13. Chapter 13
Rosie
The castle, it seemed, was running out of room. This was entirely the princess’s doing.
“Edna B. has the dark hair?” I say, grabbing Dean by the arm and giving it a little shake, feeling way more elated by that piece of information than I probably should be.
He’s currently trying to hang a framed print of the tower Rapunzel lived in. The pastel colors go perfectly with the room.
I was very excited about it until Dean hit me with the Edna knowledge, and that was much more thrilling.
“That’s right,” Dean confirms, making a mark on the wall where the hole for the frame will go.
“Dean, you solved the great mystery of Autumn Ridge,” I say, sounding a little too giddy about this. “I could kiss you for this.”
The words pop out of my mouth without any forethought.
It doesn’t mean anything; it’s just a thing people say. Like about their plumbers. I didn’t say it to Kory, but I could have kissed him when he told me how much the leak cost, and it was significantly less than I was expecting.
Except . . . in this case, I have thought about kissing Dean. Many times. Too many.
This is becoming a problem. I’m thinking about him too much. And sharing too much.
Yesterday, I told him about the Suttons. And Jackson. And Rosaline. Things I don’t tell people.
I’m prone to oversharing, but not about that. I blame the paint fumes. Or Dean’s propensity to listen. Why does he have to be so good at it? He’s also good at picking up context. Maybe a little too good.
I feel like I should clarify that the Suttons were good to me, even if they broke my heart. And Jackson? I could have been meaner. So good job, me.
“Kiss me?” he says, one corner of his mouth tipping upward. I’ve decided it’s his smolder.
I like it way too much.
“It’s just a saying,” I tell him. “I could also . . . pinch your cheek.”
Which I do, like he’s a little kid.
I’m an idiot.
Dean apparently thinks so too, because he’s giving me the straight line of disapproval.
“Well, you’ve saved the day, once again,” I tell him, putting both hands in the back pockets of my black overalls, so I don’t do anything else regrettable with them.
“Hal asked about you,” Dean says, his focus now back on the wall.
“He did?”
“Yeah. He wanted to know if his truck was still in your garage.”
“Oh? Did you tell him it is?”
It’s an odd question for Hal to ask. Of course his truck is in my garage. What did he think I was going to do with it?
“I did,” Dean says. He picks up the frame, holding it over the mark and checking that it’s centered.
“Well, good. Maybe he’ll feel prompted to remove it.”
“Or you could just ask him,” he says.
I nod. “I could do that. Did you get the maple burger?”
“I got a regular burger.”
“And?”
“It was a burger.”
I laugh. That’s such a Dean answer.
“Rosie?” I hear a woman’s voice call from downstairs.
I find Sadie in my entryway when I get there, holding a box full of little brown paper sacks. Each one has a window in the front and a logo I don’t recognize stamped across it.
“Hi, Sadie,” I say, giving her a little wave. “What do you have there?”
“Maple cookies and maple blondies.” She tips the box toward me. “Some of the things we’ve been making for Carver Maple Farms.”
“We?” I ask. I thought Sadie worked at Keller’s.
“Yes,” she says. “Just a little something I’m doing on the side. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind keeping some in the inn to sell?”
“Oh,” I say, wondering where I would put it all. I don’t have a display case, but maybe I need one? Or some shelving?
“If that doesn’t work, it’s not a problem,” she says before letting out a nervous-sounding breath.
“Of course. No problem,” I tell her. “We’ll put it right here.” I guide her over to the side table where the flyer for the candle-making class still sits and remove it before she sets the box down. I still need to find a place to hang it.
The side table is a good spot for Sadie’s maple goods. I was planning to have some baked goods there during the week of the festival, but I can find another place to put them.
“I was also hoping I could get a booth for the maple farm for the festival?”
“Definitely,” I tell her, setting the candle-making flyer on the check-in desk. “I think we can put you right on Main Street.”
I say this like I know where everything is going, but I have no idea if there will be space on Main Street, and I probably need to figure that out. Stat.
Sadie thanks me and heads out, leaving me alone with the growing list of things I still need to do.
I’ve got less than two weeks before guests arrive, and the rooms have to be done. And somewhere in between all that, I’ve got to make sure a festival runs smoothly.
Dean comes downstairs carrying the drill. “Do you know where the level is?”
Before I can answer, his attention shifts to the side table.
“What’s that?” He points to the baked goods.
“Carver Maple Farms asked me to display some of their baked goods,” I tell him, not loving the way it looks. But I don’t have time to worry about that.
Dean doesn’t say anything.
“It’s a small thing,” I add. “And once the festival starts, this place is going to be full of people who want local products. It makes the whole inn feel more authentic.”
He still doesn’t say anything.
“It’s a side table. It wasn’t being used for anything.”
“But I’m your only guest,” he says, his lips curving just slightly upward.
“And would you be interested in some maple treats?”
“No,” he says.
“Oh right, because you don’t eat carbs in the morning.” I give him a smirk.
“That’s correct,” he says, giving me one back.
Neither of us looks away.
This keeps happening. Ever since that night in my room, there’s this thing we do now where we just . . . stare. And I want to make something of it. Because it’s something, right? But also, I’m not exactly sure what I can do about it.
“The level is in the Rapunzel bathroom,” I finally say, the spell broken.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asks when he comes into the Rapunzel room later that night and I’m pacing the floor, looking at my phone.
I was working on the finishing touches in the room since Dominic had just left after helping us move in all the furniture when I saw this text:
Pam: Good news! The tables for the booths are getting here early. Expect them by 8 a.m. tomorrow.
Good news? Is she crazy? No, that’s mean to think about Pam. She’s not crazy. She’s just dumped a big pile of tables on me with no warning, that’s all. And it’s nearly eleven p.m. She sent it three hours ago, and I just now saw it.
“The tables are coming tomorrow morning, not the end of the week like I was expecting,” I tell Dean. “I don’t know where to put them.”
“The garage?” he offers.
“Hal’s truck is in the garage.” I give him an are you stupid? look, which I immediately soften with a smile because Dean isn’t stupid, and I’m not myself when I panic.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Maybe Dom’s garage? Or his shed? I don’t think it will fit there, though. Plus, I’d have to direct the delivery service there in the morning, and I don’t even have a contact number.” I take a slow breath because I’m not sure I’ve taken a good one since I got the text from Pam.
Dean watches me as I pace back and forth in the small space between the bed and window.
I stop when I realize what has to be done. I hate the idea, though.
“I’ll just put them in my front entry,” I tell him. “We’ll have to use the back door or the side one to get out of the house for the next two weeks or so. But that should be fine.”
“Rosie,” Dean says.
“I know it’s inconvenient, but what else can I do?”
He exhales through his nose, hands on his hips. “Why don’t you ask Hal to move his truck?”
“The tables aren’t that big,” I tell him. “Two of them will fit along the entry wall, and the rest can go behind the check-in desk if I move the—”
“Rosie.”
“What?”
“You need the garage.”
He’s not wrong. I do need my garage.
“Well, I can’t call Hal now,” I say. “It’s after eleven. He’s old and probably asleep.”
Dean says nothing.
I nibble on my lower lip. “I could text him, I guess.”
It feels itchy to do something like this. But also, if Hal had picked up the truck when he said he was going to, this wouldn’t be a problem. So, it’s his fault, really. It’s his dad’s truck, though, and he’s not ready to sell it. Can I blame him for that? Yes. No. Ugh.
“What are you thinking?”
“That I feel itchy.”
“Huh?”
“It’s . . . don’t worry about it.” I sit down on the edge of the bed I still need to make with a deep-plum ruffle duvet I bought for this room. “I’ll send him a text.”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
I pull up his name on my phone.
Me: Hi, Hal!! So sorry to bother you this late, I know you’re probably asleep or maybe still at the bar, either way I hope you’re having a good night.
So this is a little awkward and please don’t feel any pressure whatsoever, but the festival tables are being delivered to the inn and it turns out they’re arriving at 8 a.m. tomorrow instead of the end of the week, which I only just found out about, which is honestly my own fault for not confirming sooner.
Anyway I was wondering, and again absolutely NO pressure, if there’s any chance you might be able to come move the truck?
I completely understand if that doesn’t work.
“Are you writing a novel?” Dean interrupts.
“Shh,” I tell him. “Let me concentrate.”
Me: I know it was your dad’s and I would never want you to feel rushed about something like that, I still have my mom’s favorite necklace in my jewelry box, and some days I can’t even look at it.
If tomorrow’s no good I can definitely figure something else out, I already have a few ideas, and honestly the entryway might look sort of charming with tables in it.
Haha. Let me know whenever! No rush at all! ! Thank you so much for everything.
I’m about to hit send when I realize I’ve wasted my texting fingers because this probably won’t work.
“I don’t know if I should send this. What if he doesn’t see it in time?” I ask Dean.
“It’s worth trying,” he says.