The Innkeeper (The Kinkades #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Lou

“Oh my goodness, your wedding was beautiful,” Mrs. Tisdale exclaimed as she stood at my reception desk. Her eyes were wide and adoring at the photograph on the wall behind me as I checked her in for her stay through the long weekend.

The middle-aged woman had her hair pulled back in a tight, crystal-covered clip, her make-up painted on thick, and she was branded head to toe in designer monograms. From the moment she’d stepped through the front door of the Lamplight Inn, I knew exactly what kind of guest she was. After over a decade in customer service, I wasn’t phased in the slightest when she began telling me exactly what she’d thought of the place.

From the “strikingly historic” red brick exterior, to the “eclectic” interior vintage décor, to the “quite sweet” smell, and right down to the “quaint but tarnished” lamppost that marked the entrance at the gate, no inch of my new business escaped her noticed. And, unfortunately, neither would I.

“Oh, that’s not?—”

“And a baby, too,” she gushed, reaching for the silk scarf around her neck and adjusting it. “How old is he now? Or she? Do you have photos?”

My smile flickered, going from easy to requiring some effort. Unfortunately, I knew where this conversation was headed. I’d been down the same path countless times since I’d put my sister’s wedding photo on display a few months ago.

“Actually, that’s my?—”

“That was recent, wasn’t it?” Her verbalized thoughts continued like a runaway train. “I can tell from your pants.”

My pants?

I looked down to where my white blouse was tucked into the high waist of my loose beige trousers, the outfit completed with a matching oversized beige blazer.

“I wore so much of that style after I had my children. A lifesaver until my body snapped back,” she went on blithely, though if the tight, immovable skin of her face was any indication, her body probably had some help ‘snapping back.’ “But you look great, dear. If it wasn’t for the photo, I’d never think you even had a baby?—”

“That’snotmywedding!”

Guilt flooded my cheeks for my sudden forcefulness, but it was the way her expression dried up and she stared at me blankly that made my heart start to hammer.

Oh, no.

I adjusted the rims of my glasses and forced my nervous smile wider, the ends spearing painfully into the borders of my cheeks.

“That’s my twin sister, Francesca, with her husband, Chandler. They were married here in January and had their son, Logan, back in March.”

The revelation was met with a few punctuated blinks.

“That’s your twin?”

Did she think I was lying?

The notion made my chest tighten. “Yeah.”

She rested her jewel-encrusted fingers on the edge of the counter and narrowed her gaze. “Why do you have your twin’s wedding photo behind your desk?”

“Oh.” I exhaled with a small laugh. “I’m going to be opening the inn for weddings and events starting this fall. Since they got married here, I thought the photo would be a nice advertisement.”

It was a good thought, but in practice, it was turning out to be more misinterpretation than marketing. This wasn’t the first time—wasn’t even the dozenth time—someone had made this same mistake and thought Frankie was me.

It was my own fault. I’d put the photograph front and center in the main hallway so it would get the most views, even from day-trippers who wanted to stop in and see the historic inn, and Frankie and I were identical twins. Of course, I’d thought about the possibility of this happening, so I’d chosen one of their wedding photos, which was a side-profile shot of her and Chandler standing in front of the fireplace in the living room. With the scene and the candles and the side view, I thought it was enough to obscure the similarities. I was wrong.

Frankie thought the whole thing was comical. “Too bad you can’t make the picture talk. Then no one would get confused.” A photo was about the only time and place she and I could get mistaken for one another; as soon as anyone met us in person…Well, it was impossible to conflate my twin’s personality with my own.

Everyone in our family had their own way of describing the two of us. The calm and the storm. Toil and trouble. The truth of it was simple: I lived from a “worst-case scenario” perspective, whereas my sister was more the “you only live once” kind of person.

“Oh, I see.” The tinge of disappointment in Mrs. Tisdale’s voice was pointed, drawing me back to the moment with a sharp prick.

I turned and scanned the set of small cubbies anchored to the wall. My oldest brother, Jamie, was a carpenter—a woodworker— and he’d custom-made the small shelving unit for me to house all ten room keys for the inn. The keys were the vintage metal kinds with deep green tassels attached to the ends.

When I’d bought and remodeled the inn last year, I’d had the option to switch all the door locks over to digital, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so despite all the advantages. I’d gone into this venture wanting to preserve the old inn’s history and restore its prestige as one of the main landmarks in Friendship, and in my opinion, there wasn’t a whole lot of character to a keycard.

“I have you in room 210, Mrs. Tisdale?—”

“So, you’re not married then?”

My pulse tripped. The strength it took to hold my smile now was Olympic. “No, ma’am,” I murmured and stepped out from behind the desk, grabbing a small welcome bag from the shelf for her. “I have a little welcome gift for you. There’s a water bottle in there and a little baggy of fresh chouquettes. They’re a French puff pastry with a little custard inside.”

“Oh, interesting.” I couldn’t contain my sigh of relief when she took the bag from me and peered inside. “I don’t know that I’ve ever had one of those, and I do love Paris in the spring.”

“It’s hard to overshadow the croissant, but I love lesser-known pastries, so you’ll find a different international pastry at breakfast every morning, all made fresh by a local baker for me.” The nervous vise around my throat eased along with the strain of my smile.

“How delightful.” Her genuine excitement managed to flutter the previously immovable muscles on her forehead.

“Here. Let me take your bag, and I can show you to your room,” I offered as she fished out one of the puff pastry balls.

“So, do you have kids, Elouise?”

I was already bent over, reaching for her brown monogrammed duffel bag, when the question made me wince. I hung my head for a second and squeezed my eyes shut. So much for escaping this conversation…

I didn’t know what it was that made people like this. That made strangers breeze along this line of questioning— Are you married? Do you have kids? Do you have a house?— as though that was all life was. A checklist. No one ever asked if you were happy.

And the thing was, I was happy.

Unlike Frankie, who knew from the time we were sixteen that she was going to open her own candle store, I had no idea what I wanted to do. So, while my twin made candles, I started working, first at Mom’s homemade jam company, Stonebar Farms, and then at the local juice bar and coffee shop, The Maine Squeeze.

For eight years, I worked in customer service, and I loved every minute of it. I loved meeting people—meeting visitors. I loved sharing with them the history of Friendship and recommending all my favorite things to do, see, and eat in my hometown. It was through The Maine Squeeze that I met Ella, the lovely Ukrainian baker who made the chouquettes and all the other treats I served. Every Sunday, Ella would deliver a different batch of special pastries to the coffee shop, sharing with me what they were and where they came from. That was where my pastry obsession began.

While I was working at the coffee shop, my second-oldest brother, Kit, needed my help. My choice, not his. Kit was a phenomenal artist. After the trauma and injury he’d sustained in the military and afterward, he painted to cope with the stress and was content to throw his paintings away when he was finished. I couldn’t let that happen. He was too good. They were too good. So, I found a space in town and told him he was going to open an art gallery, and I would manage it during the hours I wasn’t at The Maine Squeeze.

All those years, I worked and lived at home and saved for a dream I might never have.

But then it happened. The idea of restoring the historic Lamplight Inn appeared in front of me like a giant red stop sign, and suddenly, everything clicked into place. I worked and saved, and after some of Frankie’s shenanigans, I bought the old inn from Frankie’s now-husband, Chandler, and my dream became reality.

And I was happy. No boyfriend. No kids. No house. But happy. Shouldn’t that count for something?

Apparently, not to Mrs. Tisdale.

“No, I don’t, and please, call me Lou,” I said, keeping my tone breezy as I picked up her bag and beelined for the main staircase just to the left of the desk.

The front door of the inn opened then and my cousin, Max, stepped inside dressed in a navy suit and holding a huge bouquet of flowers.

“Oh my, what are these?” Mrs. Tisdale exclaimed as he approached.

“Mrs. Tisdale, this is my cousin, Max Hamilton. He owns a local flower shop and delivery service, MaineStems,” I introduced, and Max tipped his head in greeting. “All the fresh flowers here at the inn are catered by his company, and he is responsible for all of the fresh, seasonal blooms here at the inn.”

“They’re absolutely gorgeous.”

In spite of her line of questioning, I was excited for Mrs. Tisdale to see the fresh bouquet waiting in her room. It was the little authenticities that had started to make a name for the business even though I’d only been open less than six months.

“Thank you,” Max rumbled. Ever the gentleman, he paused obligingly and let her smell the blooms as he introduced them all. “We’ve got some roses, mini Callas, Veronica, Delphinium, Alstroemeria…”

While I could go on for hours about all different kinds of lesser-known baked delicacies, flowers were Max’s domain. I was lucky I could tell a rose from a rhododendron.

I inched all the way to the first landing on the stairs before Mrs. Tisdale took the hint and began to follow me.

“I’ll be right back down, Max,” I told him, leading her the rest of the way upstairs .

“Oh, what a lovely idea for fresh flowers,” the woman chortled. “Does he deliver them to your house, too?”

I was sure I would’ve stumbled on the last step if I hadn’t already stopped, seeing the door to room 201 left ajar.

Gritting my teeth, I scurried over and closed it, making a mental note to speak with Mr. Stevens about it when he returned. I saw him rush out of the inn not long ago. He’d looked upset, but even if I hadn’t been in the middle of giving Mrs. Tisdale a tour, he was out of the building before I could check and see if everything was okay.

This wasn’t okay, though. Guests were responsible for closing and locking their doors. If anything happened to his things—if anything was taken from him of all people—I swallowed and shook off the thought.

“Elouise?”

Lou. I flipped my frown and faced her. I was happy.

“I live here at the inn,” I answered and breezed straight to the last door on the right. “Here is your room. If you need anything while you are here, you can press 0 on the room phone which will either connect you to the reception desk or will forward to my cell phone during off hours.”

I unlocked and opened the door, revealing the soothing pastel blue room with brocaded wallpaper and white curtains.

“Oh, wow. And the flowers,” she said, heading straight for the blue-hued bouquet on the nightstand and completely forgetting about me.

I wasn’t sure my sigh of relief could’ve been big enough.

“You’re welcome to leave your key at the desk with me if you are going out. There is a door hanger on the nightstand there that you can place outside your door if you’d like the room cleaned. Otherwise, we won’t disturb you.” I set the key on the small table by the door as I went through my usual spiel, though at a slightly more rapid pace. “You can just give me a call at reception if you’d like fresh linens, and there is also a continental breakfast available every morning from seven to nine a.m. in the dining room. ”

“Wonderful.” She turned back to me, and I saw the moment her distraction started to wane.

“If you have any other questions about your room or things to do in town, feel free to stop by reception, and I’m happy to answer any of them for you. For now, I’ll let you get settled in, Mrs. Tisdale. It’s a pleasure to have you staying with us,” I barreled on, hoping a big smile and friendly tone would obscure how I shut the door before she could respond and rushed for the staircase.

I. Was. Happy.

Before I could even get back to my cousin, the newlywed couple I’d checked in yesterday were waiting at the reception desk for me.

“I’m here. Thank you for your patience,” I said, speeding back to my post with a smile. They were spending their honeymoon here at the inn. “What can I help you with?”

The woman, Cynthia, smiled. “We were thinking about heading to the beach but wanted your recommendation for the best spot that might not be as crowded.”

“Absolutely.”

“And dinner suggestions,” her husband added.

I beamed. “Of course.”

I pulled out an illustrated map of town Kit had made for me, circled the landmark of the inn, and then began to mark my recommendations.

“If you head to your left just outside, past the center square, you’ll see a directional sign pointing out the way to the Friendship lighthouse. Right behind that, there is an unmarked entrance to the beach that only locals really know about since everyone coming in for the day lands in the first parking lot and follows the town’s signs for the main beach entrance.” I dragged my red pen in a circle around the secret entrance and then drew a line along the path down to the rocky shore.

“Wonderful.”

“If you want to picnic on the beach, I’d recommend sandwiches from the shop just across the street, or if you want to do wine and charcuterie, my family owns the Stonebar Farms store right here”—another circle—“and we sell our homemade jams, crackers, a selection of cheeses from Vermont.”

“Oh, Oscar, that sounds amazing.”

I glanced up just in time to catch the look she gave her husband, and my chest twinged.

But I was happy.

“And then, for dinner, I would highly recommend Brazos. It’s a local steakhouse, and it’s just amazing.” I marked that on the map, too, and then capped my pen.

“Sounds great.” Oscar smiled as Cynthia took the map, folded it, and put it in her purse. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” I said and gave them a small wave goodbye, but they were already too engrossed with each other to see it.

Sighing deeply, I finally turned my attention to my cousin, who was working quietly at the table in the entryway, switching out the flowers from a week ago with the new arrangement.

“Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He hugged me and then went back to styling the flowers in the vase until they were perfect. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Perfect.” Even as I said it, I tipped to the side and gave myself a once-over in the vintage, gold-framed mirror that hung on the wall behind the bouquet.

I ran my hands down the braids on either side of my head, the honey-brown ends landing in the middle of my chest, and then straightened the collar of my blazer. Other than the flush of frustration on my cheeks, I looked otherwise unscathed from Mrs. Tisdale’s probing questions.

“I wasn’t expecting you to come today.”

Normally, Max swapped out my flowers every other week, which meant this bouquet was a week early. On top of that, he usually texted to let me know when he was coming. A partially selfish courtesy since I’d make sure to have a cup of coffee and a small bag of pastries to sustain him for the rest of his day of deliveries.

“Yeah. I’m sorry for not texting…” he murmured and stepped back to assess the final product. He looked for long enough I realized there was another reason he was here.

“What’s going on?”

“I actually came early because I have a favor to ask.” He folded his arms, his eyes darting around sheepishly.

“A favor?” My brows peaked. “Of course. Anything.” I wasn’t sure what I had to offer except a room at the inn, but whatever it was, I was happy to do it.

“I know you haven’t finalized the options and packages yet, but I want to book the inn for a wedding.”

My jaw dropped and then snapped shut. “You? A wedding? You’re getting married?” I clamped my mouth shut and then shook my head. “Sorry.” I pushed out a breath. Clearly, Mrs. Tisdale had frazzled my brain. “Not for you. Obviously. I mean—I don’t mean it like that?—”

“Lou.” Max chuckled and put his hand on my shoulder. “Take a breath.”

“I’m sorry. That woman from earlier thought I was Frankie—that it was my wedding photo on the wall, and she wouldn’t stop asking me questions.”

“Ahh. Got it.”

“Please. Continue,” I begged and gave my head a little shake. “So, you want to book the inn for a wedding?”

He smiled again, but unlike earlier, it didn’t quite reach all the way to his eyes. “Yeah.” Even his voice sounded a little…raw. “Todd just proposed to Daisy, and they want to get married in September.”

Todd was Max’s best friend. They’d started MaineStems together, and then Max bought him out when Todd wanted to pursue a different venture.

“This September?” My eyes went wide when he nodded. No wonder he was asking for the inn to host it. September was only four months away. To find a venue with availability in that short of time… “I mean. Sure. Of course. I don’t know what I’ll have ready by then or be able to offer exactly?—”

“It’s fine.” He waved away my worries. “Todd is trying to tell me they’re just going to go to the courthouse, and I keep arguing with him that he’s going to regret that. Daisy deserves more—” He broke off with a shake of his head, something hard flashing in his usually carefree gaze. “Anyway, it’ll be a relief for the both of them if I can offer that they can have it here.”

“Absolutely.”

“Thanks, Lou.” He hugged me again. “Knew I could count on you, and I have no doubt you’ll make it perfect.”

My smile broadened at his confidence. I was happy.

As soon as Max left, I pulled out my laptop and opened up the Weddings folder. Running an inn and having guests was one thing, but being an event venue was a whole different ball of wax. Something I’d found out firsthand when Frankie and Chandler had their wedding here in January. The vendors. The food. The seating and space for dancing…

I opened up my massive spreadsheet of all the local suppliers and vendors I was in the process of reaching out to and scrolled to the next on the list. Coastal Cakes. The owner, Bea, was the daughter-in-law of the Fullers, a local Friendship family who lived close to Mom. I’d just created a new email, my fingers drumming on the keys to try to wake up the idea of what I wanted to say when the front door swung open, hitting the doorstop with a violent thud.

I jumped and stared at the culprit. Mr. Blaze Stevens.

There were many things—so many possibilities I’d tried to plan for and pitfalls I’d tried to avoid since opening the inn—but in none of my scenarios had I planned for him.

Hollywood heartthrob. Celebrity Casanova. And former train wreck.

Back in March, I received an urgent email about a longer-term booking. At that point, we were just coming out of winter, the Lamplight Inn had only been open for about two months, and even with the marketing I’d started, my reservation book was still mostly empty. A long-term reservation seemed like a good opportunity, but still, I was wary. However, when Mr. Stevens offered double my nightly rate, I couldn’t afford to be that cautious, not with the massive loans I had for the mortgage and renovation. So, I agreed.

In my defense, I didn’t know who Blaze Stevens was until he walked through the door. And technically, not even then. It was only when Max’s younger sister, Harper, who’d been here helping me that day, squealed in excitement that I realized I’d missed something. A very big something when a very official non-disclosure agreement was handed to me before he even said hello.

Later, after settling him into the largest suite I had available, Harper gave me the full rundown on movie star Blaze Stevens. Her eyes practically turned to hearts when she’d equated him to her generation’s Leonardo DiCaprio or Brad Pitt. In my mind, with his tousled light brown hair and blue eyes, he looked more like Bradley Cooper.

I tried to find the same appeal she did, but I couldn’t. He was handsome in the way that most movie stars are, and I recognized it the same way I recognized when a piece of furniture was good quality. With an objective appreciation, not a physical attraction.

She went on about the films he’d been in, scolding me for not having watched any of them. She gushed about the characters he’d played and the fandom he’d achieved. Apparently, there was a rumor he’d been at some ski resort out west a couple of months ago, and the place got so flooded with fans and reporters the cops had to be called to secure the place and check IDs, allowing only registered guests to enter. The craziest part? Blaze was never there. Never had plans to go there. Just the rumor of his presence was enough to turn everything upside down.

And that famous movie star was staying at my inn. What would happen to Friendship if the world realized he was here? What would happen to the inn ?

Later that night, after Googling him and reading far too many things I shouldn’t, I panicked over the situation…and all the possible consequences.

What if he didn’t like something? What if something got messed up, or I didn’t fold his sheets the right way, or the coffee wasn’t a precise temperature in the morning?

What if something went wrong, and the reputation of the Lamplight Inn was ruined before it even got off the ground?

All the tabloids were filled with stories about Blaze’s reputation for being a party boy—for being so wasted and getting himself into so much trouble that the rumors were his family’s law firm existed solely for the purpose of covering up his messes.

What if he tried to have a party at the inn? What if he trashed his room? What if he damaged everything I’d just invested all of my hard-earned savings on?

But my panic turned out to be unfounded.

Not only were there no parties, but my famous, long-term guest stayed holed up in his room most of the time and disappeared on the days he wanted me to clean it. And even though I’d strictly informed Harper she wasn’t allowed to ask Mr. Stevens for an autograph or photo, she never even had the opportunity.

He was the first down for breakfast, gathering what he wanted just as I finished putting everything out, and then retreated back to his room. And for lunch and dinner, there was a steady stream of delivery people dropping off food he’d ordered. Chinese on Monday. Mexican on Tuesday. Sushi on Wednesday. Italian on Thursday. And pizza on Friday. On the weekends, he’d switch it up, but invariably, right around seven o’clock, I’d be bringing some takeout bag up to his door and leaving it with a gentle knock.

For two months, I’d had no issues. He’d cause no problems. But for him to leave the way he did earlier in the middle of the afternoon and leave his door open…Even if nothing was wrong, I had to say something about the door.

“Excuse me! Mr. Stevens!” I called after him, taking the stairs two at a time to catch up, only to hear his door slam just before I reached the second floor. Gritting my teeth, I went to the door and knocked. “Mr. Stevens, it’s Lou from reception. If I could have a moment?—”

The door swung open so quickly that I jumped, my hand smacking to my chest as my heart raced.

He looked like a completely different person. Like a method actor taking on a darker role, his soft smile had become a scowl, and his sad eyes had turned to shadows.

“What?” he demanded, but it wasn’t the tense frustration in his tone that worried me. It was the alcohol on his breath. And the half-drunk liter of vodka still in his hand.

I swallowed over the lump in my throat. Stay cool, Lou.

“I’m so sorry to bother you. Did you leave your door open when you left earlier? I came upstairs, and it was ajar, so I just wanted to make sure everything was okay…”

“It’s fine,” he snapped.

“Oh. Okay.” It was not fine.

He shook his head and muttered something I was sure was a curse. His agitated movements gave me a glimpse of the room behind him, and my heart dropped to my stomach. Everything was everywhere. Clothes. Sheets. Garbage. The desk chair was tipped over.

“Mr. Stevens?—”

“Don’t do that,” he snarled and drove a hand through his hair so roughly I half-expected his scalp to start coming apart at the seams.

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

I shivered. As afraid as I wanted to be—felt like maybe I should be—the emotion that surged inside me was sympathy. This man wasn’t okay. After seeing what my brother, Kit, went through when he came home, I recognized trauma. I recognized when someone was haunted by demons they thought they couldn’t control and feared they’d never escape. And I recognized it now on Blaze Stevens.

Something had happened, and he was suffering, and I just…wanted to help. Maybe if I kept him talking…

“I’m sorry. What do I look like?”

“Like you’re not surprised I fucked up again,” he rasped, his voice catching. “God, you’re just like my brother.”

And then the door slammed in my face.

His brother? I didn’t even know he had a brother, let alone who his brother was. And what look?

I shivered, hearing the distinct sounds of stomping and cursing from inside the room. Rolling my lip between my teeth, I raised my hand, tempted to knock again, but then thought better of it. The more we tried to coddle Kit when he was struggling, the more he pushed us away. Maybe in the morning, I’d bring him up a tray for breakfast and see if he was more willing to talk. Sometimes, people just needed to be alone.

I retreated back to my desk, and between the wedding vendor worksheet and attending to other guest needs— thankfully, not Mrs. Tisdale’s— it seemed like the next time I looked up, it was going on eight o’clock.

I hung up the phone, my eyes darting to the ceiling, hearing another thump from room 201 above me. What was he doing up there? I didn’t want to bother Mr. Stevens, but something wasn’t right. Our interaction earlier was so different than how he’d been in the past. Not that I’d spoken all that much to the movie star during his stay, but he’d never been…looked…smelled like that.

Space had been a good idea until the intermittent thumping began as I started making calls to potential vendors, making me wonder if the infamous actor had turned into an ogre while left alone in his room.

The deepest breath wasn’t enough to settle or stop my resolution: I had to go up there. At this point, it wasn’t wrong to want a well-check…on him and my furniture.

And I could bring some water bottles with me. Maybe that would soften the intrusion. Oh, and a bag of chouquettes. Those would definitely help.

The kitchen was at the back of the building, just underneath my bedroom on the floor above. I grabbed two bottles and the box of remaining pastries when I heard the thud of a door closing. I rushed back toward the reception desk as heavy footfalls descended the stairs. No, not descended. He collided down the staircase. Into the wall. Then the railing. Then the wall again. Like a bowling ball bouncing back and forth between bumpers along the lane. Only bowling balls didn’t curse with each impact.

No, no, no. What was he doing?

My feet moved quicker, a familiar hot and dizzying sensation growing inside me. It was like all the times Frankie had gotten into trouble when we were growing up, and I knew she was about to get caught. She was always cool as a cucumber, but I, on the other hand, would start to shake and sweat. I would panic for her, knowing a consequence was coming her way. Only this time, my panic was for me.

“Mr. Stevens?” The pitch of my voice was higher, my lungs absorbing only quick, shallow breaths.

There was an even louder thud followed by a pained groan and then the distinct sound of either a body or a sack of potatoes falling down the stairs.

“Oh my god!” I cried out, the water bottles sliding from my damp palms and rolling on the floor as I rushed to him. “Mr. Stevens!” My knees would hate me tomorrow for the way I crashed onto them by his side. “Mr. Stevens, are you alright?” I grabbed his shoulders. No response. “Mr. Stevens? It’s Miss Kinkade. You fell… ”

Did he pass out?

“Mr. Stevens, can you hear me?”

No response.

Was he dead?

I shoved my trembling hand under his nose and felt the weak rush of air. Not dead. But not moving either. Oh god. I went to my desk, my hand shaking so badly it was a miracle I was able to dial 911.

“Hi, yes. A man—one of the guests at my inn—just fell down the steps. He’s breathing, but I can’t wake him,” I stammered to the operator, my sentences just as choppy as the breaths I took.

“Did he hit his head?”

I swiveled my gaze. There was blood on the floor. Blood on the side of his head. How had I not seen… “Yes. There’s blood. A lot of blood—” I broke off with a cry and clutched the desk like it was the only thing holding me upright.

“I have an ambulance on its way to your location. Don’t try to move him in case there’s an injury to his neck.”

“O-okay.” The line clicked off.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. I covered my mouth with my hand, my heart pounding like an avalanche in my chest. Oh god. This was the bad thing—the thing that would ruin the reputation of the inn. Beloved Hollywood actor falls and dies in historic Maine inn.

“He’s not dead. He’s not dead,” I repeated over and over, a kind of mindless chant to will it into reality as I tried to make another call. I was still shaking so badly that I tapped on Max’s name instead of my oldest brother, Jamie’s.

“Hello?”

“Max. Something happened.” I kneeled back beside the unconscious man, resting my hand gingerly on top of his. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t know how else to help.

“What? What’s wrong, Lou?”

“One of my guests…he fell down the stairs. Th-the ambulance is coming. I need to go to the hospital. If he sues me, there’s no thing I’ll be able to do. He’s famous, and I don’t have that kind of money. Oh, god,” I gasped, the memory of what I’d read months ago hitting me like a punch to the stomach. “His family are lawyers, Max. If he’s injured or brain dead or paralyzed—If he dies?—”

“Lou,” Max’s voice hit me like a wall, stopping me from going completely over the edge into the sea of worst-case scenarios. “I’m coming there now. Just keep breathing.”

“Max…”

“I’ll be right there. It’s all going to be okay.”

I nodded, but no more sounds could come out. My cell landed on the floor, and I cupped my hand over my mouth, tears threatening to spill.

I should’ve knocked again. I should’ve knocked and tried to talk to him—tried to help him. What if this is all my fault?

I stood rooted to the same spot in the hallway, my mind spiraling a mile a minute for the entire five minutes it took the ambulance to get there. The whole time, Blaze didn’t move. Didn’t wake up.

The only small miracle I was afforded was that none of the other guests were disturbed until the sirens blared outside, and by then, Max rushed in behind the EMTs.

“Are you okay?” He took my shoulders, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the paramedics as they assessed Blaze and then started to put a brace around his neck.

“Fine,” I said when Max shook me again. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, my word. What is happening?” Mrs. Tisdale exclaimed, standing on the landing of the stairs in her pink silk robe.

“Can you handle her—them? I have to go…” I don’t think I waited for Max’s confirmation before I moved around him and followed the EMTs and the gurney out the front door.

I quickened my pace down the stone walk in front of the inn to where the ambulance was parked, reaching the curb just as they lifted Blaze into the back.

“Is he okay?” I rushed in front of the one EMT .

“He’s not responsive. Until he gets to the hospital and the doctors there can run tests, I can’t really give you much more information,” he said apologetically, shutting one of the doors.

“Can I go with him to the hospital?” I said, standing in the way of him closing the other door. “Please. I have to go with him.”

I had to know he was going to be okay. I didn’t even know who his emergency contact was or how to contact them.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. The only people I can bring in the ambulance are family.”

My jaw went slack. Everything slowed until I was sure time had come to a standstill, just waiting for my next move. I couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t breathe. And the only thing I could think about was my sister. My wild, crazy, brazen twin sister who’d looked me in the eye when she fake-haunted my inn and told me—warned me, “I think you could pretend if your life…if your dream depended on it.”

What would Frankie do?

“Ma’am, are you alright?” A hand gripped my shoulders as the world started to tip.

Yes. No.

“Ma’am,” he repeated, just as my chin started to dip and the gears of my tongue fumbled to catch. “Are you alright? Are you his girlfriend?”

“Yes,” I answered before he finished—an answer meant for the first question, but he assumed it was for both.

“That’s all you had to say. Here, climb up in there with him.” He guided me into the ambulance where the miscommunication gagged me into a lie.

I’d let him think I was Blaze Stevens’s girlfriend because the future of my inn depended on it.