Inn Love Again (Amor Inn #1)

Chapter 1

Tabitha

“What are these bills doing here?” I bent over to grab a pile of paperwork lying on the stone floor of Mum and Dad’s kitchen.

A hard heel booted my bum.

“Argh!” I peered around to find a hairy black-and-white creature. “Goatee! Not you too.” I dusted his muddy prints off the back of my navy work skirt. “Hit me when I’m down, why don’t you?”

Truly, this day couldn’t get worse. Earlier this morning at the London flat of my so-called boyfriend, Peregrine, my eyeballs were assaulted by a naked splay of legs and arms and various pink bits belonging to Perry and his yoga teacher.

That horrifying sight had been followed by an alarming call about my parents’ ongoing renovation debacle—remodeling a crumbling 1920s manor house in the Cotswolds wasn’t for the weak-hearted.

After warning work I’d be in late, I’d made the two-hour train ride here. Only to be booted in the bum by a goat.

“Darling, how sweet. He’s just saying hello.” My mother’s big blue eyes sparkled.

We were both five foot three and blond, but the similarities ended there. Mum was a much slimmer version of me, and today she wore a crooked tiara on her unintentionally messy bun and had dressed in an old blue ball gown. She was holding a bowl of grain, clearly just in from feeding the chickens.

“Oh hello, darling,” Dad called from where he was perched on the counter amid four snooty cats.

Wrench in hand, he was fiddling with the sink.

Like Mum, he loved to get full use from his family heirlooms and was today dressed like an Edwardian golfer in a flat cap, tweed jacket, and knickerbockers with argyle knee socks.

Suddenly, the air was filled with spurting water.

“Gosh darn it,” Dad cried out. He leaped down from the counter, grabbed a hammer, swung open the cabinet doors, and banged on the pipes. “Give us the tools, and we’ll finish the job.” He repeated the Churchill quote with passion.

The cats yowled and scampered out the back kitchen door. Mum and I both squealed, grabbed Goatee, and joined them outside.

After a few minutes, the water sounds abated.

“All clear on the western front!” Dad bellowed.

We entered in a single file, cats last, my final nerve frayed. The kitchen window was now filled with the head of Lary the Llama, who hissed his annoyance then went back to his usual humming.

Inside, unbothered by the watery floor and counters, Mum turned to me. “Darling, don’t you usually come home on Friday night?” she asked vaguely. She glanced at the haughtiest of the cats striding the kitchen island like a catwalk. “Isn’t it Friday morning, Ginger?”

The marmalade-colored cat stuck her nose in the air and stalked off, appalled that Mum had the temerity to address her.

For the past three months, after working all week in London as the head of the Home and Garden section of a national newspaper, I’d been returning home every weekend to oversee my parents’ remodel, and it was a stressful way to spend my time off.

I sighed. “I have a meeting with Tim at ten a.m.”

Tim bloody Langston. The contractor and the thorn in my side.

I grimaced at the thought of his swagger, those wide shoulders looming over me, his annoyingly bedroom-rumpled brown hair, and dark eyes that glittered their vacillation between amusement and annoyance at my instructions.

Not that I’d hired him—after our history, I’d have never done that.

My parents had signed him up without consulting me, though, to be fair, he was the most highly respected contractor in the county.

I never understood why he’d been the one turning up every day when he had a team of workers. He’d texted after my encounter at Perry’s that he needed to show me the “electric shitshow” he’d just discovered in the kitchen walls. An empty pit yawned in my stomach at the prospect of more costs.

“Oh yes, Timothy.” Mum’s face softened with a dreamy look. “Such a lovely boy.”

“Ripping chap,” Dad said, dabbing ineffectually at the floor with a ragged mop that looked as vintage as their clothing.

“What were those bills doing on the floor?” I asked Mum.

She looked at me blankly. “Maybe your father thought they were recycling?”

“They need paying, Mum. I have to know about them.”

Instead of answering, she busied herself feeding the cats.

I groaned and sorted through the stack of paperwork.

I was paying for this remodel, which was incredibly tough on my less-than-spectacular salary as head of department for a newspaper.

Hapless and hopeless, Mum and Dad had sunk their inheritances into decades of schemes and dreams that had been abandoned or went belly-up—and now faced losing their house and a penniless future.

I’d come up with the idea of remodeling their rambling ten-bedroom home and hosting matchmaking weekends themed “Must Love Animals,” for pet-loving singles looking for their soul mates.

But this house needed work. Although it had wonderfully romantic features—vaulted ceilings, stained-glass windows, and old floors of wood and stone—it was also hampered by paint-peeling formal spaces that never got used, and an ugly, poky kitchen.

Rooms that needed to be merged and made comfortable and lovely if these weekends were to be fun, convivial, and relaxing.

If hosting these mixers didn’t work, my parents and their menagerie of animals would have to move in with me into my tiny, two-bedroom flat in the middle of London. Not an option.

Clicking into my banking app, I transferred the cash into Tim’s account, watching my paycheck drain and knowing I’d have to dip into my savings again.

A text pinged on my phone. Perry. Apologizing, maybe? Not that I’d ever accept his apology. We were totally over in my eyes.

Perry

Your belongings are outside front door of my building. Appreciate prompt collection. Pls send mine by post soonest. Namaste.

A wave of rage racked my body. That appalling mix of businesslike dismissiveness and fake peace-out. Another ping. A photo flashed at me of a big black rubbish bag dumped on his front step, presumably containing the sad scraps of our relationship.

Me

You sent this text after four years together? As though I’m disposable? Perry, you are a liar, a cheat, and a pompous knobhead.

Perry

Steady on. Not our fault, just an inevitable part of the normal exigencies of one’s yoga practice.

Me

What absolute bloody bullshit!

Perry

I’m sorry if you choose to remain uptight, conservative, and status-conscious. I’ve moved on. I wish you well.

A prayer hands emoji emphasized his point.

How could I have wasted four years on that delusional idiot? Our. They were an “our” already. Tears pushed at the backs of my eyes, and a fresh blast of fury fired me out the kitchen door with a bang.

Instinctively, I scrambled around the house to my sanctuary, the pond.

Taking deep breaths, I leaned against the dusty stone arch, the air fragrant with honeysuckle.

But even the ducks floating contentedly on the reedy pond and, beyond, meadows of bluebells and a tangled forest, couldn’t erase the graphic images from this morning that tortured my brain.

I’d been suspicious for months as Perry kept canceling on me and spending all his time at yoga retreats. A red flag, as Perry was a bit of a stuffy snob and not the usual yogic type. I knew his faults, but I always thought he was, at heart, a safe, dependable, decent guy. Clearly, my mistake.

I forced myself to focus on the pond, which always brought back memories of when everything was fun and light and easy. From age five to thirteen, until I was sent away to Swiss boarding school, Tim and I spent what seemed every second together. But in our twenties, things got messy.

Had we been only eight years old when we’d roped and nailed together a seafaring craft of inner tubes and old wood barrels, with a raggedy sheet for a sail?

God, what a day. We’d packed sandwiches, apples, and water for an adventure on the water, pushed off, and jumped on.

It was slow going, and our makeshift oars seemed to be missing some important ergonomic properties, because it took a while to move.

Ten minutes later, we’d hit the deepest and weediest part of the pond, and in slow motion, the craft had started sinking, taking us with it.

We barely knew how to swim to shore, but somehow made it, clutching at sticks and reeds and helping each other.

After we emerged, shaken, we rolled on the ground, gasping. Mum and Dad, as usual, were oblivious to any danger we’d gotten into, and eventually, we laughed at our undramatic sinking. “It was just glug, glug, glug,” Tim said, and we cracked up until we almost peed our pants.

“Glug, glug, glug,” we’d say, cracking each other up for years after.

Somehow that didn’t stop us from riding my two gassy, old-lady ponies down to the water hole to swim regularly.

I taught Tim to ride; he taught me to skip stones and whistle through a blade of grass.

We ran through each other’s houses, played pranks on neighbors and friends, and built houses in the meadows from boulders and fallen trees.

But what happened that summer when we were twenty-five ruined all those memories.

“Glug, glug, glug,” a deep, amused voice said.

Tingles raced up my spine, as though his rough, callused fingers chased the sensation, raising the hair on the back of my neck.

Shit. Tim.

I turned to see him strutting toward me, his bulky work boots eating up the distance, his muscular body unpleasantly emphasized in his gray T-shirt and tan cargo pants, a tool belt slung around his hips. Tension electrified the air between us.

He faced me, an arm’s length away, but way too close.

Every nerve in my body was on alert, and I could barely breathe.

I lifted my gaze up, up, up to his full height, a foot taller than me.

Above those broad shoulders, which stretched out his T-shirt, was his sharp-planed, sun-burnished face.

The body he’d pressed to me seven years ago had been long and lean and boyish.

Now he was a man, filled out, but his features were defined and his cheekbones more pronounced.

That slow smile around the corners of his lips was irritatingly familiar, along with that teasing look under the long eyelashes that fanned across his cheeks, but both seemed practiced now rather than charming.

My gaze hooked on his full, soft lips that once had taken mine in a searing kiss that should never have happened. I couldn’t get it out of my mind, and the thought that he’d irrevocably left his imprint on me burned in my blood.

His brown eyes twinkled. “Glug, glug, glug—remember?”

I knew the gaze I returned was hostile, and his smile immediately dropped.

I hated how I acted around him. That wasn’t me.

I was seldom short or sharp with others, never snarky, never mean-spirited.

I could feel my chin tremble, and I pressed on my eyes to stop the blinking, which always happened when I was distraught. A fraction calmer, I refocused on Tim.

His face turned soft. “Everything okay, Tabs? You seem more upset than usual.”

He knew me, and that hurt even more.

But instead of confiding in him, I gave him what I hoped was a quizzical look. “No, all good.” Unless you counted my revolting ex cheating on me, my mounting debt, and my parents’ irresponsibility. “So, there’s a crisis in the walls?”

His forehead creased. “Yeah, look, I won’t sugarcoat it.

The wiring in the kitchen’s fucked. I’ll take you over what we have to address to bring it to code.

We need to get my electrician mate, Sparky, to do the work immediately, this morning, before I go any further.

Normally, he’d take weeks to get to it, but I’ve called in a favor. ”

My chest felt tight, but I forced my voice to be calm. “Thank you for that. How bad is it? What’s the number?”

He grimaced. “Let’s just say you’ll be paying for Sparky’s next holiday to Tenerife.”

I slapped my hands over my face, feeling my cheeks burning, livid…with everything.

“I’ll pay it right now so you can book your friend,” I said.

There went my savings. I wouldn’t be going on holiday to Brighton, let alone Tenerife.

“Tabs, I know this is shite, but I have an idea that will help.”

I hated dealing with Tim on these issues, pretending we didn’t have a messy history, but his tone was so hopeful and kind, almost like before it had all gone so wrong. Maybe trusting him to help me might be different this time.