7. Chapter 7 #2
“Nannying,” I say simply, even though my brain kind of wants to go off on one of my tangents.
I worked for a family I thought I was part of, but turns out they didn’t love me the way I loved them, and then my boyfriend who they introduced me to and who I also thought loved me, broke up with me two days later.
Then I moved back here because I had no other options, had a bit of a life crisis, and now, I own an inn.
The truth is, coming home felt like failing. But it also felt like exhaling. In Boston, I was always some polished version of myself—the perfect nanny, the girlfriend in the right dress. Here, I just get to be Rosie. Overalls and all.
“Where do you live?” I ask, moving it back to him.
“Mostly hotels, lately,” Dean says.
I pinch my brow. “Hotels?”
“I travel a lot for work.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a business consultant.”
“And what do you consult?”
He stares at me for a minute, as if he’s deciding how he wants to answer that.
“Basically, I figure out what companies are doing wrong so they can fix it and make more money.”
“Oh,” I say, thinking of all the things I’ve done wrong since Dean arrived, but also wondering how I can make more money. “Can you fix me?”
More staring.
“You probably wouldn’t know where to begin,” I say, letting out a self-deprecating laugh.
He shrugs. “I have some ideas.”
“Don’t use super glue?”
“That’s on the list.”
“Don’t forget towels?”
An image of him on my stairs, wrapped in that shower curtain, runs through my brain. Honestly, if I had videoed it, it would have gone viral. I’d also be watching it on repeat.
“That’s definitely a start,” he says.
I swallow. “Maybe I don’t want to know.”
“Since I’m a paying guest here, and you didn’t hire me, it’s probably not my place.”
“Should I make an anonymous comment box for your complaints and/or praise?”
“Considering I’m the only one here, it would be obvious who left them.”
I point at the ceiling. “That’s true.”
“Before I forget, someone dropped off a box of pie tins for you. I left them behind the check-in desk.”
“Right,” I say, my reality coming back in full force. Somehow, I keep forgetting about the festival, and then when I do remember, it’s like a big heavy rock that falls to the bottom of my stomach.
“What are they for?” he asks. It’s not very Dean-like to ask. But maybe our casualness tonight, standing in my kitchen, has made him feel like he can, or perhaps it’s the randomness of an entire box of pie tins being dropped off at someone’s house.
“They’re for the festival,” I tell him. “For the pie-eating contest.”
“Did you offer to make a bunch of pies for it?” he asks.
“No, but I need to find people who can make some.”
He furrows his brow. “Why do you need to do it?”
“Because I’m in charge of the festival,” I tell him.
Again with the staring.
“Well, I’m just running it, or making sure it runs,” I say, filling the silence again.
“It’s a well-oiled machine. We’ve been doing it for years.
Most of the booths already know what they’re doing and where they’re going.
So, really, my job is to make sure that well-oiled machine stays . . . um . . . oiled.”
“So, you have to have the inn ready before the festival that you’re also in charge of?”
“Yes,” I say.
“But how did you get put in charge of it?”
“Pam Vasser, the pastor’s wife, asked me to do it because her daughter is having a baby.”
“And you said yes,” he says.
“Yes, I did.”
He opens his mouth, and I brace myself for whatever he has to say, feeling anxious for some reason, a different kind of butterflies swarming in my stomach.
He’ll probably tell me all the things I’m doing wrong, and then I’ll spend the rest of the evening spiraling when I actually need to be working.
Instead, he lets out a breath and closes his mouth, clearly deciding my circus and my monkeys are not his problem. “I think I’m going to go to bed early,” he says.
The swarming ends abruptly.
“Okay,” I tell him.
“Good night, Rosie,” he says before leaving the kitchen.
Thirty minutes later and I’m back in overalls, on my knees, painting the trim in the Cinderella room, listening to my Taylor Swift playlist in my headphones when I hear a knock on the door.
I look at my phone. It’s nearly ten thirty.
“Come in,” I say, wondering if Dominic’s come over to help. Like he sensed through our twin telepathy that I need him. It’s not likely, but a girl can hope. Also, we don’t have twin telepathy. Regardless, I’ll take any help I can get at this point.
The door opens, and there stands Dean in his same jeans, but a different, more worn-looking shirt.
“Sorry, am I being too loud?” I ask.
My goal was to be as quiet as a mouse, but I sometimes sing along to music without realizing I’m doing it.
He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I’m just having a hard time falling asleep.”
“Oh, sorry,” I tell him. “Maybe some warm milk? Or tea?” Do I even have either of those things to be offering them? Probably not.
“No, thanks,” he says. “But I thought maybe you could . . . use some help in here? Or another room?”
I stop mid-paint-stroke.
“Some . . . help?” I ask, confused.
“Yeah. You have a lot on your plate; I thought maybe you could use a hand.”
“Um, wow. Thank you, but I’m good. I’ve got it handled.”
What am I saying? I don’t have anything handled. Wasn’t I just telling myself I’d take all the help I could get? Here’s a man—a handsome one, even—offering to help me, and I’m saying no?
His lips pull into that straight line. “Okay,” he says. “Just thought I’d offer.”
He turns around to leave.
“Wait,” I say, just as he walks out the door and is about to shut it. “On second thought, if you really can’t sleep, I could use the help.”
He turns back toward me. “What would you like me to do?”