11. Chapter 11
Rosie
The princess awoke in the prince’s arms and blamed gravity.
I wake the next morning in Dean’s arms.
My cheek is resting against his chest, my head tucked under his chin. His arms are wrapped around me, and mine around him, and our legs are intertwined. We’re so entangled that I don’t know where he begins and I end.
And I’ve never been more comfortable in my life.
Seriously. This is so lovely. His steady breathing, the warmth of his body wrapped around mine. And he smells so good. Like detergent and warm skin, with a faint woodsy scent underneath.
I would like to stay here forever.
Here’s the problem, though . . . Well, there are a lot of problems, actually. We shouldn’t be sleeping like this. Dean and I are . . . well, we’re friends at the very least.
If I were a woman who read into everything the opposite sex did, then I might read into this.
And the truth is, I’m exactly that kind of woman.
But I’m not going to. Because there’s nothing to read into.
The mattress dips in the center. I told him we’d stick to our sides—and we did, right up until gravity took over and rolled us both into the middle.
It takes two to tango. Or, in this case, two to tangle.
Wow. That was dumb.
The other problem is I need to get up. I’ve got to run to Keller’s Bakehouse to pick up some pastries for the Hendersons before they leave. Okay, it’s not a need, but I want to do it. It will be a nice added touch to their stay. Am I hoping they will spread the word about the inn? Most definitely.
But oh, gosh. I don’t want to leave this bed. Or this man.
Dean was right last night when he said he doesn’t qualify as a normal guest anymore. He’s . . . much more than that. I’m not sure I want to quantify it. Or label it. It’s just . . . something else.
Not wanting to, I start to untangle myself from him. First my legs, carefully, so as not to wake him. And once I’ve accomplished that feat—and it was a feat because Dean has very muscular legs—I begin pulling myself out of his sleepy grasp.
I remove the arm that’s over me, thinking I can just roll away from the one under me, but just as I’m about to do that, Dean reaches for me and pulls me into him, his mouth by my ear.
He mumbles something, making goose bumps erupt over my entire body, before he’s breathing deeply, arms wrapped around me once more.
Oh no. But also: oh yes.
Nope. No. I really do need to get going. I can’t stay here. Even if I really, really want to.
I make another attempt, and this time, I’m able to extricate myself, stealthily replacing myself with a pillow, which Dean is now hugging.
I did not peg him as the cuddling type. Then again—I watch him wrap around my throw pillow like it’s the love of his life—apparently, he’ll cuddle anything soft. Which is good to know. It means last night was just Dean being a sleep-cuddler and had nothing to do with me.
Right. Good. That’s a relief.
I quickly get dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve white T-shirt, run a brush through my hair, throw on a light jacket, and soon I’m out the door of the inn and walking down the street toward the bakery.
The air is crisp, the morning sun just above the horizon, and the colors on the leaves are starting to change.
In a couple of weeks we will be in full leaf-peeping mode.
The festival in full gear. My inn full of guests.
Hopefully, if I get everything done in time and there’s not another surprise leak.
“Rosie,” Sadie Stevenson says as I enter Keller’s Bakehouse. Her wavy red hair is pulled back, and she’s carrying a fresh tray of maple bars, still glossy from the glaze.
The place smells of yeast, sugar, coffee, and joy. If there ever was a reason to get out of bed in the morning, it’s definitely Keller’s.
The only exception would be having a handsome, not-as-grumpy-as-you-thought man in your bed that you had to untangle yourself from to be here.
Is it hot in here? Of course it is. This is a bakery.
“Hi, Sadie,” I say, walking up to the display counter, which is full of freshly baked pastries. “How are you?”
“I’m doing good. Just busy,” she says, her perfect nose emphasized by the brush of freckles across it.
She slides the tray of bars onto the counter.
“I get that,” I say with a laugh.
It’s the understatement of the century.
“Did you ever find enough people to make pies for the pie-eating contest?” she asks.
“Not yet.” I look at the tray of maple bars. “Would you like to volunteer?”
She gives me a look.
“Right,” I say. “You do enough baking already.”
We launch into a bit of small talk, and when I ask her how her family is, she nods toward a white box sitting at the end of the counter. “Wade was supposed to pick that up an hour ago, but I have no idea where he is.”
My mind flashes back to the Ednas and their quilting-circle gossip session that I didn’t ask for.
I could tell her. Warn her that the Ednas are all over whatever salacious thing is supposedly happening between her principal brother and Ari Langford.
But to warn her I’d have to repeat it. And what if they have it wrong? Then I’m not just spreading a rumor; I’m spreading a made-up one. Best to leave it.
“Well, I better get back to the inn,” I say. “I’ll take a dozen. Just give me a variety.”
She makes me up a box and then rings me up, and soon I walk down the street back toward the inn.
I’m hoping Dean is still asleep when I get back, so I can go about my morning like I didn’t just have the best cuddle of my life. But when I walk in, the smell of fresh coffee hits me. And unless the Hendersons made themselves very at home, that can only mean one thing.
Dean’s in the kitchen, standing by the coffee machine in running clothes, his back to me.
My heart does one stupid little jump when I see him.
I know that feeling. I haven’t felt it since Jackson.
The good news is that part of me didn’t die after Jackson stomped all over it.
The bad news is nothing can come of it. Dean is leaving.
“Hey,” I say after debating if I could just set the pastries down and tiptoe out. But I decided to be an adult in this moment.
He turns around. “Hey,” he says.
We stare at each other. I have no idea what he’s thinking. My own head, meanwhile, is a full-blown disaster—last night, the cuddle, the butterflies currently trying to claw their way out of my stomach. I could say any of it out loud. I could also spontaneously combust.
Thankfully, I keep my mouth shut.
“You snore,” Dean says, his lips pulled into that straight line.
My jaw drops. “I do not,” I say, totally offended. No one has ever accused me of snoring.
His lips twitch.
“You’re teasing,” I say.
“Maybe,” he says.
He gives me that half smile of his, and I give him a full one. It feels like a wordless acknowledgment of this morning’s entanglement and a silent agreement to just leave it.
“I brought pastries,” I finally say, sliding the box across the island.
He opens it up and grabs a maple bar, taking a large bite out of it.
“I thought you didn’t eat carbs for breakfast,” I say, confused.
“I lied,” he tells me.
My jaw drops again. “You lied?”
“Yes, and I’ve been wanting one of these since that first morning, so thank you.” He gives me a little salute with the donut.
“You’re such a jerk,” I say, but I’m laughing.
I stop when I hear the Hendersons coming down the stairs.
Giving Dean a look, I open a drawer and grab a stack of napkins before grabbing the box of baked goods and taking it to the front entry.
“Good morning,” I say to Laurie and Brian, both wearing UVM T-shirts and looking well rested. “How did you sleep?”
I set the box and the napkins on the side table. Right on top of the candle-making flyer I never found a place to hang up.
“Very well,” Laurie says. “Though you may want to look into a new mattress. We kept rolling toward the center.”
“Oh,” I say, acting surprised while feeling heat rise to my cheeks at my own rolling-toward-the-center-of-the-mattress experience this morning. I wonder if their experience was as confusing as mine. Probably not.
“I’ll be sure to do that. Would either of you like a pastry? They’re from the bakery down the street.” Here’s hoping Keller’s Bakehouse makes them forget about the mattress.
“I’d love one,” says a smiling Brian, walking over to the side table.
“That was lovely of you to do,” says Laurie, before joining him.
“Do you think that hubby of yours could bring down our luggage?” she asks, while perusing the baked goods. “Brian’s back is feeling a little tight.”
“Of course,” I say.
I peek my head inside the kitchen door to find Dean still standing by the coffee machine. “Oh, husband? Be a dear and bring down the Hendersons’ suitcases, would you?” My voice is syrupy sweet, even when he gives me that flat stare of his.
“Yes, wife,” he says, emphasizing the word.
I think I’m going to be sad when our little charade is over.
“How are things going at the inn, Rosebud?” my dad asks as we walk out of church into the midday sun.
After the Hendersons left, I cleaned up the room and changed the sheets while Dean went for a run. When he got back, he started working on the baseboards in the Rapunzel room while I met my family for church, where I did, in fact, see Ari Langford and Wade Stevenson sitting together.
Just once I’d like the Ednas to have wrong information so I could call them out on it.
“It’s coming along,” I tell him. “Thanks to Dom and all his help.”
I’m not telling my physician assistant dad I’ve been living on Dr. Pepper and four hours of sleep. He’d have me in for bloodwork by Tuesday.
Dominic gives me a side-eye that I ignore.
He hasn’t had to do all that much now that Dean has been helping.
And he promised not to tell anyone else because they would worry, and so it’s in his best interest that he keep that promise.
Not that I have any actual leverage. The wedgie thing stopped being a viable threat about a decade ago.
“I can help too,” Emma says, looping her arm through mine as we head for the cars.