Chapter 11 Sarah #2
“Thank you,” I said. “I think I gave myself a hernia and whiplash at the same time.”
Dust-guy glanced up from wiping his hands on the rag. His nod was small, like he accepted gratitude the same way he accepted gravity, as a known constant. “Yeah,” he said. “No problem.”
I shifted my weight, suddenly aware of my sweat situation again, of my hair, of the fact that I’d just been sprawled on the floor like a Victorian heroine with worse cardio.
“I should…” I gestured vaguely toward my pocket. “I can pay you. Cash. Check. Coffee. I make a decent coffee now that I’ve stopped burning it.”
He waved it off and bent to pick up the strap he’d used on the statue, coiling it neatly. “It’s fine.”
I blinked. “It’s really not. You’ve been here twice now.” Helping me, fixing things that I wouldn’t have been able to handle on my own, no matter how many hours I’d spent googling and watching YouTube videos.
He waved it off and looped the strap back into his toolbox. “We’ll square up after the inspection.”
Right. The inspection. He’d already said that earlier today.
I nodded, relieved I hadn’t imagined it in a stress hallucination.
It wouldn’t have been the first time. I’d hallucinated an entire conversation with my ex-fiancé’s skank where it ended with me performing very enthusiastic, entirely imaginary jiujitsu on her face.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I said. “The front door sticks.”
“I fixed it,” he said, walking away.
“Ah.”
I followed him toward the hall as he scanned the space, his eyes tracking the ceiling, the corners, the spots that looked innocent but weren’t.
“This place has good bones,” he said. “But it’s old. Roof’s soft near the third floor. Wiring’s been patched over the years. Some solid. Some… optimistic.”
I huffed. “Edna loved optimism. Just not in people.”
His mouth twitched. “Plumbing’s holding,” he went on. “I want to make sure everything’s up to code.”
My brain went numb. Up to code. Damn. What if it wasn’t? Then what?
“It’s Pearls & Pints next week,” I said, my blood pressure rising just at the thought.
He glanced at me. “I know.”
I raised a brow. “You do?”
“Hard not to,” he said. “Town fills up. Parking disappears. Men start pretending they’re relaxed about being auctioned.”
“Pretending,” I echoed.
“They polish up,” he said.
I snorted. “That sounds accurate.” I leaned against the banister, my arms crossed. “So you’ve seen it. Up close.” Why was I even asking him this?
“Every year.”
Interesting. “And?” I asked. “Thoughts?”
He considered that. “It brings money in. Keeps things running.”
“You sound deeply moved.”
“Practical,” he said.
Of course. I hesitated and then asked anyway. “Do you ever volunteer?” Here I went again with the word-vomit.
His brow lifted slightly. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re asking as an innkeeper or as someone curious.”
Heat crept up my neck. “Innkeeper,” I said immediately. “Strictly professional curiosity. I just want to know what I’m up against.” Total lie. Well, just a white one. Didn’t count.
“Then no,” he said. “I help set things up. Fix what breaks. I don’t get on the platform, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Why not?”
He looked toward the front windows and the road beyond. “I like my evenings quiet.”
That made sense. Somehow.
My pulse did something inconvenient. I ignored it. “Well,” I said, pushing off the banister, “the inn needs to survive next week.”
“It will,” he said, flicking his gaze back to me. The confidence in his voice loosened something tight in my chest. “I won’t get through everything today,” he said. “I’ve got other properties to check.”
Right. “When are you coming back?” I asked.
Dust-guy adjusted his grip on the toolbox like the question required some light math. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Early.”
That didn’t surprise me. He looked like someone who believed mornings were a moral choice.
“I’ll be here,” I said.
“I know.”
There it was again. That quiet certainty. Like the inn, the inspection, and my general state of chaos were already slotted into his schedule.
He turned toward the basement door, his boots steady on the old floor and toolbox swinging lightly at his side. For a half second, I thought that was it. He’d fixed the immediate problem, said the necessary words, and would disappear again until tomorrow like a responsible adult.
Then he stopped and pivoted slightly. “Oh,” he said casually, like this wasn’t about to rearrange my entire week. “I’ll be here every day until it’s done.”
“Every day,” I repeated like a simpleton, like my brain was straining to catch up.
He glanced back at me. “That’s how inspections work.”
I knew that, of course. Inspections were apparently immersive experiences, multi-day commitments, whole-lifestyle events.
Every day until it’s done.
My brain immediately began inventorying things I had not planned for him to see. Me before coffee. Me after coffee. Me crying quietly over spreadsheets. Me arguing with Dottie about muffins. Me losing to furniture.
“Okay, then,” I said, nodding like this was all very reasonable and not at all alarming. “Every day.”
He studied the ceiling again, his eyes tracking a beam, already back in work mode. “I’ll start with electrical runs today. Tomorrow I’ll do the third floor roof access. I want daylight for that.”
“Of course you do,” I said. “The inn appreciates daylight. She’s very particular.”
His mouth twitched. “I’ll make sure everything’s up to code before the weekend. Last thing you need is surprises.”
Surprises had officially been banned.
“I bet you see all kinds of surprises in your line of work,” I said. “Old houses have personalities. This one absolutely rolls its eyes at me. And it’s seen things I don’t trust it not to bring up later.”
Dust-guy gave a low laugh, the kind that caught me off guard and made me laugh too. It was a good laugh, easy, like he didn’t waste it.
“You’re not wrong,” he said. “They do. But once I’m done with them, they usually behave.”
“Because you make them beautiful again.”
He shook his head slightly. “Because I make them solid.” Then, after a beat, “And they get to be someone’s first home all over again.”
That stopped me.
“A young family,” he added. “Or a retired couple. Someone starting over.”
I found myself smiling at him without really meaning to. “That must feel good.”
For just a second, his expression shifted, making his features soften a bit. Then he looked away. “It’s work,” he said. “What I do.”
Except it clearly wasn’t just that. I caught the flicker before he shut it down, the part he didn’t advertise. Dust-guy had a heart. Well, that was inconvenient.
“Will you have time to write,” he asked, “and run the inn?”
The question knocked me right out of my thoughts. My lips parted. “I’m surprised you remembered.”
He looked at me then, his gaze steady and intense. “Of course I remember.”
Well, shit. I was not expecting that.
We stood there for a moment, neither of us saying anything. I was surprised by how easy it felt, how comfortable I was around him, without even saying a word. Just… standing there.
I cleared my throat. “Thank you. For doing this,” I said again, softer this time.
And as he nodded, I had the distinct, unsettling thought that I might have been wrong about him.
Which, historically, was how trouble started.
He waved it off, already stepping toward the door. “It’s work.”
Sure. Just work. Men who showed up every day, fixed things that mattered, and spoke in sentences that made my secret garden pound were apparently just part of the service package.
He reached the threshold and paused again, like his brain was running a second checklist. “I’ll bring a bigger ladder,” he added.
I laughed before I could stop myself. “Of course you will.”
He nodded once, satisfied, and yanked open the basement door. It closed behind him with a solid click, and then he was gone.
I stood there in the hallway, listening to the quiet settle back in. The good kind this time. The kind that felt earned.
Every day.
I walked back to the den and looked around the room—the cleared space, the absence of Edna-statue, the way the light hit the floor without interruption.
Every day meant progress. It also meant shared mornings, overlapping routines, someone else knowing the bones of this place as intimately as I was starting to.
I pressed my palm against the banister, steadying myself.
This was good. This was necessary. This was exactly what the inn needed.
Still, as I left the den and headed toward the front desk to answer the next inevitable call, I took a breath and stepped behind the desk, already switching into innkeeper mode. But one thought slipped in, uninvited and far too calm to be ignored.
Dust-guy was still here, fixing things and making plans.
Tomorrow, he’d be back and every day after that.
And apparently, I’d just added one more thing to my already overflowing schedule.
Him.