Chapter 8 Sarah
SARAH
Writing a book is hard. Trying to run an inn, well… that’s a full-contact sport.
Yesterday, I’d woken up blissfully unaware of how much one’s life could detonate in twenty-four hours.
If you’d asked me then whether I’d ever run, let alone own, an inn, I would’ve laughed directly in your face.
Not politely. A full snort-laugh. Maybe even a bit of spit.
Then I would’ve told you to go screw yourself and possibly questioned your mental health.
Me? Run an inn? Never in a million years. Never in a million organized years.
Yet, here I was, standing behind the front desk at the Hartwell Inn doing exactly that. Or trying to. Mostly failing.
I squinted down at my aunt’s booking ledger, which looked like it had been written during a séance by someone who hated vowels. Beside it was a towering stack of books I was apparently supposed to have read by now.
There was Innkeeping for Dummies, which felt a tad judgmental. How to Run an Inn and Not Have a Nervous Breakdown, aspirational at best. The Inns and Outs of Inns, which told me nothing except that someone really loved puns. And my personal favorite: How Not to Turn Your Inn into a Money Pit.
Yeah. Super swell reading. Very comforting. No notes.
“You should have a glass of wine to calm your nerves,” announced Lola, propped elegantly on a chair next to the front desk, sipping red wine like she was watching live theater instead of my slow unraveling.
I shot her a look. “Isn’t it a bit early for wine?” It was ten in the morning.
Lola flashed me her teeth. “Only if you plan on being productive.”
I wanted to tell her to get lost. Or at least to take her wine and her commentary and shove it up her outrageously well-funded butt.
But she was technically my only paying guest, tenant, long-term resident, or whatever category she fell into.
And without her extremely generous check, this whole soft open would’ve been a hard nope.
Besides, her room wasn’t even ready.
Lola lifted her glass, unfazed. “Also, I just wanted to point out. It’s not early if you didn’t sleep. I was occupied. Repeatedly,” she added with a giggle.
“I slept, for a few hours, I think,” I said, flipping through my aunt’s ledger like it might suddenly translate itself.
“I just didn’t rest.” No because I was in a new place, a new bed, and apparently with a new life.
No way in hell was I going to get a good night’s sleep, not for another week or so.
The phone rang.
Lola smiled. “That sound? That’s destiny. And money.”
And stress. I snatched up the receiver. “Hello, Hartwell Inn.”
A pause. Then a cheerful voice. “Hi! I’m calling to confirm our reservation for tomorrow?”
Of course you are.
“Yes,” I said brightly, already sweating. “Of course. Let me just… check on that. Hold on please.”
I put the caller on hold and immediately hissed, “Why is everyone coming tomorrow? What’s so special about tomorrow? Is there some weird festival I’m not aware of?”
Lola shrugged. “Ocean air. Pink building. Word spreads, darling.”
Wonderful.
The front door rattled.
I stared at it. The phone blinked. My aunt’s ledger laughed at me silently.
“Looks like some guests have arrived early,” commented Lola, sipping her wine.
My heart dropped. “God, I hope not. Nothing is ready yet.” If whoever was trying to get in was a guest, I was going to fake my own death.
“Or it could be James for round three,” purred Lola. “He’s very good with his tongue.”
Eww.
The handle jiggled. Nothing happened. Then whoever it was leaned into it, and the door finally bumped open like it had lost the will to fight.
A woman stood there with a sturdy stance and a face that had seen things. Mid-fifties, short dark hair pulled back tight, sensible shoes, and two industrial-sized buckets hanging from each arm, the bottles clanking softly inside like she was ready to go to war.
“You must be Sarah,” she said walking up to me.
“Yes,” I said because clearly my reputation had beaten me here. “And you are?”
“I’m Maria,” she said. “Dottie sent me. I cleaned for Edna.”
I stared at the woman. Part of me wanted to tackle her into a hug, but then I remembered that I didn’t do hugs.
“You’re a gift,” I said instead, relief spreading through me. “You’re an actual miracle.”
Maria’s mouth twitched, and I could tell she was very pleased to be wanted. “She said you’d be like this.”
Behind me, Lola leaned over the desk. “Does she come with references?”
Maria glanced at her. “Thirty years. No complaints. Except Edna. But she complained about everyone.”
I was not surprised to hear that.
The phone on the desk started ringing again. The held call was probably plotting my downfall.
Oh, shit.
“Thank you for coming, Maria,” I said, waving her in. “Please, come in. Do Lola’s room first, Room 204. Then 205, 303, and 304. All the sea-view rooms.” I paused. “But you already know that.”
“Mine has the best sea views,” Lola said calmly because humility was not one of her hobbies. “It’s why it’s mine.”
I turned back to Maria. “I’m guessing you know where all the linens are? And do you also handle the laundry?”
Maria shook her head. “Edna took care of that. Laundry’s in the basement.”
Right. I nodded like this information didn’t just derail my entire sense of reality. So that meant I was now in charge of the front desk, incoming bookings, outgoing panic, and laundry.
Fantastic.
Nothing says “welcome to your new life” like being responsible for other people’s towels.
Maria looked around, already clocking the mess, and stepped inside. “Supplies?” she asked.
“I…”
She lifted one of the buckets. “I brought my own,” she said, and climbed up the staircase.
I might cry today. It was looking increasingly likely.
The phone rang again.
Damnit. I leaned over the desk and picked it up. “Thank you so much for holding! Yes, your room is confirmed. Breakfast? Absolutely. Ocean view? Of course. We…” I glanced at Lola, who nodded solemnly. “Specialize in that.”
I hung up and pressed my forehead to the counter for one solid second. Without Dottie’s omelet this morning, I probably would have passed out by now.
From the kitchen came the clatter of pans and the unmistakable smell of something incredible.
Dottie appeared, carrying a plate like she was presenting an offering to the gods. She’d changed her apron today. This one was pale yellow with bold red letters that read: IF IT SMELLS WRONG, IT’S ALMOST READY.
“Taste test,” she announced. “Blueberry and raspberry muffins. I added my secret ingredient. It’s my special sauce.”
Lola snorted. “Oh, I know all about special sauces.”
Dottie shot her a look. “Don’t be nasty this morning. You’ll scare Sarah away.”
“Please,” said Lola, giving me a once-over from my messy hair to my yoga pants and back up again. “Sarah looks like she’s lived a little. Innocent girls don’t have that kind of eye twitch.”
“Hey,” I said. “That twitch is from stress. And trauma. Possibly caffeine withdrawal.” Yeah, I needed another cup of coffee. Possibly a gallon.
Lola smiled, satisfied. “Sex is the best remedy for that. All that stress. All those pent-up emotions. You need to get laid. And I don’t mean some two-minute genital slapping. I’m talking about a full-on climax carnival.”
I shook my head. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“And not some sad, rushed, situation where everyone’s disappointed and someone pulls a muscle,” Lola continued, warming up. “I’m talking about a full production. Enthusiasm. Sweat. A proper finish.” She winked.
I was in hell.
“She’s been waiting all morning to say this,” commented Dottie.
Lola waved her off and leaned in my direction. “Once you take care of the Velvet Curtain properly, darling, you’ll feel looser, lighter, and significantly less homicidal.”
I stared at her. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” said Lola. “Nothing clears the mind like a good, thorough orgasm. It’s like meditation, but louder.”
I blinked. “Is she always like this?”
“Worse,” said Dottie, shoving a muffin at me. “It’s still early. By noon she’ll start naming techniques.”
“I don’t have time to eat,” I said, even as my stomach betrayed me with a loud growl.
Dottie ignored that. “It’s just one bite. You’ll love it. I promise. You need to take a muffin break.”
“I can’t.” I sighed, staring at the ledger with already four rooms booked for tomorrow, including Lola’s. “If I stop moving, I’ll collapse.”
Dottie leaned over and sniffed me. Actually sniffed. I saw nostril movement and heard the sound. “You’re running on coffee and spite.”
True. “That’s my brand.” It totally was.
Boots sounded on the floor behind me. Heavy.
I turned.
Dust-guy stood in the foyer.
What the hell?
He stood there all tall and pretty and hard—whoops, I meant solid.
And irritatingly calm. Looking like he had absolutely no business being here yet somehow fit like he belonged.
His broad shoulders filled a black leather bomber jacket, a gray T-shirt dipped into a low V that showed just enough chest hair to be distracting, and dark jeans snugly hugged his powerful thighs.
I glanced away. I really didn’t need this now, especially not with the morning I was having.
“What is Dust-guy doing here?” I blurted. That sort of just flew out of my ass.
Dottie blinked. “Who’s dust-guy?” she asked, peering behind her like another man might be hiding in the hallway.
Dust-guy raised an eyebrow. “She means me.”
Lola’s smile widened. “Oh. This is good. Very good. I have a feeling I’ll need more wine for this.”
Dottie’s face lit up. “Alex! Perfect timing.”
I looked at Dottie. “Why do I get the feeling you know something I don’t.”
“I called him,” explained Dottie, breezing up to Alex and shoving her plate of muffins at him like she was feeding a large, useful animal. “Take one.”
I watched Dust-guy accept the muffin, break it in half, and eat the top in two efficient bites.
“Why?” I asked, my voice tight.