Page 78 of The Accidental Innkeeper

“I don’t usually do that,” I blurted. Nope. I usually had a lot more self-control. And a brain. And a firm policy against kissing men in inherited inns like I’d lost my damn mind. The only explanation was temporary insanity. Acute. Environmentally triggered. Brought on by rave reviews, adrenaline, and the fact that the universe had clearly decided to test me today.

Dust-guy lifted a brow. “Kiss people in dens?”

“Men who are… you.” I waved a vague hand in his direction. “You know… looking like that… and all… competent. Annoyingly calm. With hands.”

His mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “You noticed my hands.”

“I noticed a lot of things,” I told him, trying to keep my eyes from staring at his crotch again. Because, well, if I did that twice in a week, I needed to be locked up.

That earned me a quiet laugh. He shook his head once, like he was trying to reset his brain. Then he ran his fingers through his tangled dark blond hair. “This is a bad idea.”

No shit. “Yes,” I agreed. “A spectacularly bad one.”

“And you’ve barely had time to breathe,” he said. “You’ve been here a week. You’re already neck-deep in repairs, guests, and whatever madness this place specializes in.”

“I thrive in madness,” I said automatically. “I marinate in it. It’s basically my brand.”

He gave me a look. Yeah, he thought I was a mental case.

“Okay,” I amended. “I flail in madness. Loudly. With hand gestures.”

He exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering before fading into something more serious. I noticed how fast he could switch his emotions like that. Only someone with extreme control and practice could do that.

“And you’ve barely had time to settle,” he said. “You’ve been here a week. This place alone is a lot.”

“I’ve handled worse,” I said. “Briefly. Poorly. With lots of wine. I’m a disaster fueled by caffeine.”

He studied me for a moment, really looked at me, like he was filing something away instead of brushing it off. “I don’t think you’re a disaster.”

Huh… I suffered from a bit of a brain fart right there. My mind was completely blank. Like… yeah… I got nothing.

He stepped back another inch, as if catching himself. “I should go,” he repeated. Firmer this time.

“Yes,” I said. “Before I lose all remaining dignity and tackle you like this is a contact sport.”

He frowned. “What?”

“Metaphorically,” I added. “Mostly.” What the hell was I saying?

He watched me for a moment longer and then his gaze dipped to my mouth. Just for a beat, and my face flamed like I’d stuck it in Dottie’s oven.

Damn. If his gaze alone did this to me, what other superpowers did he have?

Dust-guy cleared his throat, like a man trying to reboot his operating system.

“I should…” He stopped and shifted his weight. “I should give you this before I go.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Then another. And another.

I blinked. “Is this… paperwork?” Of course it was. Why else would he be here this morning, other than to give me his bill.

“Yes.” He handed them over. I took them, my fingers brushing his, which was deeply unnecessary and extremely necessary.

I flipped open the first page. Printed photos were clipped to it, grainy shots of the roofline, a close-up of cracked shingles, a corner of flashing pulled loose. Handwritten notes ran along the margins in neat, precise lettering. Replace within six months. Not urgent. Watch after winter.

I turned the page. More photos. A fuse box. A loose wire circled in pen. Easy fix.

Another page, plumbing under the sink, a valve marked with a careful arrow. Minor leak. Tighten.