2. Chapter 2
Dean
The prince’s arrival was of little fanfare. And for that he was grateful, for he detested fanfare.
This feels different.
Driving into Autumn Ridge, a town I haven’t been to in a long while, is making me feel things. Strange things. Something I’m not sure I’ve felt before.
Is it indigestion?
No. I’m just feeling something in that organ that sits under my ribs.
I’m told it’s called a heart. I was also told I don’t have one of those recently—by a woman who was let go from a company I just finished consulting.
For the record, I never thought I was better than her. I just knew she was taking eighty percent of her workday to do only twenty percent of her work. Not very efficient. And cutting inefficiencies is my specialty.
But back to my odd feelings. I think it might be nostalgia. The winding roads, the rolling hills, the trees that are just starting to change, the early evening air. The smell. It’s all bringing me back to a time when life was much easier. A feeling I’d forgotten.
And it only gets stronger as I get closer to the covered bridge—the entrance to the small town. It looks exactly the same as it always has. I think the last time I saw it was eight years ago, and my grandpa died just a year later, with my grandma going into a home not long after that.
That bridge was always a symbol of my childhood summers. It meant the start of another magical summer with my grandparents. That same bridge haunted me whenever I left. Because I never wanted to.
I put up a fight every time the summer ended, wishing I could stay. And my grandma told me maybe someday I could stay with her. But that never happened. Life got too busy, and by the time I was fifteen I stopped going entirely.
And now I’m crossing the bridge again to figure out what to do with her house.
Would you listen to me right now? Take that, lady who said I didn’t have a heart.
I have to press on the brakes of my car—a black BMW M5 I splurged on last year—as I go through the bridge and turn onto Main Street. A red truck is going under the speed limit in front of me. It’s the perfect welcome to the town.
I have a full month ahead of me until my next contract starts, with nothing to do but figure out my grandma’s cryptic message in her will after she gave me the land I spent my summers on.
The small apple orchard, plus the house and the barn.
All mine. Much to my mom’s disappointment.
She thought she was getting all of it. Just the thing our already tenuous relationship needed.
I’ve already let three calls from her go to voicemail today.
He’ll know what to do.
That’s what the will said. I have no idea what she was hoping for.
I don’t know what to do with the property.
Most of the apple orchard burned in a fire, and the house hasn’t been lived in since my grandma moved to the nursing home in Burlington.
I have no idea what shape it’s in, or what can even be done with it.
Does she want me to keep it? I have no idea how to care for an orchard, even a small one.
I’m not even sure what I’d do with the house.
I’ve never had a permanent home to go to.
I spent most of my childhood going from one dingy apartment to the next and most of my career living in temporary places, going from one consulting job to another.
I had an apartment in Boston for a while, but I got rid of it when I was barely there.
Now, I just pay for a storage unit in Worcester.
I could sell the property, but that also doesn’t feel right. Leaving it in whatever shape it’s in now doesn’t make me feel settled either.
He’ll know what to do. Right. Well, I guess maybe I need to go see it and hope that . . . I don’t know, maybe my grandma’s ghost will be there to tell me what she meant, or a note will be hidden somewhere on the property with her wishes because I don’t have the slightest clue what to do.
Tomorrow I’ll inspect the house, walk the orchard, and start figuring out whether any of it is worth saving.
But first, I need to check into the only place to stay in Autumn Ridge—singular, as in one option, as in no alternatives.
The website says it’s a bed-and-breakfast with quaint themed rooms or something.
I don’t really care how it looks; I just need a bed, and the breakfast will be a bonus since that will be one meal I won’t have to figure out.
“You’ve arrived,” my GPS tells me as I pull up in front of a painted green two-story house, a sign on the door that says Once Upon an Inn.
It feels good to stretch my legs when I get out of the car, and to breathe in the faint scent of woodsmoke and remnants of rain in the air. The leaves on the large maple outside the inn are barely starting to change, with a small bit of pink at the tips.
I’ve never been here this time of year. I always wanted to see the leaves change; it was my grandma’s favorite time.
She’d tell me all about the bright oranges, reds, and yellows of the season and how the town would get so many visitors who wanted to see them.
I would tell her I’d come back someday and see them with her.
I never did. I could never get the timing to work with the weekend trips I could manage when I was at college, and then when I started my career, I hardly had a weekend to spare.
Then, when we moved my grandma to Maple Grove Care Center, I didn’t have a reason to come back to Autumn Ridge. Until now.
I grab my suitcase out of the trunk and walk up the pathway to the painted white door. Do I knock? I’ve never stayed at a bed-and-breakfast before.
“Hello?” I say as I walk inside.
It looks like a nice enough place. Dark wood floors in the entryway that lead to a large staircase.
I hear a thud from somewhere up above me, and then someone—a woman—lets out a yelp.
Leaving my suitcase by the check-in desk, I walk over to the base of the stairs. “Hello?” I say again, but louder this time.
“Coming!” I hear, and then frantic-sounding footsteps follow.
I go back to the desk and wait patiently.
What kind of establishment has no one running the front desk?
Of course, that’s all fitting for a town like Autumn Ridge.
Everything is casual here. As a kid, I loved it.
As an adult whose job is to whip companies into shape so they can scale, I’m not sure I’ll appreciate it as much.
“Sorry!” says a woman as she comes down the stairs.
She’s wearing dark pink overalls over a white T-shirt, and her hair is pulled up sloppily on top of her head, a smudge of something white on her cheek. Paint, maybe? There’s a long, fairly fresh-looking cut down one forearm.
“Hi,” she says, smiling and walking toward me. “You must be Dean?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling slightly irritated. What kind of place is this? I stay in four- and five-star hotels mostly. I don’t think this place would even rank.
“Welcome to Once Upon an Inn,” she says. Then she sighs. “Oh, wow, it feels so weird to say that.”
I furrow my brow.
“Oh, sorry,” she shakes her head, the bun-thing bouncing back and forth. “It’s just that you’re my first guest.”
“I thought this place had been around for years,” I say, remembering the wording on the website.
“It has, but it’s new to me. I bought the place five months ago.”
I nod, understanding. “Well, can I check in?”
“Right,” she says, looking around the space. “So, um, let me get your key.”
She goes behind the desk and starts opening drawers, looking in each one and muttering to herself. “Is it? No . . . wait . . . what did I do with that? Hmmm.” She stops her search, looking to the side before looking back at me. “I remember! Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
She comes out from behind the desk and walks across the entryway, opening a door I hadn’t noticed when I walked in and quickly shutting it behind her.
I drum my fingers on the desk while I wait, wondering if maybe I should cancel and find a place in Burlington, a larger town than this with a lot more options for lodging. It’s probably thirty minutes away, which would be a pain to drive every day. But it might be worth it.
The door swings open. “Found it!” she says, holding out her hand, two keys on a chain with a small pink tag in the shape of a castle. “Isn’t it so cute?” She holds the keys by the tag, jingling them. “I ordered them from Etsy.”
“Uh . . . yeah,” I say, not wanting to be rude, but also wanting to get settled in my room before going out to find dinner. I’m starving.
She hands them over to me. “For you,” she says.
I grab hold of them before stuffing them in the pocket of my jeans. “Is there . . . anything I need to sign?”
Her head tilts to the side. “Um, I think I can just charge the card you put on file to hold the room.”
Well, that’s at least somewhat efficient. Although, I’m not feeling all that confident that this woman has my credit card information.
I nod and then look toward the stairs, assuming that’s where my room is.
“Let me show you to your room,” she says. “I’m Rosie, by the way.” She holds out a hand.
I give it a quick shake. Her hand feels small in mine. And a little sweaty. I pull my hand away.
“Good to meet you.”
She heads toward the stairs. I grab the handle of my suitcase and follow her up and then down a dimly lit hall, passing closed doors until we get to the last one on the left.
There’s a sign on the door that says Sleeping Beauty on it.
I reach for my keys, but she twists the knob and opens the door, walking inside.
My eyes widen of their own accord as I enter behind her. It’s . . . pink. Frilly, ruffly, pink. Like a five-year-old girl’s dream room come to life.
“I’m sorry about the lack of fairies,” Rosie says.
“Fairies?” I ask, walking farther into the room.
“There are fairies in the Sleeping Beauty story, and somehow I forgot to add them. Rookie mistake.” She laughs to herself.
“It’s a big misstep for sure,” I say, the sarcasm coming out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
She laughs again, not sounding bothered.
“Is there maybe a less pink option?” I’m not opposed to the color; there’s just so much of it.
“Nope,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s the only room I’ve got available right now.”
“Are the other rooms booked up?” I thought I was the first guest.
“No,” she says. “It’s the only functioning room for now. Which reminds me, you may hear some light construction noise during the day, but I promise there will be nothing from ten at night to eight in the morning every day. Okay?”
Light construction noise? What does that even mean?
“The bathroom is here,” she says, moving on as if she knows I have a ton of objections to that but is hoping I’ll just let it go or forget altogether.
She opens a door to her right, and her plan sort of works. I’m taken aback once again by all the pink. The walls, the bath mats, the hand towels. The shower curtain matches the ruffly fabric hanging from the bed and the windows. At least she’s stuck with the theme.
Putting her hands in the back pockets of her overalls, she rocks back on her heels. “Well, I’ll let you get settled in.”
“Thanks,” I say. “What time is breakfast?”
She tucks in her chin. “Breakfast?”
“Yeah,” I say. “This is a bed-and-breakfast. Isn’t that part of the deal?”
She shakes her head, the bun bobbing once again. “It used to be a bed-and-breakfast. I changed it to just an inn because I didn’t want to deal with all that.”
Irritation courses through me at this information. “It says on your website that this is a bed-and-breakfast.”
Her brows move up her forehead. “It does? I thought I changed that.”
“You didn’t,” I say. I distinctly remember that detail because I was counting on it. The website said “a delicious breakfast” would be provided daily.
“Thank you for bringing that to my attention. I’ll be sure to fix it,” she says, giving me a closed-mouth smile.
I let out a breath. This is not going to work.
I should have gotten more information before booking the room.
I just need to make it one night, and then tomorrow morning I’ll find a place in Burlington.
Driving back and forth will be a pain, but staying a month in this place could end up driving me crazy, and that will cost me a lot more money and time in the long run.
“As part of your stay, I’ll make sure your room is tidy daily,” she says, as if that’s a benefit of staying here and not something most hotels offer, especially the ones I’m accustomed to.
“Thanks,” I say, hoping I was able to keep most of the sarcasm out of my tone.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she says, walking toward the door. “Let me know if you need anything. I’m just a holler away.” She shuts the door behind her, and I hear rapid footsteps as she makes her getaway.
I close my eyes, wondering how I went from the W in Boston last night to this: a fairy-tale room covered in so many pink ruffles that I’m wondering if it might be too much for even a five-year-old.
I walk over to the edge of the bed and sit on it. Then I lie back and notice how the mattress shifts me toward the middle.
Muttering a string of curse words that could actually bring my grandma back from the dead (she hated cussing of any kind), I wonder if I should just leave now.
No, I’ll stay for the night, and then tomorrow I’ll check out and find myself a better place to stay for the month.
I can survive one night in this pink frilly room with the terrible bed. I’ve survived worse.