Chapter 7 Alex
ALEX
“The new owners can paint it whatever color they want once it’s theirs,” I told Tim, my site foreman on the Harbor Lane flip. “Tell the painters to use the colors I specified.”
“Got it,” answered Tim, already adjusting his tool belt as he headed back outside to the crew waiting on the lawn.
I stayed where I was, my hands on my hips, taking in the living room—new windows, bare drywall, clean lines, good bones. This place would sell fast.
Women were better with the design and color stuff. That wasn’t an insult. It was a fact. To be safe, I always went neutral. Soft whites. Warm grays. Nothing that scared buyers or locked them into someone else’s taste. Trends came and went. Classic sold.
If the new owners wanted a red wall or navy or whatever the hell was popular this year, they could deal with it themselves.
I didn’t do bold colors. Definitely not pink.
The Hartwell Inn cut into my thoughts uninvited. That ridiculous pink thing sat perched on the cliff like it was picking a fight with the whole damn town. I fucking hated that color.
I pushed the thought away. Focus.
And then, because my brain was apparently broken, I thought of New York.
Her face. Those blue eyes that looked like they were always mid-argument with the universe. That thick dark hair she kept shoving back like it was in her way. The way her hips moved when she walked, confident without trying, like she didn’t realize anyone might be watching.
I liked watching a curvy woman walk, always had.
Damnit. I frowned and scrubbed a hand over my jaw. Not relevant.
I wondered if she’d slept at the inn or bailed and found a hotel. Not that Hartwell had many options. We had bed-and-breakfasts and two inns—one of which was hers now.
Except when I’d driven past Hugh’s Garage this morning on my way here, her Jetta had been parked right out front. Still there, which meant she hadn’t gone anywhere. She was still at the inn.
I didn’t know why that mattered. It shouldn’t have. She wasn’t my responsibility. She was a temporary disruption, a woman with baggage, literal and otherwise, standing in the middle of a mess she didn’t understand yet.
I worked with houses. With problems you could measure, fix, and control.
People were different. Women were different.
I turned back to the drywall, mentally ticking off the next steps. Paint. Trim. Floors. Schedule. Budget. Stick to the plan.
And stop thinking about a damn woman who smelled like dust, sweat, and stubbornness, yet somehow still managed to get under my skin. I didn’t have time for distractions. I had a schedule to keep. Schedules slipped. Costs went up. That was bad business.
I exhaled through my nose and headed toward the door.
Work first. Always. I couldn’t fuck this up.
My phone rang as I stepped outside, and I pulled it out of my pocket.
The name Dottie Goodwin flashed on the screen. I stared at her name for half a second like maybe if I ignored it long enough, she’d get bored and call someone else. Dottie didn’t get bored. Dottie escalated and then offered to make you eggs benedict.
I thought of hanging up, but then I slid my thumb across the screen. “Hey, Dottie.”
“Alex!” Her voice came through bright and loud, like she’d been waiting beside the phone with a stopwatch. “Good, you picked up.”
Tim and the painting crew looked up at me at the same time, grinning. I pressed the phone tighter to my ear. “I’m working,” I said because if you didn’t establish boundaries with Dottie right away, she’d move into your life and start reorganizing your organs by energy level.
“I know,” she said cheerfully. “I can hear it. All that… construction-y sound. Anyway, I need you. The Inn needs you.”
Fuck. I closed my eyes briefly. “That’s not how this works.”
“It is today,” she replied, completely unfazed. “Edna always had you fix things. The inn’s waking up. Come look.”
I opened my eyes and stared straight ahead at the gravel drive, the trucks, the crew moving equipment like normal life still existed.
“The inn is waking up,” I repeated slowly. “Like it took a nap, and now it’s cranky.”
“It is cranky,” said Dottie. “And it’s also loud. Really loud.”
My jaw tightened. “Dottie, I’m in the middle of a job.”
“And Sarah is in the middle of an inn,” she shot back. “Which is worse. She needs help. Have you met her yet? Edna’s niece? She’s pretty, you know. And I didn’t see a ring on her finger.”
I exhaled slowly. I’d clocked the missing ring the second she waved her hands around. Didn’t mean I cared. Didn’t mean I was interested. And it definitely didn’t mean I was getting involved.
I glanced over my shoulder through the open doorway at the living room. Tim was talking with the painters. Everything was on schedule. Nothing was on fire.
“I’m not the inn’s handyman,” I said.
Dottie snorted. “You’ve been the inn’s handyman since you were twenty-two and Edna hit you with her cane for suggesting she replace the guttering.”
“That was one time.”
“That was three times,” Dottie corrected. “And you deserved it because you said ‘guttering’ like a man who doesn’t know the difference between a gutter and a downspout.”
I swallowed a laugh. Dottie was a lot of things, but she didn’t miss details. I’d been twenty-two and full of opinions back then. I didn’t know shit. Thought I knew construction because I owned a tool belt. Edna saw straight through it. Sharp old woman. Mean, too.
“I’m not going over there,” I said because saying it out loud felt important. Official. Final.
Dottie didn’t even pause. “Yes, you are.”
I stared at the dirt. “I’m not. Drop it.
I’ve got my hands full with this flip. I don’t have time to take on any new projects.
Find someone else.” I shut down the image of New York balancing on a ladder, wobbling and swearing with one hand on a light fixture she had no business touching. Not my problem.
“Alex,” came Dottie’s voice, suddenly quieter, still Dottie but with that annoying note of sincerity she used when she wanted to steamroll you with kindness. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. I’m afraid she’s going to get hurt.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“It is if the boiler decides to scream again,” added Dottie.
“And it will. Also, the front door sticks. The back stairs wobble. Her bedroom door fell off its hinges. I think there may be some rot there. She can’t even close her bedroom door, Alex.
And she has bookings calling the front desk phone like it’s on sale. ”
My shoulders tightened. “Bookings?”
“Oh, yes,” said Dottie, delighted again. “People are calling. Lola handed her a check. It’s happening.”
Lola Sinclair solved most problems with money and confidence, usually in that order. She’d probably thrown money at the problem and called it a solution.
“And what exactly do you want me to do?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
Dottie’s voice turned crisp. Business Dottie. Dangerous Dottie. “I want you to come look. Make a list. Tell Sarah what needs fixing now and what can wait. She’s talking about a soft open, and I’m not serving breakfast to people in a building that might try to eat them.”
“She wants to open?” I asked, and I hated how that sounded. Way too interested.
Dottie ignored my tone completely. “Of course she does. She’s stubborn. Like Edna, but with better hair and much more beautiful.”
I dragged a hand over my face. “Dottie…”
“She needs a plan,” Dottie went on, steamrolling. “And she needs it from someone who knows old houses. Who knows this house. Edna trusted you.”
Edna didn’t trust anyone. But she had… tolerated me. Which, coming from Edna, was basically a love letter.
I exhaled through my nose. “You realize you’re basically ordering me to come.”
Dottie laughed. “Yes. Be a good boy.”
“That’s not polite.”
Dottie made a dismissive noise. “I’m a breakfast cook. I’m not supposed to be polite. I cook and make people eat. I’m helpful.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Don’t start with me,” she said. “Come by. Ten minutes. You can go back to your precious schedule after. I’ll even give you coffee.”
“I don’t need—”
“And eggs benedict,” added Dottie. “Your favorite.”
Damn that woman. Dottie knew exactly what she was doing. “You’re bribing me with eggs,” I said flatly.
“It’s working. Isn’t it? Come on. How long has it been since you’ve had my famous eggs benedict?”
More than six months. I closed my eyes again because this was ridiculous. I didn’t have time. I didn’t have room in my day for a pink inn and a woman from New York who talked like she was always one second away from a breakdown or a joke.
Yet.
Dottie was right about one thing. The inn was a monster.
If New York was going to try and wrestle it into submission, she’d need a plan, a real plan.
And the help of someone who knew what they were doing and not trying to screw her out of money.
If she hired some local guy, and I knew them all, one look at the desperation on her face and they’d be seeing dollar signs.
She’d be drowning in debt by the time they were done with her.
I could make her a list. Give her priorities. Keep it professional. Just business. All in under ten minutes.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll swing by.”
Dottie’s victory was immediate. “Knew it! You’re a good man, Alex.”
“I’m not,” I muttered. “I’m just easily manipulated by older women.”
“Ha. You are,” Dottie agreed happily, as if that was a compliment. “Come through the back. The front door sticks.”
“I know,” I said because I’d bled on that door once.
“I’ll see you soon,” she chirped. “Oh… and don’t scare Sarah. She’s already jumpy.”
“She’s always jumpy,” I said.
Dottie made a pleased hum. “Yes. It’s adorable.”
“It’s dangerous,” I corrected.
There was a beat. Then her tone shifted. “Oh. You’ve met her already?”
I frowned. “What?”
“You don’t say always about someone you haven’t met.”
I sighed. “Her car broke down. I gave her a ride into town. That’s it.”
“Mm-hmm,” said Dottie, clearly not buying a word of it. “Of course you did. Okay, bye!”
The line went dead.
I stood there for a moment with my phone still at my ear, listening to nothing and feeling my day shift under my feet.
Ten minutes, I told myself. In and out. Make a list. Fix something small if I have to. Leave.
I shoved my phone into my pocket and headed back toward the crew.
Tim looked up as I approached. “Everything good?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I need to step out for a bit. I have to take care of something.”
Tim raised an eyebrow. “Now?”
“Yeah.” I held up a hand before he could ask questions. “Keep the painters moving. Have them do the living room and the hall today. Make sure they don’t cheap out on the trim.”
Tim nodded. “Got it.”
I walked to my SUV, got in, and started the engine. As I pulled away from Harbor Lane, I told myself, again, that I wasn’t doing this because of New York. I was doing it because Dottie called. Because the inn was old. Because Edna would roll in her grave if her building collapsed from neglect.
Just business.
I eased out onto the road and set my jaw, my hands steady on the wheel. I’d done favors before. Plenty of them. This wasn’t different. This was a building I knew, pipes I’d bled on, stairs I’d tightened more than once. Edna’s place. Dottie’s kitchen. History. Responsibility. That was it.
From what Dottie said, it looked like New York was staying. Or at least she wanted to test drive the inn.
I’d figured New York would take one look at the pink monstrosity perched on the cliff, laugh like it was a dare gone wrong, and disappear back to wherever she came from. That was the sensible move, the smart move. Hell, it was the move I would’ve made.
But she hadn’t run.
I didn’t know how I felt about that. Didn’t need to. Feelings were optional. Decisions weren’t.
I told myself I’d go in, say what needed saying, and then leave. No lingering. No getting pulled into whatever chaos she was building with optimism and caffeine. Helping didn’t mean staying. Helping didn’t mean caring.
The road bent toward town, the ocean flashing between trees, and I kept my eyes forward.
Hard lines. Clear rules.
I was doing this for the inn—for Dottie, for Edna. That was the story, and I was sticking to it.
I wasn’t getting involved. I was just going to help, and then I was out.
The road curved, trees blurring past. Main Road opened up ahead, and the closer I got to the coast, the more that familiar salt smell crept in. I drove faster than I meant to. I didn’t like that either.
The inn appeared on the cliff like a punchline you couldn’t avoid.
That pink. Jesus Christ.
I slowed as I turned in, my tires crunching over gravel. Becca’s white BMW was gone now. Good. It meant New York wasn’t being managed by someone competent. Which was… not good.
I spotted a couple of cars out front I didn’t recognize. The porch looked the same as always, sturdy, wide, dramatic with rocking chairs lined up like witnesses. Window boxes were dead as hell from total neglect.
I killed the engine and sat there, my hands still on the wheel. The truck ticked as it cooled, the sound loud in the quiet.
A soft opening.
People didn’t make decisions like that unless they planned to see them through. Unless they were stubborn enough to fight a losing battle just to prove someone wrong. I knew that type. Hell, I was that type.
I should’ve left. I could still leave. Throw it in reverse, tell Dottie I took a call, tell myself I’d done my part just by showing up.
Instead, I stayed.
Because I was already here. Because walking away now would stick in my teeth worse than staying. Because the idea of New York trying to wrangle an old inn and a soft open without someone keeping the place from falling apart rubbed me the wrong way.
I didn’t want to be responsible. Didn’t want to be involved. Didn’t want to care.
Yet, here I was, parked in front of a pink building that had no business pulling me in.
I exhaled hard through my nose.
Shit.
I opened the door and stepped out, gravel crunching under my boots. The inn loomed above me, bright and stubborn and alive, like it was daring me to turn back.
I shut the door harder than necessary.
This wasn’t going to be ten minutes.
And I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be the last time either.