. Safety wasn’t optional. It wasn’t a suggestion. Gravity didn’t care if you had experience. Gravity waited until you got comfortable.

I swallowed and forced air back into my lungs.

My head had drifted. That’s what happened. To the sounds below. To that voice. To that woman trying to run an inn and not drown.

My focus slipped, just a little. And a little nearly killed me.

Fuck.

I crouched there, my hand still on the shingles, and let the anger settle into something useful. “Get it together,” I growled.

I couldn’t afford another mistake. Not up here. Not ever.

I shifted my weight inch by inch, testing the roof before trusting it, and then eased back toward the ladder. Metal rang softly as I found the rungs. I took my time, focused, just steady movement until my boots hit the grass again.

I went straight to my truck, opened the back, and pulled out the safety line with harness, anchor strap, and carabiner. I tightened it down with practiced speed and anchored it to a solid point. Then I climbed again.

This time, the roof could gust all it wanted. It would get a fight.

Up top, I finished the circuit. More pictures. More notes. One corner had a section where shingles were nearing the end—not an emergency today but soon. That kind of thing became an emergency in a hard storm.

I marked it.

When I came back down, I didn’t linger. I carried the ladder around front, stowed it, and went in through the side entrance.

The hallway smelled faintly of coffee and cleaning solution—fresh, lived-in, not hiding anything. I checked the exterior door frame on instinct. It dragged slightly at the bottom corner. I knelt, tightened the hinge screws, and adjusted the strike plate by a hair.

The door closed cleanly. I didn’t announce it.