The Accidental Innkeeper (Maplewood Falls #1)

Chapter 1

SARAH

“What’d you expect? You got fat.”

Right. Because nothing says “I love you” like “You got fat.” Not exactly the phrase I pictured coming from my fiancé’s mouth this morning. “You’re gorgeous”? Nope. “Want pancakes”? Still no. Just straight to body-shaming before coffee. Impressive, really.

For a solid five seconds, I just stood there, trying to process the scene in front of me.

The brunette had a body sculpted by either the gods or a relentless Pilates instructor—firm everything, perky everywhere, the kind of boobs that laugh in the face of gravity.

Don’t worry, honey. Gravity always wins.

Simon froze mid-motion, like a deer caught in the world’s worst Lifetime special. She shrieked, he stuttered, and I… blinked. Once. Twice. Then mentally added “eye bleach” to my next grocery list.

Crying would’ve been cliché. Screaming and throwing something would’ve been giving him too much credit. And honestly? Arguing with a man who couldn’t tell the difference between love and a lap dance felt beneath me.

I’ll admit, it hurt. The whole “you got fat” speech sucked, but the betrayal? That was the cherry on top of my emotional dumpster fire.

Sure, I’d noticed Simon acting off lately.

Late nights, mysterious “work dinners,” suddenly using cologne that cost more than our rent.

And yep. He’d been sleeping with both of us.

Classy bastard. Simultaneous romance multitasking, how efficient.

The thought made my stomach twist. The man didn’t even have the decency to end things before auditioning for the neighborhood adult film club.

Still, I refused to drown in self-pity over a man who clearly thought monogamy was a suggestion, not a promise. I deserved better.

So I did what any self-respecting thirty-two-year-old woman on the edge of a nervous breakdown would do. I packed up my pride, my laptop, and my dignity with a week’s worth of clothes and drove straight out of New York.

After driving for about two hours north, half fueled by coffee, half by pure rage, I’d already imagined Simon’s head exploding in at least four different cinematic ways. My personal favorite involved a frying pan as my phone started to buzz.

My ancient 2015 Volkswagen Jetta didn’t exactly come with hands-free luxury, unless you counted the duct-taped phone holder clinging for dear life to the air vent. I jabbed the screen with one finger, nearly swerving into the next lane.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I said to the speaker. “I’m working on it.”

“Working on it?” said an annoyed voice through the line. “Sarah, darling, you’ve been working on it for over a year. We’re not building the pyramids. We’re writing romantic fiction.”

Margarette Tardif—my editor and personal stress fairy. The woman had the compassion of a loan shark and the patience of a toddler on espresso.

“I just need a little more time,” I said, which was true. “Four months. Maybe five.”

“You have four,” she snapped. “If your book isn’t on my desk by then, Orson & Fig Publishing will regretfully release you from your contract. And regretfully is really code for we’ll never answer your emails again.”

“Margarette, I’m going through a breakup,” I said. “It’s been a rough day. Give me a little break.”

“You go through breakups like I go through mascara. Write through it. Channel the pain. Make him a villain with erectile dysfunction. You’re welcome.”

I sighed. “You’re a ray of sunshine.”

“That’s why I’m head of the romance division, darling. I ruin lives so others can find love.”

“Bye, Margarette.” I swiped the phone screen with my finger.

I stared at the phone and then at the road ahead, which looked about as inviting as my future. Great. Four months to finish a book I hated, a fiancé I wanted to strangle, and an emotional support Jetta that rattled every time I hit sixty.

Awesome.

I cut a glance at the manila envelope sitting on the passenger seat.

Langley & Pierce, Attorneys at Law, the kind of firm name that screamed old money and passive-aggressive Christmas cards.

It had arrived yesterday by registered mail, which usually meant jury duty, parking tickets, or impending doom.

I hadn’t told Simon about it, mostly because I thought it was too ridiculous to be real.

But there you have it.

Turns out my great-aunt Edna left me her inn in Maplewood Falls.

I know. Shocking twist. Somewhere, the Hallmark Channel just got an erection.

I’d been to Maplewood Falls once as a kid. The postcard-perfect little town lay tucked into Connecticut’s elbow with white picket fences, farmers’ markets, and gossip faster than Wi-Fi. It was the kind of place where people baked pies for fun.

And then there was Aunt Edna. I remembered her mostly because she terrified me.

Short, perpetually covered in a cloud of cigarette smoke, and always wearing lipstick that migrated halfway up her face by noon.

Her glasses were so thick they could probably start fires in direct sunlight.

She’d worked as a secretary for DuPont back when women smoked at their desks and men called them “sweetheart” and smacked their asses.

I never thought she’d leave me anything, unless you counted secondhand trauma and a fear of polyester pantsuits. But apparently, according to the letter, she’d thought I’d “never amount to anything.”

Her exact words replayed in my head, uninvited and loud, like she was sitting in the passenger seat critiquing my driving.

Sarah,

You always reminded me of your father. Big ideas. No stamina. He never amounted to much, and neither have you. The loser gene runs in the family. Not entirely your fault. So I’m leaving you the inn.

Do with it what you will. Lose it quickly or prove me wrong.

—Edna

My fingers tightened on the steering wheel.

That’s right. She left me an entire inn. An inn. A parting gift from beyond the grave or a final insult, depending on how you looked at it.

“Thanks, Edna,” I said at the envelope. “Way to keep the faith.”

Still, what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t afford rent in the city, my fiancé had upgraded to a newer model, and my publisher was ready to cut me loose.

So, the inn it was—creepy, possibly haunted, and in the middle of small-town Connecticut. Maybe this was exactly what I needed to pump those creativity juices and get inspired. Who knew?

I sighed and pressed harder on the gas. “How bad could it be?”

I let out a long breath and sank deeper into the driver’s seat. The highway had finally given way to rolling green hills and tree-lined roads. Sunlight spilled through the windshield in golden stripes, flashing over lakes and ponds that sparkled like sheets of diamonds.

I should’ve felt relaxed, but I didn’t. I was furious. With Simon, with myself, with the entire bad-life-decision montage that had led me here. At least I couldn’t possibly dig myself any deeper into the crapper. From here, the only direction left was up. Right?

As the road curved, the air shifted. The salty tang of the ocean drifted through the cracked window, and a weird sense of calm replaced the panic that had been clinging to me like cheap perfume.

Up ahead, the coastline stretched out in the late-day sun with quaint villages, white boats bobbing in the bay, and lighthouses.

For the first time in days, my chest loosened. My heart even gave a cautious little flutter. Hope? Nope. That was gas.

Then I saw it—a big wooden sign carved with a row of pastel cottages and a lazy sailboat gliding across a painted bay: WELCOME TO MAPLEWOOD FALLS.

I grinned despite myself. “Okay, Aunt Edna. Let’s see what kind of fresh hell you’ve got waiting.”

Just as I crossed the Maplewood Falls town line, my Jetta gave a violent shudder.

“Don’t you dare,” I growled, gripping the wheel. The dashboard lights blinked in unison, like they were forming a farewell message in Morse code. Then came the smell. Burnt rubber.

“Okay, okay, we’re almost there,” I coaxed, patting the dashboard as if gentle encouragement could replace motor oil. “You’ve been a champ, old girl. Just hang in there a few more miles…”

The engine wheezed, coughed once, and died with a sound that could only be described as mechanical betrayal.

I coasted to the curb, the car rolling to a sad, silent stop.

“Perfect.” I climbed out, gulping down July’s humid air, my shirt already glued to my back with sweat.

And that’s when I remembered. I’d left without showering.

Without deodorant. Without brushing my hair.

Without even a courtesy glance in a mirror.

I sniffed my pits. Yup. An active war zone was happening in there, and judging by the feral knot at the back of my head, I’d officially crossed from mildly disheveled into a full-on stinky sasquatch swamp creature.

So, naturally, I did the only thing I knew. I grabbed the hood latch, popped it open, and leaned over like I had a clue what I was doing. I really didn’t.

A wave of heat and gray smoke hit me in the face. I squinted into the mess of metal and pipes. “Yup. That’s definitely... a car. With metal thingies. Lots of metal thingies.” I poked something with a fingernail. It hissed at me. “I don’t like you either.”

I grabbed my cell phone, hunting for a taxi service or an Uber, but the glaring lack of white bars at the top of my screen told me everything I needed to know. No freaking reception.

“Perfect. Just perfect.” I stood there, my hands on my hips, trying to decide whether to cry, scream, or sacrifice the Jetta to the gods of bad timing.

So I kicked the front tire like a crazy person instead. You know, let all that anger out. Did it make me feel any better? A little. But it also hurt like a sonofabitch.

I’m not sure how long I stood there baking in the sun. Half an hour? An hour? Long enough to be soaked head to toe and smell like I’d microwaved my own sweat.