Chapter Two Dust and Disaster
Dex
The town sign for Maple Ridge appeared just as sleet began needling the windshield.
I eased off the accelerator, the tires hissing over the thin sheet of ice forming on the road.
Behind me, Braxton hummed cheerfully to a holiday tune on the radio, utterly unfazed that visibility had dropped to a polar blur.
The man could find optimism in a hurricane which was frustrating at times and in other instances reminded me there was room for silver linings.
“There it is. The SnowDrop Inn,” he announced as we rounded the final bend.
I slowed the car, assessing the three-story structure that loomed through the snow like a relic of better decades.
The shutters hung askew, green moss climbed the lower stones, and one of the porch spindles had given up on its career entirely.
Even from the car I could see the faint lean of the front steps.
“What do you think?” Braxton asked brightly.
“I think it’s a lawsuit waiting to happen,” I grimly replied.
The roofline sagged to the left, and the side addition looked like it had been designed by a man who had never seen a blueprint.
“The proportions are completely wrong. Whoever built that extension destroyed the balance of the original architecture.”
Braxton only grinned. “You mean it has character.”
“That’s one word for it,” I muttered, leaning over the steering wheel to see better through the flakes of snow.
“I like it. It’s got good bones, and I bet there’s stone under that siding on the addition. Once it’s repaired, it could be charming. The location’s great, being so close to the ski hill and the lake. Lucy picked well,” Braxton gave his approval.
“Miss Bennet, you mean,” I corrected him.
I kept my eyes on the cracked driveway, which was slowly disappearing under a blanket of snow.
“Picked” implied thought. I suspected impulse .
The same impulsive decision that had led her to quit her job two weeks ago without notice, leaving my schedule and my sanity in ruins.
Who knew she was excellent at her job? I certainly hadn’t. Then things simply fell apart and all the temps in the world were incompetent. It was highly aggravating.
“She lets me call her Lucy." Braxton shot me a sidelong glance. “Remind me again why we’re here instead of calling like normal people?”
“Because, she didn't answer the first ten calls, or the ten after that,” I muttered as I parked the car and shut off the engine.
He stretched, unbothered. “Maybe Lucy meant it when she said she quit.”
“She will change her mind once she hears my offer." The words came out sharper than intended. I stepped out of the car and immediately regretted leaving the city. The cold bit through my coat like it had personal grievances. “Let’s make this quick.”
Snow squeaked beneath our shoes as we climbed the steps. Up close, the inn looked even worse. Paint peeled in long curls, and the sign overhead stating the name The SnowDrop Inn was missing half its D.
“Snow rop . At least the name is festive,” Braxton read aloud, laughing.
“Festive,” I echoed dryly, knocking on the door. When no one answered, I tried the handle. It turned easily.
Inside smelled of lemon cleaner fighting a losing battle against damp wood. A shaggy green carpet swallowed our footsteps as we entered a wide foyer. A chandelier leaned suspiciously to the left, its crystals dull with dust. From somewhere down the hall came the muffled sound of hammering.
Braxton’s grin widened. “Renovations! See? She’s already making progress.”
“Questionable progress,” I corrected. “The wiring alone—”
“Dex, you sound like a building inspector. Try to enjoy the spirit of it,” Braxton urged.
I was about to remind him that “spirit” didn't compensate for structural instability when the hammering stopped, followed by a man’s voice.
“There we go! I knew it. There’s plaster molding underneath!”
We rounded the corner into what must have been the main reception room.
A man stood on a ladder tugging at a section of drop ceiling, the metal grid quivering with each pull.
He was middle-aged, solidly built, wearing a plaid shirt and the wide grin of someone who had just found treasure in his own attic.
Dust rained down as another tile popped free.
“William, careful,” a woman called from somewhere beyond the doorway.
The man ignored her. “Lucy! Come see this molding!”
The name froze me mid-step. I turned… and there she was.
Lucy Bennet.
Her hair was up in a messy knot, tendrils falling loose around her face.
She wore jeans, sneakers, and a faded T-shirt that read The Empire Strikes Back.
A smudge of dust streaked her cheekbone, and she looked nothing like the polished assistant who used to glide through my office with coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other.
She looked real and irritatingly adorable.
Braxton murmured, “You should stop scowling.”
I ignored him. “Lucy.”
Her head snapped toward me. For one suspended moment, shock widened her eyes and parted her lips. “Mr. Fitzwilliam?”
“Dex,” I corrected automatically, wishing she would call me by my first name. I brushed plaster dust from my coat which had floated down from the tiles of the drop ceiling, watching Lucy blink like she had conjured me from thin air.
“Do you know these gentlemen?” the man on the ladder asked, clearly her father.
“Yes. This is my former boss, Mr. Fitzwilliam, and his business partner, Mr. Hale,” Lucy introduced us with a slight disbelieving wobble in her voice.
Her father smiled, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “Pleased to meet you.”
Before I could respond, a woman bustled in, apron askew, paint on her cheek, enthusiasm radiating like heat. “Mr. Hale! How wonderful to see you. You’re a touch early.”
“I am Mr. Fitzwilliam,” I interjected, withdrawing my hand from her vigorous handshake. I tilted my head towards Braxton. “This is Mr. Hale.”
The woman laughed, unoffended. “Of course! Helen Bennet. Welcome to our inn.”
“Early?” Lucy repeated, frowning. “You knew they were coming?”
“Of course! Kitty has the website going, and they are our first booking,” Helen announced proudly.
“You’re open for business?” I felt my brows lift. I looked at Braxton with something akin to horror. “Booking? We booked a stay here?”
Braxton had the good grace to look guilty. “I thought it would be fun. Besides, the weather was forecast to be bad and you insisted on coming.”
“Technically it’s a soft-open,” Helen said cheerfully, ignoring my glaring daggers at my supposed friend. “It’s good practice for us.”
“We don’t have any rooms ready! The renovations have barely started. Why would Kitty think it was appropriate to book guests?” Lucy asked, panic entering her voice as she pressed a hand to her forehead.
“I am very interested to see the renovation work you have planned,” Braxton offered diplomatically. He studied the section of ceiling that William was still dismantling. “Is that Greek Revival?”
William brightened with enthusiasm. “Excellent eye! Yes, you can see the details here. Someone hid this gorgeous molding behind the tiles. Look at the craftsmanship!”
He tugged another piece free, revealing an elegant plaster curve dusted in gray.
Despite myself, I stepped closer. The molding was genuine, a fine relief work that had been hand-tooled. “They don’t build them like this anymore. You will want to patch with lime plaster, not gypsum, or the moisture will—”
Something cracked above us.
I looked up just as the rest of the drop ceiling let go.
The world went white with dust. Metal track and old tiles rained down in a spectacular collapse.
I covered my head with one arm, coughing as grit filled my throat from the decades of dust that had settled on top of the tiles.
When the noise finally subsided, I straightened, blinking through the haze.
A jagged piece of tile slid off my shoulder and clattered to the floor.
Braxton’s laughter broke through first. “Well, Dex, I think you found your flaw in the structural integrity.”
“Very observant,” I muttered, brushing debris from my coat. My once-immaculate suit now looked like it had fought a bag of flour and lost.
Lucy rushed forward, wide-eyed. “Oh no. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I believe your drop ceiling, however, is beyond saving,” I dryly observed. My pride had suffered more damage than my skull.
Her father climbed down from the ladder, patting a rung with satisfaction. “Worth it. Look at those lines. I bet there are more hidden gems behind the paneling on the walls.”
Helen appeared in the doorway again, hands on her hips. “William Bennet, you’re banned from ladders until further notice.”
“Yes, dear,” he replied easily. Clearly he had no intention of following his wife’s orders.
I turned to Lucy. “You might consider professional assistance before attempting further demolition.”
“I will take it under advisement,” she answered stiffly, brushing plaster from her sleeve. Her tone managed to make the words sound like ‘go away’.
Helen broke the moment with a clap of her hands. “Well, no point standing around in the cold. Let’s show you to your rooms so you can get cleaned up.”
Lucy spun toward her. “Mom, we don’t have any rooms ready. There’s dust everywhere.”
“Nonsense. All we need is some clean sheets and towels." Helen turned to me, unbothered by logic. “You’ll stay, won’t you? We can give you a discount since the ceiling did drop on you.”
Braxton smiled instantly. “We would be delighted to stay, no discount necessary.”
I opened my mouth to refuse, but Lucy’s expression which was equal parts horror and disbelief was perversely worth staying for. Perhaps she would see the errors of her ways and be begging to return as my assistant as this house kept falling down around her.
“Fine,” I heard myself say. “A night or two.”
“Splendid! I’ll tell Jane to put coffee on. Lucy, show them to the parlor while I find fresh linens." Helen beamed.
As Helen and William departed in a flurry of enthusiasm, I surveyed the chaos. Dust coated every surface. The chandelier above us swayed gently, shedding the occasional puff of dust like snow. Lucy looked ready to sink through the floor.
Braxton nudged me. “Admit it. This is more fun than the city.”
I shot him a look. “If by fun you mean hazardous, then yes.”
Lucy cleared her throat. “I’ll uh… get the broom.”
She disappeared down the hall, leaving me standing in what used to be her ceiling, wondering how on earth the most organized woman I had ever employed had ended up here ankle-deep in dust and disaster.
And why, despite every ounce of reason I possessed, I couldn't look away from her.