Chapter 6 Sarah
SARAH
Iwoke the next morning feeling like my body had been through a meat grinder.
My neck was stiff, and muscles hurt in places I didn’t even know I had muscles.
If it weren’t for the loud, aggressive growling coming from my stomach, I would’ve stayed in bed, possibly slept until noon, maybe even until retirement.
I groaned and rolled onto my back, immediately regretting it.
Nope. That was worse.
I grabbed my phone and squinted at the screen. Seven a.m. glared back at me. I had a single text from Hugh’s Garage.
Hugh: Car’s ready.
“A man of little words,” I said. “Truly a poet.”
I dropped the phone onto the bed and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Please,” I whispered to no one. “Pray to the gods that there’s coffee in this place.”
Making up my mind, I swung my legs off the bed and stood, my joints protesting like they’d unionized overnight.
I pulled on yoga pants, the universal uniform of women who have given up but still have things to do, brushed my teeth, used the bathroom, and stared at myself in the mirror long enough to confirm I was not fit for public consumption.
Coffee first. Everything else later.
If I didn’t get caffeine into my system in the next ten minutes, I was going to kill someone.
My slippers padded softly against the wood floors as I made my way down the stairs, moving carefully because the house had already proven it enjoyed betrayal.
Morning light spilled through the tall windows, bathing the inn in a soft, golden glow.
In this light, the place looked… good. Charming, even.
I paused halfway down the stairs, squinting. The inside actually looked better in the morning, warmer and less judgmental, like it was trying to pretend it hadn’t tried to murder me naked the night before.
Interesting.
I hadn’t explored the kitchen yet, which meant I had no idea what kind of fresh disaster awaited me. A raccoon colony. An ant apocalypse. Mold. Just… mold everywhere.
“I just want some damn coffee,” I mumbled.
I found the kitchen at the back of the inn on the first floor, through a heavy white-painted door. And I stopped short. “Huh.”
That was because I was genuinely surprised. The kitchen was… clean. Not abandoned-for-six-months clean. Not we tried our best clean. Actually clean.
It was a large, professional kitchen with restaurant-grade stainless steel appliances, a massive island in the middle, and pots and pans hanging from a rack above.
The white tile backsplash matched white cabinets, stretching all the way to the ceiling, and the terracotta tiles on the floor somehow managed to feel warm instead of grimy.
No wild animals. No evidence of animal poop. And most importantly, it wasn’t pink.
I exhaled slowly, like I’d just walked away from danger. I crossed the room and opened the fridge, even though I knew, logically, I wouldn’t find anything edible in there if the inn had been closed for six months. But my stomach had hope. Delusional, dangerous hope.
Empty. Damn.
I checked the cupboards next. “Maybe there’s a cereal box,” I whispered. “Something sealed. Something forgotten.”
Five minutes later, every cupboard stood open, mocking me with bare shelves.
Nothing. Not even a can of tomato sauce. Not a crumb for the mice.
I sagged against the counter. “Figures.”
And then, on the back counter, half-hidden behind a stack of unused mugs, I saw it.
A tin of ground coffee.
“Hello, pretty,” I said reverently, grabbing it like it was a rare artifact.
Within a few blessed minutes, I was holding a steaming mug of hot coffee in both hands, breathing in the smell like it was oxygen.
I took the first sip—heaven, pure, uncut salvation.
“Okay,” I said to the empty kitchen. “I can survive anything now.” Which, in hindsight, was wildly optimistic.
I took another gulp of delicious coffee.
“Not on an empty stomach you can’t,” said a voice.
“—hkffp!” Coffee shot out of my mouth, half spraying the counter and half dribbling down my chin. I coughed, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and spun around.
“Excuse me?” I croaked. “Who are you? And what the hell are you doing here?”
The voice belonged to a woman in her fifties with dirty-blonde hair piled into a messy bun and skewered in place by what looked suspiciously like two chopsticks.
Bare feet peeked from under a long, flowing skirt, a denim blouse had been rolled at the elbows, and a scarf was wrapped loosely around her neck, like it had lived several lives.
She radiated bohemian confidence, the kind that said she trusted herbs more than laws.
She wrestled two overstuffed cloth bags onto the island and let them drop with a heavy thud, pausing to catch her breath.
“Well,” she said, her cheeks flushed like she’d jogged here carrying livestock, “I’m Dottie.
The breakfast cook. Or I was, for fifteen years, until your aunt…
” She sliced a finger across her throat in a brisk, efficient gesture. “So here I am.”
I blinked. Once. Twice. “I’m pretty sure the front door was locked,” I said slowly.
Dottie grinned, completely unbothered. “I have a key, silly. I came as soon as I heard you were here.” She waved a hand like this explained everything. “You’ll need a cook. One with experience. Me.”
My brain stalled. “Wait. Wait. Wait.” I held up a hand. “I haven’t even decided if I’m keeping the inn.” Who the hell was this person?
“Of course you are,” said Dottie immediately, already unloading the bags like she was setting up for a cooking show.
Eggs. Cheese. Tomatoes. Lettuce. Onions. Mushrooms. Red and green peppers. Fresh herbs I didn’t recognize and frankly didn’t trust. She reached for a bowl.
“My aunt might’ve left me the inn,” I said, louder now, “but that doesn’t mean I’m opening it.” I really hadn’t made up my mind yet. I needed more time to think. And all this was happening way too fast.
Dottie snorted, waving a hand at me. “Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not being silly. I’m being realistic.”
I watched as Dottie yanked out a rolled-up square of fabric, snapped it open, and tied a white apron around her waist. Bold black letters across the front read: THIS MIGHT BE POISON.
Okay then.
Dottie cracked an egg one-handed into the bowl, the shell landing neatly in the trash. “Edna left you the inn because she knew you’d keep it.”
“That is… wildly inaccurate,” I said. “She left it to test me. Or punish me. Or both.” She wanted or expected me to fail, that was for sure.
Dottie whisked like she was auditioning. “Edna didn’t give things away. She planted them.”
I had no idea if that was true. I barely knew the woman. “I don’t even know how to run an inn,” I said. “I don’t know anything about bookings or guests or…”
Dottie turned on the stove, humming. She was freaking humming.
“Breakfasts,” I continued, “or health codes or…”
She poured the eggs into a pan.
“Insurance or boilers or…”
Butter hit the skillet and sizzled.
My stomach betrayed me with a loud, traitorous growl.
Dottie smiled without looking at me. “You smell that?” she asked.
“No.” Liar, liar pants on fire.
The omelet was already working magic. Butter, eggs, cheese melting into something rich and comforting. My knees weakened a little. I hated myself for it.
“I haven’t eaten since… yesterday,” I said, realizing it mid-sentence. No wonder my stomach gremlins were battling it out in my gut.
“Mm-hmm.” Dottie tossed in onions and herbs with practiced ease. “You look like someone who needs protein and grounding.”
“I don’t need grounding,” I said weakly. “I need a plan.”
“You need breakfast. Trust me on that. Your brain needs food. This is brain food.” She slid the omelet expertly, flipped it, and plated it before I even realized what was happening. Then she placed it in front of me on the island like an offering.
I stared at it. Then at her. Then back at the omelet. “This doesn’t mean I’m committing to anything,” I said. “Even if it does smell amazing.”
Dottie waved me off. “Eat.”
I leaned over the kitchen island, grabbed a fork and took a bite. “Oh, my god,” I moaned. “This is good. Really good.” My eyes nearly rolled back into my skull. This woman could cook, and then some. “This isn’t an omelet. It’s an orgasm with eggs.”
It was perfect. Fluffy. Savory. Comforting. The kind of food that made you believe maybe life wasn’t actively out to destroy you.
“I know.” Dottie smiled like she’d been waiting for that reaction her whole life. “See?” she said. “You’re home.”
I took another bite and swallowed. “Even if I agreed, I don’t have any money to pay you. Edna only left me the inn.” With all the renovations and upkeeps. There was no magic envelope with a stash of cash in it.
Dottie grinned. “You’ll figure it out.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. I watched her as she started emptying the rest of the contents of the bags and started to fill the shelves. Funny how she seemed to have so much faith in me when I felt like I was in over my head.
“So, I hear you’re a writer,” said Dottie moving around the kitchen like she’d been here all her life and knew where everything was. Probably had.
“I am.”
“Are you working on something right now?” Dottie asked. “I mostly read guidebooks and plant encyclopedias. There’s always something new to discover in a mushroom encyclopedia.”
“Um. Right.” I nodded like that made sense. “I write mostly paranormal romance.”
Dottie’s eyes widened, delighted. “Well, I don’t know about all that,” she said cheerfully, “but I do know this. You came to the right place. Lots of interesting things around here. You just wait.”
I certainly hoped so because otherwise I was out of a royalty-paying contract and possibly my mind.
Suddenly, the kitchen door slammed open.
“Ah. There you are,” said a voice, smooth and confident.