Page 94 of Once Upon a Fall

“This is just too perfect,” I finally tell him when I calm myself. “An entire week at a premium price that I definitely needed to pay off the loan, and . . . it’s gone.”

“Could you re-list it? See if someone will reserve it last minute?”

I nod. He’s right. I need to pull myself together.

“Yeah, I can do that. And if no one does, then I’ll just . . . figure it out.”

Well, this just totally ruined my goodbye to Dean. Maybe it was for the best. My speech was a little syrupy, to be honest.

“Or,” Dean says, looking at me, “I could take it.”

“What?” I look at him. “Dean, no.” I shake my head. “You don’t need to do that. You’ve done so much for me.”

“Why not?” he says, his face earnest.

“Because, Dean. That’s ridiculous. I’ll just deal with it.”

“It would save me the time driving back and forth to Burlington.”

I snort out a laugh. “So, I’d be doing you a favor?”

He shrugs. “Well, yeah.”

We stare at each other.

Then, I do something I had rehearsed in my head but never actually planned to do. I grab his face in my hands and kiss him.

It’s quick. I mean to make it a peck. But Dean’s hands go to my hips, and there’s a bit of lip-locking happening that I’m not mad about.

“Thank you,” I say when I pull away.

He gives me a smirk. “Is that how you plan to greet all your guests today?”

“Yep,” I say with a nod. “Every single one.”

He chuckles. “So . . . I’m staying?”

I smile. “The room is yours if you want it.”

“I’ll go get my stuff.”

I watch him walk away, trying very hard not to think about the kiss. Or the fact that he’s staying. It doesn’t change anything. He needs a room. I have a room. That’s all this is.

Still, I can’t stop smiling.

Dean

The prince was mistaken for a bellhop and a concierge. He did not correct anyone.

Rosie’s mom’s name was Sally.

I found that out last night when Rosie told me she was leaving to be with her family for the anniversary of her mom’s death. It’s a sweet tradition, but she dropped it into the middle of explaining that the teenager she hired—Willa Pickle—would be watching the inn while she was gone, and that I should make myself at home.

“What was her name?” I asked, after her ramble.

“Huh?” she asked.

“Your mom?”