Chapter 8 Sarah #2
“Because you need help with all the fixing,” said Dottie, like this was obvious and I was slow. “And Alex is the best at fixing house stuff. He flips houses. He knows construction.”
I felt it then—the heat, the slow, creeping humiliation climbing up my neck and settling right in my cheeks.
I was not some helpless damsel stranded in a tower of pink despair. I had a brain, a college education, and Wi-Fi. I had Google, YouTube tutorials, and the unearned confidence of someone who once fixed a leaky faucet after watching a six-minute video.
I could absolutely Google my way through this.
I did not need help, especially not his.
I crossed my arms, immediately aware this only made me look smaller and more defensive, which was not the message I was going for. Dust-guy watched me with that unreadable expression, his jaw set and eyes steady, like he was mentally tallying the number of ways this place could kill someone.
Or me.
And maybe he hated being here. Maybe Dottie had dragged him into this. Maybe he owed her a favor. Maybe he’d lost a bet. I didn’t know. But whatever the reason, he had no business standing in my inn, holding a muffin, and looking at me like I was a loose floorboard waiting to happen.
“I don’t need help,” I said. “I’ve got it under control.”
Dust-guy’s gaze flicked to the phone, the ledger, the papers, Maria marching upstairs with her buckets, and Lola sipping wine like this was theater.
Then his eyes landed on me—yoga pants, messy hair, panic probably written in neon on my face.
Great. Just freaking great.
“That’s not what it looks like,” he said.
“I’ve got it,” I repeated. “I’m a very capable woman.” Not sure why I needed to specify the woman part, but there it was. Announced. On the record.
Dust-guy cocked a brow. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”
That annoyed me more than if he’d laughed. Or argued. Or mansplained. The calm acknowledgment felt like a challenge, like he was daring me to prove it.
The phone rang again.
I stared at it. Then at him. Then up at the ceiling like the universe might suddenly intervene and replace my life with a different one. Maybe one where I was independently wealthy and allergic to responsibility. Yeah, I liked that one.
“I need to take this,” I said, snatching up the receiver. “Hartwell Inn.”
“Yes, hi,” a woman chirped. “I just wanted to ask if your bathrooms are private or shared.”
“Private,” I said immediately because optimism is free, and I hadn’t seen all the bathrooms yet.
“Great! And breakfast is included?”
“Yes.”
“What about parking?”
“Yes. Parking is included.”
“And pets?”
I glanced at Dottie because I knew she could hear the woman’s voice.
“Edna hated animals,” announced Dottie. “She never allowed pets.” She made a sad face. “Animals are people too.”
I agreed. I thought about it for half a second. Ownership. Choice. Revenge. “Yes,” I answered. “Pets are allowed.”
Oh, Edna would hate that. Good.
“That’s great. I’d like to book a room, please,” the woman said.
Even when I explained that all the sea-view rooms were already booked, she didn’t hesitate. She was happy with any room now that her beloved black lab, Boomer, was allowed to come. First floor, preferably, easier for bathroom breaks.
I hung up and gently placed the receiver back on the desk. “I don’t need help,” I said, mostly to remind myself. “I just need time.”
Dottie crossed her arms. “Time won’t tighten loose stairs.”
“I can tighten stairs.” Total lie. No idea how to do that.
Dottie sighed, the long-suffering sigh of a woman who had watched many people injure themselves unnecessarily. “Sarah. Listen to me. Some of this work requires physical strength.”
I bristled. “I’m strong. I can lift things.”
Dottie raised an eyebrow. “Emotionally, yes. Physically? That boiler weighs more than your car.”
“I don’t need to lift a boiler.” But I still needed to get my damn car from Hugh’s garage.
“You need to not die,” corrected Dottie.
Lola leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. “Also, no offense, darling, but you look like you’d twist an ankle stepping off a curb.”
I frowned. “Thanks.”
I opened my mouth to argue but then shut it before I said something I might… would… regret later.
“And Alex is the best,” continued Dottie, undeterred. “He’s honest. He won’t screw you over.”
The word screw hit my brain and ricocheted. It didn’t help that I had a vivid imagination. Said imagination was me naked. Dust-guy naked. Together. In the very unhelpful, extremely distracting definition of screwing.
My face went hot, like instantly, as though someone had flipped an internal switch labeled mortification.
Lola noticed, of course. Her lips curved slowly. “Oh my.”
“I’m not…” I started. “That’s not… I just…”
Dottie frowned at me. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said.
Dottie shook her head and turned back to Alex. “He’s fair. He explains things. And he doesn’t talk down to people.”
“I don’t,” said Dust-guy flatly.
I glanced at him. He wasn’t smirking or anything. He looked… neutral. Professional. Like he was already mentally sorting problems into columns.
Which was kind of hot.
“I don’t want anyone thinking I can’t do this,” I said, my voice lower now. “This is my aunt’s inn. Mine. I don’t want to be the girl who needed a man to fix everything.”
Dust-guy looked at me then. Really looked. “I’m not here to fix everything.”
“Then why are you here?” I challenged. Yeah. I wanted to know the real reason.
He shrugged. “Because Dottie called. Because the building’s old. Because some things need doing before your guests arrive tomorrow.”
Shit. Guests. Real people. With expectations and luggage and opinions.
Damnit. I exhaled slowly. It’s not like I had anyone else to help me right now. And I didn’t have time to look.
“I’m not agreeing to… anything permanent,” I said. “This is temporary. Just to get through the soft open.”
Dust-guy nodded once. “Fine.”
“And you don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“I won’t.”
“And you don’t get to look at me like I’m going to fall apart.”
“I don’t do that.”
I squinted. “You kind of do.”
He tilted his head. “You’re standing in front of a ringing phone, a ledger written in code, and a building that’s actively fighting you. That’s not judgment. That’s observation.”
Lola laughed. “I haven’t had this much entertainment since Louis attempted the inverted pretzel.”
Dottie clapped her hands. “Great! Then it’s settled.”
“It is not…” I started.
“I’ll show you what needs immediate attention,” said Dust-guy. “You decide what you want done.”
I hesitated. Pride, fear, and exhaustion were all wrestling it out in my chest.
Then the phone rang again.
I closed my eyes. “Fine,” I said. “But if this goes badly, I’m blaming all of you.”
Lola lifted her glass. “I accept no responsibility.”
Dottie grinned. “Welcome to innkeeping.”
Dust-guy just nodded and turned toward the stairs.
And just like that, I’d agreed to let Dust-guy help me keep my life from collapsing.
Fantastic.