Chapter 2
SARAH
It was the most uncomfortable car ride of my life.
Not only was Dust-guy, not talking, but I was filthy and drenched in sweat with my sweaty ass pressed into what I was ninety-five percent sure were very expensive leather seats. The kind you weren’t supposed to disrespect with your bodily fluids.
And it wasn’t just sweat. I stank. Oh yeah. If I could smell it, Dust-guy definitely could. There was no universe where this wasn’t happening.
So I did the only thing I could.
I squeezed my arms against my sides as tightly as possible, trying to contain the situation. Like if I compressed myself enough, the smell would stay trapped inside my armpits, and we could all pretend this wasn’t real.
It probably didn’t work. It probably just made me look like I was constipated. Or actively trying not to fart. Or both.
The silence stretched. The air-conditioning hummed. Judgment radiated from the leather.
“You okay there?” Dust-guy asked, flicking a glance at me before returning his eyes to the road.
“Yup,” I said, rigid as a statue and definitely not okay.
“You’re a writer from New York?” inquired Dust-guy. “Are you visiting family in Maplewood Falls?”
I shifted in my seat, which only made me more aware of my sweaty ass committing felony-level crimes against his leather interior. Also, writer. Of course he’d clocked that too. I had the posture of someone who stared at screens for a living and argued with imaginary people in her head.
“I’m moving here,” I admitted.
“Huh.” He sounded amused by that. “That explains the plates.”
“And the attitude,” I added.
That earned me a smile. One corner of his mouth lifted like he approved of my self-awareness.
“Why Maplewood Falls?” he asked. “Inspiration for your writing?”
I hesitated—partly because I hated explaining this but mostly because I was filthy, sticky, and still mildly furious that he’d dust-blasted me earlier. Now he was asking personal questions like this was a first date and not a hostage situation involving air conditioning.
“My aunt,” I said finally. “She left me the inn.”
That got his full attention. He looked over properly this time, long enough that I almost told him to keep his eyes on the road before we both ended up dead in a ditch and proved me right about strangers.
“The Hartwell Inn?” he asked.
“That’s the one.”
He let out a low whistle. “So you’re that niece.”
That word landed funny. That niece. Like I was a known entity. A topic. A conversation.
“Apparently,” I said. “Should I be worried?”
“No,” he said easily. “Just… people talk.”
Oh. Great. I hadn’t even unpacked any of my boxes yet, and I was already local gossip. Fantastic.
I stared straight ahead. “Sounds like a fun place to live.”
Dust-guy chuckled under his breath. “You’ll get used to it.”
Doubtful. I waited a beat and then forced myself to return the question because silence plus sweat plus curiosity was a dangerous combination. “Then… What’s with the face?”
Dust-guy glanced at me. “The face? I have a face?” He flashed that smirk again. You know the one that says he knows the effect it has on females.
“So what do you do? Apart from showering strangers with dust storms?” I asked instead.
He smiled again. Damn those were some hot, hot lips. “I flip houses. Invest in real estate.”
Of course he did. That fit. Annoyingly well. The calm confidence. The expensive car. The hands that looked like they actually did things. And what else could they do…
Nope. Not going there.
“Ah,” I said, focusing. “So you buy problems and make them pretty.”
“Something like that.”
I glanced at him. “Do you also rescue stranded, sweaty New Yorkers as a side hustle?”
“Only the dramatic ones.”
I snorted before I could stop myself and then immediately regretted it because laughing shifted my body and, yep. Still sweaty.
I crossed my arms tighter and stared out the window, heat creeping up my neck.
This was bad. Not the car. Not the town.
Dust-guy.
He drove in easy silence for a minute, like he was letting the town do the talking. Or he was trying hard not to comment on the fact that I smelled like road death.
“So,” he said casually. “You planning on keeping the inn?”
Ah. There it was.
I shifted in my seat, which was a mistake because sweaty leather is not forgiving. “Why?” I asked, keeping my tone light while my brain immediately went to defensive positions.
He shrugged, eyes still on the road. “Just curious.”
“That’s not an answer.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “You don’t strike me as someone who does things halfway. The inn’s a big undertaking.”
I narrowed my eyes at the windshield. “You’ve known me for, what, ten minutes? Half of which I was covered in dust.”
“Still counts.”
I rolled my eyes. “I haven’t decided yet.” And that was the honest truth. I mean, what the hell did I know about inns? Running an inn? Absolutely nothing, that’s what.
He nodded like he’d expected that. “Figured.”
“And before you ask,” I added, “no one has offered me a suitcase of cash for it. If that’s where this is going.”
That finally earned me a glance. “I wasn’t going to ask.”
“Sure.”
“I was going to ask if you’d sell because the place needs work. A lot of work.”
I felt my spine stiffen. There it was again. That word. Work.
“Excuse you,” I said. “It’s old, not falling apart.” Was it falling apart? Shit. I had no idea.
“I didn’t say falling apart,” he said calmly. “I said work. And you don’t look like the type that works in construction.”
Oh. Oh no, he did not just say that.
I turned slowly in my seat, the leather creaking beneath my sweaty ass like it was bracing for impact. “Excuse me?”
He glanced over, clearly confused by the sudden temperature spike. “What?”
“You don’t look like the type,” I repeated, sweet as acid. “Wow. That’s bold. Incorrect. And deeply sexist.”
His eyebrows shot up. “What? No—”
“So because I’m not wearing steel-toed boots and swinging a hammer right now, I couldn’t possibly handle renovations?” I gestured at myself. “Is it the dust? The sweat? Or the fact that I have breasts?”
He grinned at the word breasts. Total male. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Because I assure you,” I went on, gaining momentum, “I am fully capable of demo. I once ripped an entire bookshelf out of a wall in New York with nothing but rage and a crowbar.”
He blinked. “You did?”
“Yes. And it deserved it.” It actually came down on me by accident, but he didn’t need to know that.
The corner of his mouth twitched, but I was not done. “I’ve painted. I’ve sanded. I’ve assembled IKEA furniture without crying. Mostly.”
“I’m not doubting your…”
“And for the record,” I added, “I can use my hands for more than just writing. I’m very capable.”
He shook his head, still smiling. “Come on, New York. That’s not what I meant.”
“Then clarify,” I said, crossing my arms and immediately regretting it because armpits.
“I meant,” he said carefully, “that you look like someone who’s used to thinking things through. Planning. Big picture. Renovations are brutal if you don’t know what you’re getting into.”
I paused. “I can do work. I just don’t want it done badly.”
“Exactly,” he said. “That’s all I meant.”
I stared out the windshield, suddenly very aware that I’d gone from righteous fury to awkward silence in under ten seconds.
“Still,” I muttered, “you could’ve led with that.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And for the record,” I added, “I can swing a hammer.”
“I believe you,” he said. “You seem… intense.”
I smiled tightly. “I’m very approachable.”
He laughed again, and damn it, I hated that it worked. That deep rumble of his sent my sweat-o-meter into overdrive.
I squeezed my arms tighter against my sides again. “So, what type of work are we talking about?” If this was a money pit, money I didn’t have, I’d have to sell.
Dust-guy tapped the steering wheel once. “Foundation’s solid, but the roof’s aging. Windows are original in places. Plumbing’s a mix of old and newer patch jobs. It’s charming. It’s just… tired.”
I stared at him. “Have you been stalking my inn?”
He smiled. “I live here. And I do real estate.”
Right. That. The flipping houses thing.
“Oh,” I said slowly. “So this is where you tell me you want to buy it, gut it, turn it into luxury condos, and erase every ounce of character.”
His mouth twitched. “Is that what you think I do?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “You have the car for it.”
“Ouch, New York. That hurts.”
“Liar.”
He chuckled. “I don’t flip inns.”
“Yet.”
“If I were interested,” he said, “I’d tell you. I don’t poach family inheritances. And the inn has history. Maplewood Falls history. No one builds them like that anymore.”
I studied his profile, trying to decide if I believed him. He looked unbothered. Open. Annoyingly sincere. “Okay,” I said carefully, “you’re not circling my inn like a vulture.” Funny how I was already calling it my inn, though I’d never seen it.
“No.”
“Or planning to swoop in the second I look overwhelmed.”
He considered that. “Well… maybe circling. But not swooping.”
I snorted despite myself and then immediately regretted it because laughter plus sweat was still not my friend. “I’m keeping it,” I said firmly. “At least for now.”
He nodded again. “Good.”
I blinked. “Good?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It suits you.”
I glanced out the window, suddenly very invested in the passing scenery. “You don’t know anything about me.”
He smiled. “Give it time, New York.”
And something in my chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the heat.
After a small rise, the road dipped, and that’s when Maplewood Falls finally came into view through the windshield.