3. Chapter 3
Rosie
The princess, it seems, was not all that adept at running a castle.
The next morning I’m humming to myself—a princess song, because why not—as I unwrap the brass call bell I bought for the front desk and try to find the perfect spot for it. I settle for the middle toward the edge.
What I really should be doing is working on the guest rooms. Oh, and making some headway on the fall festival that I’ve barely done anything for.
It’s a well-oiled machine; we’ve been doing it for years.
At least that’s what Pam Vasser—the pastor’s wife, and the person who usually heads up the festival—told me when she asked me if I could run it this year.
So far it doesn’t feel all that well-oiled. I’ve got a stack of random papers on the desk in my room with things I need to do for it and a text messaging app and email inbox full of questions and requests I haven’t had a chance to go through.
Pam texted this morning asking if the mayor had confirmed the community breakfast that kicks everything off. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I haven’t even contacted him yet.
Right now, though, I’m feeling sort of frozen, last night’s events running through my mind.
Yesterday was . . . not perfect. I’d wanted to be downstairs when my very first guest arrived, but I was adding some last-minute touches to the room—dropping a hammer that narrowly missed my toes and trying to remember something I needed for the room.
Something I still can’t recall. I really hope it wasn’t necessary.
And then there was him. Dean. My guest. Let’s just say that he’s .
. . not ugly. In fact, he could possibly be the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, with his rugged looks—those brown eyes, that dark, thick hair, and short-trimmed beard.
Wearing those jeans and that gray T-shirt.
I’d love to say that the scowl on his face ruined his vibe, but it only added to the appeal.
And that’s saying something because I’ve never been a fan of brooding men.
It’s for the best, because if he smiled?
I’m pretty sure I might have done something embarrassing—like giggling like a teenager, or possibly even swooning.
I have no idea if he has a good smile; it’s just a hypothesis.
But I’m pretty spot on about that kind of thing.
I know when there’s good-smile-potential.
What if he has a dimple? That would be very bad for me. I’m a sucker for a dimple. I’d better pray he just keeps the scowl on his face.
I’m telling myself it’s a win that I noticed his rugged good looks. After my very terrible breakup two years ago with Jackson, I haven’t really been paying attention to or even noticing anyone from the opposite sex. I was starting to wonder if I was broken.
Apparently not.
One thing’s for sure: Dominic can never see him.
Dean is exactly what my twin was worried about.
It would have helped if my guest for the next month was actually a weirdo, but I only got grumpy vibes from him, and as a fellow grump, Dom will take one look and decide they’re basically the same person.
And then he’ll probably move in to protect me from a guy like him.
Yikes.
Of course, then I could put him to work . . . no. I lived with Dom for nineteen years of my life, and that was long enough. He’ll be here this morning to help me with the Cinderella room, and I’ll have to run defense to make sure he never sees my guest.
My phone rings and vibrates from the back pocket of my favorite dark green corduroy overalls, and I see that it’s one of the Ednas calling.
“Hello,” I say after pressing answer, putting the phone on speaker and setting it on the desk while I move the bell two inches to the right because it’s still not in the perfect spot.
“Hello, Rosie,” one of the Ednas says. There are two of them. It could be Gilbert or Bloomberg. I’ve never put their last names in my phone, and I keep forgetting to ask.
They are basically the same person, known around town as the duo that knows anything happening around here. The Ednas are both in their eighties and know everything about everyone in Autumn Ridge, probably because they’ve lived in this town longer than most everyone.
“Hello, Edna, how are you?”
“Doing well, dear. I just wanted to make sure that you would still be able to take Edna and me to the game on Friday?”
“Oh, right,” I say. I forgot that I told them I would escort the two of them to the first high school game of the season.
High school games are big around Autumn Ridge.
It’s a small town, and there’s not a ton to do, so almost everyone goes.
I was planning on skipping since I need every minute I have to work on the other guest rooms. But I guess I’ll be taking a break on Friday night to walk two older women up the stands.
“Can you still go?” Edna asks.
“Of course,” I say, lightening my tone since it’s not the Ednas’ fault that I have a balloon payment deadline coming up very quickly and poor time-management skills.
“Excellent. Pick us up at six at my house.”
“Will do,” I say. “Um . . . which one is your house?”
“Very funny, missy,” she says, and hangs up.
I wasn’t joking. I have no idea which Edna I was talking to, and now I’m going to have to figure out that mystery before Friday night. At least I have a fifty percent chance of getting it right.
Something hits the floor above me with a thud, and I jump at the noise, wondering what it could be.
Then I hear the muted sounds of my only guest yelling something, and I race up the stairs, wondering if I should go check on him.
But I stop halfway up. He could have just dropped something, and me knocking on his door might come off as a little creepy.
I’m not sure what the protocol is for this.
It never happened when I was working for the Jacobsens.
Still, what if he’s hurt? What if he slipped on the bathroom floor I tiled myself and is lying there unconscious?
What if he can’t reach his phone? What if I ignore it, and then he presses charges, and I’ll lose this place before I’ve even gotten started?
I’d be destitute with no place to live, and I’d have to move back in with my dad when I just moved out five months ago. Or maybe Emma would take me.
Or maybe I should just stop spiraling and go check on the guy. But just as I’m about to go up the rest of the stairs, the front door opens and in walks Dom carrying his tool box.
I guess I’ll be getting sued then, because I’m definitely not checking on my guest now.
“Well, look who decided to show up,” I say, even though we never had a set time for him to be here, and he’s doing this for free.
He looks to the ceiling as if I’ve maxed out his patience for the day in the first ten seconds of being here. “I told you I’d come in the morning,” he says.
I walk back down the stairs and toward him. “I know,” I say, giving him a teasing grin. “I’m just ready to get started.”
“Is that BMW your guest’s?” Dom asks, pointing toward the door.
I shrug. “Maybe?”
I’m guessing it is. I clocked it when I left this morning to go get pastries from Keller’s Bakehouse since I felt bad about the whole no-breakfast thing. It was a mistake on my part. The website has now been updated. I was up until two in the morning fixing it.
There are only three parking spaces for the inn, so his car was impossible to miss.
The expensive-looking black car has to be his. It’s fitting. Shiny, sleek, and grumpy. I’m not sure you can describe a car as grumpy, but it gave off that vibe.
“How is he?” Dom asks.
I wave his words away. “Oh, he’s . . . boring. Kind of blah. Totally nondescript. Just your average Joe.”
Dom’s glare means he’s not buying any of this.
“Should we get to work?” I smile. It’s one of those nothing-to-see-here kinds.
I need to get my brother into another guest room and working so he never has a chance to run into Dean.
But that hope dies immediately, because, as if I’ve summoned him with my worries, I hear footsteps on the stairs and turn around to see my guest coming down them.
And he’s dripping wet.
Half-naked.
A frilly pink shower curtain wrapped around his lower half.
Oh no.
“What the. . .” Dom trails off at the sight.
What the, indeed.
I’m trying to wrap my brain around the fact that my first and only guest is standing on my stairs dripping wet with a shower curtain wrapped around him, but all I can do is gape at that magnificent upper body. It’s so . . . defined.
I swallow, and I think it’s audible because I can see Dom’s head swing toward me in my periphery.
“Your shower curtain fell off the wall,” Dean says, three steps from the threshold, his lips pulled into a straight line. “Also, towels?”
“Towels?” I ask him, not sure what he means, but it quickly dawns on me. “Towels! That’s what I forgot.”
I slap my forehead like an imbecile. Because that’s exactly what I am. Who forgets bath towels in a guest room? That’s basically rule number one. Right after extra toilet paper rolls (which I did remember) and right before not hot-gluing your shower curtain to the wall.
Obviously, I’ve learned my lesson with that one. Probably.
“I’m so sorry about that. And I’ll fix the shower curtain,” I tell him.
“Um, I felt bad about the breakfast thing, so I got you some pastries.” I point to a side console table where I’d set the box of mixed pastries.
It’s an assortment of cinnamon sticky buns, apple cider donuts, maple bars, and muffins.
It feels like a meager peace offering right now, with him dripping wet on my stairs.
“I don’t eat carbs in the morning,” he says, his tone flat.
Well, crap. How am I supposed to butter him up now? No carbs in the morning? What would life be like without a pancake for breakfast? Not a good one.
That’s a check in the negative box. I’ll put it just under the frown he’s giving me right now. Though I suppose I deserve it.
“Oh,” I say. “I guess you’ll get to eat them, Dom.”