A Minor Inn-Convenience (Oaklawn Coffee #2)

1. One

One

Lennon

I ’m staring at the listing again.

As I click around on my laptop, waiting for the realtor to arrive, I’m sucked right back into the first time I toured the old house.

White paint peeling off every railing, a wrap-around porch that could kill you, and squirrels living in the attic. It was perfect. It is perfect. And while the price tag still makes me want to respond to the very fake Instagram message offering to be my sugar daddy, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

This place is my dream.

I can see right through all the house’s faults and imagine it as the perfect bed-and-breakfast–the business I’m about to call my own.

The glass door to the coffee shop opens, pulling me out of my thoughts. A cool breeze whips through the tables, rustling papers on a table near the front. That autumn air mingles with the scent of espresso and chai, causing me to breathe a little deeper–to feel more relaxed.

That is until I look up.

That deep breath leaves me in an irritated exhale as soon as I see him.

Dark hair styled perfectly atop his head, eyes framed by a pair of glasses, and an irritatingly put-together outfit that screams I am an English professor.

Because he is.

But does he need to advertise it so plainly?

Noah Ashwood, my best friend’s boyfriend’s best friend, strides toward the counter and offers the barista a devastating smile. And if the description of how I know Noah isn’t irritating enough, then the front-row seat to the petite blonde eating up every ounce of charm the guy exudes is.

It’s like his charming demeanor follows him in a thick cloud.

Something akin to a cloud of foul body odor.

If Ellis, my best friend who unintentionally connected me with this fuckface, was here in the same situation, she would ignore him. It’s wise to ignore the man who single-handedly ruined the best date you’ve ever been on for literally no reason aside from his own pride.

It’s the smart thing to do.

The mature thing to do.

As Noah grabs his cup and turns on his heel, making to walk directly past my table, I remind myself that ignoring Noah Ashwood is the noble thing.

Yet–

“What an unpleasant surprise.” I roll my eyes, returning my gaze to the laptop in front of me, clicking randomly on the screen to look busy and indifferent. With how low the brightness is on my laptop, I’m met with the vague outline of my green eyes, appropriately pissed off, the red hair tumbling down my shoulder in a singular braid, and the freckles smattered across my face.

My mother used to call my freckles cute .

It’s unfortunate because I’m trying to exude anger and judgment. Not cute.

Squinting against the low brightness of my computer, I try to gaze upon the images of the house again. The much younger version of myself would be proud to see every detail carved into the wooden banister–the original hardwood floors that hold history– stories . When I toured the house, I asked as many questions as possible. I wanted to know about the families that had lived there–very obviously giant families because six bedrooms happens to be excessive. It’s as if the walls held onto those stories and were vibrating with the need to release them and put them out in the open.

Or maybe that was a structural issue I ignored. I can’t be sure.

Unfortunately, the realtor hadn’t known much about the home’s history, but seeing as I’m meeting him any minute, the chance that he learned something is high.

I’m also itching for an opportunity to share my excitement about my new purchase. It’s not like I can call home. My father had always hoped I’d choose a different route–something unrelated to hospitality. With my older sister’s success as a doctor, I seem to be the family disappointment. We must be related because we both love taking care of people. I just don’t want the stakes to be as high as death.

Looking at the listing, my pride swells. It’s a badge of honor–a feeling I’m trying like hell to preserve. However, that pride is dimmed by the presence of one very haughty English professor.

“Well, if it isn’t the fire-breathing dragon herself.” Noah offers a wide smile when I give up and glance in direction, his dark eyebrow cocked as he grips his giant coffee in one hand. Somehow, the insult sounds like flirting when it rolls off his tongue.

I hate it. And honestly, who needs a coffee that large, anyway?

I blink at him, casting judgment over every inch of his tall frame. Noah’s not as tall as his friend Griffin. Maybe six-foot? I’m hoping my gaze makes him feel a solid five-foot-three. Just shorter than I am, so he knows I think he’s wretched.

“Careful,” I say, leaning back casually in my chair. “I bite.”

“Sounds enticing.”

All I feel is hot disgust. It sits in the pit of my stomach like a heavy weight, holding me to my chair and preventing me from standing and throwing a punch at his perfect fucking face.

“That’s disgusting.”

Noah chuckles before taking a sip of his drink. “What are you doing here, Lennon?”

“Meeting someone,” I supply, watching as the wheels turn in his brain. I wonder if he’s thinking about ruining another date.

About five months ago, Ellis had an art show, and I, like any normal human being, brought a date I’d met on one of those weird dating apps. Everything was going well until Noah jumped in–making asshole comments and practically growling at the man like a feral dog.

At least, that’s what it felt like. I’d only caught Noah’s hateful glances during introductions and the tail end of their argument on the patio just before everything imploded.

My date left early.

Then he ghosted.

And now I fantasize about digging a massive hole in my backyard, throwing Noah’s body into it, and leaving him to die.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” Noah asks, and it’s so casually friendly I almost feel bad for plotting his murder.

Almost.

I sigh, tapping my screen again and staring at the massive white house I’m about to purchase. I can’t lie to the guy. Lying makes me uncomfortable—makes my skin itch. “My realtor,” I answer before glancing up at the door one last time–hoping that said realtor will save me from this unpleasant conversation. “I bought an old house just outside of the city.” My face scrunches. “Well, I am about to buy the house. Thus, the waiting on the realtor thing.”

“New place to live?” he asks, and my eyes snap to his.

“I’m converting it into a bed-and-breakfast. It’s been my lifelong dream to convert an old house into a space where I can lure innocents and breathe my fire at them.” The way my excitement leaks out–the sheer desire to have someone, anyone, acknowledge my accomplishment brings an uncomfortable wash of shame. It just screams daddy issues , and for that, I hate myself. I try to hide my weakness by raising a brow in challenge–daring him to diminish my success.

He lifts a shoulder, seemingly unaware. “Makes sense.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence, one that rings in my ears and makes my head hurt. I’m still waiting for him to jump into some well-thought-out thesis about why owning a bed-and- breakfast is the worst kind of business. I’m waiting for him to tell me I’m not cut out for hospitality and encourage me to use my business degree on something far more logical, like a well-paying office job.

It’s what my father would say.

My sister, too.

Fuck .

Instead, Noah just looks at me, and something pained flickers in his brown gaze, causing me to wince. I can’t handle pity. If he sees through my charade, I will insult him into oblivion and ponder going to therapy for my shit coping skills.

“Listen,” he starts, the vulnerability in his voice making it clear that whatever he is about to say might not be about me at all.

Oh god, I cannot have this kind of serious conversation in this coffee shop. How does one comfort a grown man? Will he expect me to pat his back? Wipe his tears?

“About the art show.”

Relief floods through me at the fact that he isn’t about to cry in my lap or some weird shit. Annoyance is the next emotion to take center stage, and that bitch is a whore for attention whenever I’m around Professor Ashwood. I hold up my hand.

“I’m going to stop you right there, Ricky Bobby. Slow down because I don’t want to talk about the art show. You were, and still are an asshole. I’d like you to leave me alone. You’re lucky you got this much conversation out of me at all.”

Noah winces. “Ouch.”

The espresso machine sounds again from behind the counter, murmuring swirling in the coffee shop from the people who surround us–completely oblivious to everything that just happened. Outside, everything I love about early autumn happens to be repressed by the weird Midwestern heat that happens to linger this time of year–sticking around like an unwanted pest.

Sort of like Noah.

Something about the English Professor needles me and puts me off balance. It could be the way he always appears so polished–like a pillar of perfection. He walks around with an air of success and accomplishment with his fancy clothes and his fancy job. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here trying like hell to convince myself and my family I’m just like that.

Put together. Successful. Unbothered. Confident.

The man picks at every insecurity I try so hard to hide.

Clearing my throat, I shift uncomfortably. Lucky for me, I see Peter walk through the door, a wad of papers in his hands as he makes a B-line for my table.

Saved by the realtor, I guess.

“Lennon,” Peter’s deep voice cuts in before Noah can formulate a response. “So glad to see you. Are you ready to get this done?”

“Beyond,” I answer before my eyes cut to Noah. “My acquaintance was just leaving.”

Peter looks visibly uncomfortable, but I don’t care.

Not when Noah nods once, mutters a few parting words, and strides out the door of the coffee shop.

My eyes linger on his back when he goes, and I make a note to text Ellis and tell her we are never coming to the coffee shop on Oaklawn again. I don’t care that she likes the homemade pop-tarts. We simply cannot risk running into Professor Ashwood.

Peter clears his throat, sitting across from me at the table, and I push the distraction from my mind.

At least–

I don’t think of Noah until after I sign the mountain of initial paperwork.

Unfortunately, once I leave, the dumbass finds his way into the forefront of my brain, and I quickly divert the thoughts into something more murderous.

It’s far safer than remembering how his ass looked in his trousers.