Chapter 5
SARAH
Iwaved goodbye to Becca as she slid into her sleek SUV, the door shutting with a soft, expensive thunk that probably cost more than my entire suitcase. She pulled away, her taillights disappearing down the road like competence itself was leaving town.
It had been nice of her to stop by. Really nice. At least now I could say I’d met one actual, functional human being who might eventually turn into a friend in my new pink nightmare—someone calm, someone capable, someone who didn’t live inside my head rent-free after less than a day.
Dust-guy didn’t count.
I didn’t think I could ever be friends with a man who looked like he’d just stepped out of a Polo ad and watched you with that infuriating half-smirk, like you had something in your teeth, and he was enjoying your suffering too much to mention it.
Or whose stare made my lady V throb like she was warming up for a drum solo.
And then—because the universe enjoys humiliation—I’d gone and stared at his man-junk.
I was in hell.
This felt like the beginning of a very distracting side quest, and I absolutely did not have the time, energy, or emotional bandwidth for that. I was busy. I had a full plate, a pink, peeling plate with a screaming boiler and possible mold colonies.
Besides, I was over the whole relationship thing. Capital O Over. Men sucked. Period. Full stop. The end. I’d done the emotional labor, the compromise, the pretending not to care when I absolutely cared. I was retired—emotionally, possibly spiritually.
And I had a book to write. And an inn to… what was I going to do with the inn? No idea. Not even a vague idea.
But first things first. Before I could have an existential crisis, I needed a place to sleep that didn’t smell like dust, mice poop, or my own sweat. Which meant cleaning. Or at least aggressive surface-level denial.
Making up my mind, I grabbed my shoulder bag and my one loyal suitcase and turned toward the stairs.
The stairs turned back at me. Lots and lots of stairs.
“Of course.” I sighed. “Why wouldn’t there be like a thousand stairs? This place hates me already.”
I hoisted the suitcase up the first step. The wheels caught. I yanked harder. The suitcase resisted, like it was considering staying downstairs and starting a new life without me.
“Don’t do this,” I warned it under my breath. “We’re in this together.”
The stairs creaked ominously. Step by step, I hauled myself upward, my shoulder bag sliding and the suitcase thumping behind me in protest. By the second flight, I was breathing like I’d just run from zombies. I figured the owner’s suite was at the top floor with the best views.
And I was going to make it, damnit.
Somewhere between gasping and swearing, my brain betrayed me by drifting, completely uninvited, back to Dust-guy.
To his stupid calm voice. His stupid competent hands. His stupid everything-is-under-control posture. I pictured him taking these stairs two at a time without breaking a sweat and immediately resented him for it.
“Stop it,” I told myself. “He is a distraction in expensive jeans.”
When I finally reached the top, I collapsed against the wall, my suitcase upright beside me.
“Okay,” I panted. “We live here now.”
The third-floor hallway stretched out in front of me, narrower than the ones below.
The ceiling sloped just enough to feel like the house was leaning in.
The light was softer up here, filtered through small windows at the far end, and dust floated lazily in the air like it had nowhere better to be.
Floorboards creaked under my weight, old and vocal, announcing my presence whether I liked it or not.
The inn felt different up here, less public and more private, like I’d crossed an invisible line from guest to mine now, deal with it.
I straightened, squared my shoulders, and wiped my hands on my jeans. “I can do this.”
I walked past the first two rooms and peeked inside.
Both were clearly guest rooms. One had faded floral wallpaper and a brass bed with a lumpy-looking quilt, the kind that smelled of lavender and mothballs.
The other was surprisingly crisp, white walls, lace curtains, mismatched furniture that looked like it had been collected slowly, one estate sale at a time.
I kept going. At the very end of the hallway, I spotted the last door. Something about it felt… intentional.
“This has to be it,” I panted because hope is dangerous but persistent.
I unlocked the door and pushed. Something screamed. The door gave up, fell off its hinges, and smacked into the wall.
“Great. Just great.” I stepped around it and moved into the suite. “Oh, hell, no.” Looked like my pink nightmare was just getting started.
Everywhere I looked, pink stared back at me, lots and lots of pink—the walls. The ceiling, the curtains, even the damn lampshades. Floral wallpaper exploded across every surface like it had lost a fight with subtlety and taken revenge.
“Edna,” I said. “You’re killing me.”
A massive four-poster bed dominated the room, draped in pink fabric. A matching dresser sat against one wall. Beside it stood a wardrobe so large three of me could fit inside, or one me and Dust-guy, possibly.
But that wasn’t what had my eyes bugging out of my sockets.
It was the fact that another life-size portrait of my tiny Aunt Edna was mounted directly above the headboard.
In this one, she was smoking a cigar, wearing a pink skirt suit that matched the room a little too well, and staring straight ahead with that particular expression some portraits have, the one that follows you no matter where you stand.
Left side of the room? Watching. Right side?
Judging. Flat on your back in bed? Actively disappointed.
I shifted. The eyes shifted.
“Edna,” I whispered. “You were one strange lady.”
Sleeping under a disapproving, cigar-smoking ancestor was not part of the plan.
“Screw it.” I rolled my suitcase inside and dropped it at the foot of the bed, afraid to touch anything else. The room smelled old but clean with rose soap, maybe, layered over decades of stubborn perfume. Still, though, a smell lingered, like old socks.
I sniffed my pits. “Shit. That’s me.”
A door off to the side caught my eye. “Please be a bathroom.” I pulled it open. “Bless the plumbing gods.”
I stared at a private bath featuring a clawfoot tub fitted with an overhead shower, pedestal sink, white tile—thankfully neutral, like even the house knew this room needed boundaries—and a mirror edged in gold.
It was slightly cloudy with age, and thank god because no one needed a high-definition version of me right now.
I stepped back into the bedroom and took it all in again, the pink, the furniture, the overwhelming sense that my aunt had curated this space with intention and possibly spite.
I dropped onto the edge of the bed, the springs groaning beneath me, and stared at the wardrobe like it might open on its own.
“Well,” I said to the empty room, “at least I’ll never lose my clothes.”
First, I needed to find cleaning products so I could give the bathroom a good, aggressive swipe. Resolute, I pushed myself up again and headed back in there. A tall, narrow cabinet recessed into the wall caught my eye, something I definitely hadn’t noticed before.
I yanked it open. “Bingo.”
Inside was a stack of neatly folded linens and a couple of mothballs that had clearly lost the will to live. But, hey, clean sheets were clean sheets. And at the very bottom sat a dusty box of cleaning products, including one jug with bold red letters that said BLEACH.
I dragged everything back into the bedroom. Then I grabbed the old comforter, lifted it, and unleashed hell.
A thick cloud of dust exploded into the air like the bed had been holding its breath for decades and finally decided to exhale directly into my face. It coated my hair, my shirt, and, because I am an idiot, my open mouth.
And I inhaled.
I bent forward, coughing violently while waving my arms like I was trying to take flight. “Oh my god,” I wheezed. “Gross. Gross. Gross. I’ve just breathed in three generations of dead skin.”
The dust drifted slowly back down, settling everywhere again, calm and satisfied, like it had won.
I spat into the trash can, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and glared at the bed. “You are messing with the wrong woman, buddy.”
Holding my breath, I hauled the comforter the rest of the way off, holding it at arm’s length like it might explode again, and tossed it into the corner where it landed with a sad, defeated thump.
Five minutes later, after a brief coughing fit and what I hoped was not early-onset lung damage, I had the bed remade with fresh linens and a quilt that didn’t look like it had witnessed a murder.
Small wins.
As I smoothed the sheets, my traitorous brain decided this was the perfect moment to picture Dust-guy.
Him standing there next to the bed. Watching. Standing there watching with no clothes on. Standing there watching with no clothes on with his hard man-wand pointed at me.
Yup. I was horny and seriously delusional.
I fluffed the pillow harder than necessary. Nope. Not today. I was not thinking about Dust-guy while making a bed and imagining our bodies doing some horizontal tango.
I stepped back and took a deep breath. The room smelled faintly of lavender now.
Next stop: bathroom.
First, I pulled the water bottle from my bag and drank half of it in one go, trying very hard not to think about all the historical nasties I’d inhaled today—dust, skin cells, possibly a ghost. I’d read somewhere that probiotics were essential for gut health.
At this point, I was pretty sure my immune system deserved a medal.
At the very least, I probably wouldn’t be constipated.