10. Chapter 10
Dean
There was a couch. The prince was very gentlemanly about the whole thing.
I’m not sure what I was expecting to see when Rosie takes me into her room, but this is not it.
“Welcome to my room,” she says, holding the door open, her voice tinged with something like nervousness.
I look around as I walk in, noticing how everything is so floral. And drab. Boring, muted tones. Nothing like the vibrant, overworked innkeeper I have come to know.
Nothing in the decor screams Rosie lives here.
There’s some evidence that she does, though. Clothes piled on a chair, papers stacked on a desk. But then there’s an entire bookcase completely empty, except for one large book lying on its side on the second shelf.
“Oh,” she says, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink. “Let me just remove that.” She quickly swipes a lacy white bra hanging over the back of a desk chair. “Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to clean the room with everything happening today.”
“It’s fine,” I tell her.
There’s an unmade queen-size bed in the back corner of the room and a decent-sized brown-and-blue plaid couch sitting perpendicular to it along the right side of the room, with some clothes piled in the center.
Above the couch hangs a crooked sign that says Live, Laugh, Love.
“Nice sign,” I say wryly, pointing to yet another thing that doesn’t seem to belong in Rosie’s room.
“Oh,” she says with a laugh. “That’s not mine. That’s from the previous owners. The Jacobsens, the couple who sold me the inn. I’ve been so busy updating the inn that I haven’t gotten to this room.”
“That makes sense,” I tell her.
And it does. From a consultant’s point of view, the place where you make the most money should be the focus. Guest rooms first, her own room last.
Still, she’s put so much of herself into every other room in this place and almost nothing into her own.
So, why does it bother me? I think I’m just tired. And I’m going to have to spend the night on this couch, which I don’t think I’m going to fit on, because there’s no way I’ll let Rosie take it.
“Have a seat,” she says, gesturing toward the couch. She notices the pile of clothes in the middle of it and quickly looks around for somewhere to put them before settling on the desk chair.
“It’s a pretty small space,” I tell her.
She nods. “I’d like to make it bigger eventually, but for now, all of my resources have to go to the guest rooms.”
“What did they look like before?”
She holds out a hand, gesturing toward the room. “This.”
“Ah,” I say, now understanding why she decided to redo them all. I know nothing about interior design, but I’m pretty sure grandma florals went out a while ago. Even as a kid, I never loved how my grandma Vivian decorated her place.
Rosie takes a seat on the edge of the bed, and I sit back on the fairly comfortable couch, lacing my fingers behind my head. “Are you going to make this one princess themed as well?”
She snorts out a laugh. “Uh, no. I think when I finish the Beauty and the Beast room, I will be done with all things frilly and lacy.” She looks around the space. “I actually have no idea what I’ll do with this room.”
“No under-the-sea theme? Or what was the other one with the flying carpet?”
“Aladdin,” she offers. “And no, no more princess themes for me.”
“What made you decide to do it for the guest rooms?”
She gets up from her seat and walks over to the empty bookshelf, picking up the large worn book with a faded blue cover and gold lettering across the front.
“The Golden Book of Fairy Tales,” I read aloud.
I hold out a hand for her to give it to me, but instead, she wraps her arms around it, holding it close to her chest.
“This is my most prized possession,” she says. “I’ll give it to you if you promise to take very good care of it.”
“Of course,” I say dryly.
Carefully, she hands the book to me and then sits next to me on the couch. Close enough that I catch the faint scent of vanilla.
I open the book gingerly, careful not to tear any of the fragile pages. The worn binding falls open to Cinderella, with a faded illustration of a pumpkin carriage on one page and the story beginning on the other.
“It was my mom’s,” she says. “She had it when she was a child. My Nana Katherine would read it to her, and then she would read it to us when we were kids. Even Dominic. And someday, I’ll read it to mine.”
I turn the pages, taking in the faded illustrations and the oversized ornate letters at the beginning of each story.
“I knew I wanted to change the rooms when I bought the inn, but nothing I came up with felt right. And then my sister Emma reminded me about the book, and I knew that’s what I wanted to do.”
“Which one was your favorite?” I ask.
“Cinderella,” she says, not even taking a moment to think about it.
I should have guessed with how easily the book fell open to it, like it’s been read and reread hundreds of times.
“Why that one?”
She shrugs. “My mom always made it sound like Cinderella’s real magic was that she stayed kind even when things were terrible, and it stuck with me. And also the dress, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I say, even though in a lineup of princesses, I’m not sure I’d know whose dress was whose.
“Did your mom read to you when you were younger?” she asks.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Never.”
“Oh,” she says.
She leaves it at that. No follow-up with how sad or why not—which I appreciate.
“My grandma did, though. When I’d visit during the summers. She loved to read Charlotte’s Web to me.”
Rosie’s eyes go wide. “That’s a sad book, though.”
“How so?”
She sits up straighter and scoots toward the edge of the couch, like the answer should be obvious. “Charlotte dies.”
“But Wilbur lives, and three of her babies stay with him. That’s a happy ending by all accounts.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “The happier ending would have been that she lives.”
“Right. The fairy-tale ending.”
“Exactly,” she says, settling back against the couch.
“My grandma never read me fairy tales, so I didn’t know what I was missing.”
“You were definitely missing out,” she says, her voice teasing. “But she did teach you how to cook.”
“She did,” I reply.
Her face softens. “When did she pass?”
“Last year.”
She reaches over and gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“Thanks,” I tell her. It’s exactly the right response. No platitudes. No attempt to make it better. Just I’m sorry.
I think you have to lose someone before you understand that sometimes those are the only words that don’t make it worse.
Her hand lingers on my arm for a moment before she removes it and gets up from the couch.
“Okay, so I think I’m going to get ready for bed.”
Right. Bed. We’d already stayed up late working on the Rapunzel room. Sleeping is the entire reason we came in here in the first place.
She goes to the top drawer of her dresser and rifles around in it before pulling out pink pajamas.
“I’m taking the couch,” I tell her when she turns back toward me.
She stops in her tracks. “You are not. I’m sleeping on the couch.”
I shake my head. “Rosie, I can’t in good conscience let you sleep on the couch.”
She points to herself. “And I can’t, in good conscience, let you sleep on the couch. You’re a guest at my inn.”
“I don’t think I qualify as a normal guest anymore.”
“Right. You’re a paying guest who also works here and feeds me. Oh, gosh.” She rubs her forehead. “I’m a terrible business owner.”
I chuckle even though I think she’s serious. “You’re not a terrible business owner.”
“I kind of am.”
“How about this—not as a guest, but as a gentleman, I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight. My grandma would probably come back from the dead just to kick me if I didn’t.”
She drops her chin, a pout on her lips. “How can I argue with that?”
I give her a single nod. “Exactly.”
I ask to use the bathroom first, and she doesn’t fight me on it. Normally, I’d be a gentleman in this situation as well, but I’m pretty sure if I let Rosie go first, she’d claim the couch while I was getting ready for bed and refuse to move.
By the time she comes out of the bathroom wearing pajama shorts and a matching top, her hair pulled into a bun, I’m already stretched out on the couch in lounge pants and a T-shirt, the blanket pulled over me and my head resting on the pillow she gave me.
She gives me a look when she sees me. “Dean, you don’t even fit.”
It’s true. My head is pressed against one armrest, and my feet are propped on the other.
“I’m perfectly fine,” I say, even though my back is going to hurt tomorrow for sure.
“Just let me sleep here. I’m shorter than you and fit perfectly.”
I close my eyes, snuggling into the pillow. “Go to bed, Rosie.”
She makes a growling noise before turning off the light. Then I hear her get into bed.
“Do you want me to leave the bathroom light on and crack the door so you can find it in the night if you need it?” she asks.
“In case I get lost in this room?” I ask, sarcasm in my tone. For her own space, it’s small—and feels even smaller right now as we lie here in the dark.
“You might trip over something, half asleep,” she says.
“I’ll be fine.” At this point, I don’t even know if I’ll be able to sleep at all.
It’s quiet, and I wonder if Rosie is one of those people who can fall asleep in two seconds.
But then I hear her let out a breath.
“Can I ask you something?” she says, her voice quiet.
“Sure,” I say.
“What do you think you’ll do with the farm? I mean once you’ve evicted the raccoons.”
“Probably sell it,” I say. It’s the smart answer. The one that makes the most sense.
“But do you want to?”
That’s a really good question. And not one I know how to answer.
The short answer is: I don’t really have another option.
The long one is: I can’t picture myself actually doing it.
It feels wrong to sell it. But then what will happen to it?
I don’t know how to take care of a farm, and I travel for work. Who would even look after it?
“I’m not sure I have any other options,” I finally say.
“There’s always an option.”
It’s such a Rosie thing to say. I should have guessed that’s what would come out of her mouth.
“Well,” she says through a yawn. “I guess I should try to sleep. Good night, husband.”
I smile to myself. “Good night, wife.”
“Dean?” I hear Rosie say some time later. I don’t know how long it’s been, but I’m definitely not asleep, and apparently, neither is Rosie.
“Yeah,” I answer.
She lets out a breath. “Would you just get in this bed with me?”
“What?”
“That didn’t sound right,” she says. “Let me start over. You are not comfortable on the couch.”
“I’m fine.”
“I keep hearing you move, and it’s making me worry that you’re not sleeping, and so then I can’t sleep.”
“I’ll be quiet,” I tell her.
“No,” she says. “This bed isn’t huge, but it’s definitely big enough for both of us. Just come sleep here.”
I hear her pat the bed.
I prop myself up on my elbows and look toward the bed. Rosie has moved close to the wall, leaving plenty of room beside her.
She’s right that I can’t get comfortable on this couch. It felt soft at first, but the longer I spend on it, the more I can feel the springs under the cushions digging into my backside.
But I can’t just get in her bed. That’s . . . weird. But also, we’re both adults, and this is a fully platonic situation.
“Come on,” she says, patting the spot next to her.
I should tell her no and deal with the couch. Instead, I get up, grab the pillow, and walk over to her.
“Are you sure?” I ask, making sure this isn’t Rosie sleep-talking.
“One hundred percent. Get in this bed.” She lets out an exasperated breath. “I made it weird again. Sorry. Just lie down and let’s actually get some sleep.”
I pull back the covers and slide under the blankets.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Yes,” I say. “Good call.”
It’s already a thousand times better than the couch. Except . . . now Rosie is lying a few inches away from me, and I’m not sure this arrangement is going to make sleep any easier.
“One thing. The mattress is a bit like the one in your room. But we’ll be fine as long as I stick to my side and you stick to yours,” she says.
That just made it worse. Now I’ve got to make sure I don’t roll toward the center of the bed.
“Now, good night for real this time.”
“Good night,” I say, and hope this time I actually sleep.