Chapter 14 Alex
ALEX
Iwatched New York push her chair back and stand. She moved with purpose, like someone who didn’t have the luxury of hovering.
She walked over to me, dressed all in black today, simple and elegant. Her hair was pulled half up, the loose strands already escaping near her temples. She wore no makeup to speak of, though her cheeks were flushed, accentuating her features. She looked… put together. Like a real inn owner.
“Hi,” she said when she reached me. “You’re back.”
My eyes lingered on her red lips for a beat, long enough to register, not long enough to matter. I shut the thought down and looked away. “I said I would.” I slid my gaze past her shoulder to where Lola and Helen sat at the table, their heads together and eyes very obviously on me.
Yeah. I knew what that was about. Fucking gossip.
I brought my attention back to New York. She’d crossed her arms over her chest, like she was bracing—for news, for cost, for something else to add to her list.
“Right,” she said, letting out a breath.
Before either of us could say anything else, the front door swung open.
A black lab burst inside like it owned the place, his nails skidding on the wood floor and leash pulled tight. His owner followed half a step behind, a short woman in her sixties with cropped white hair, her cheeks already flushed red, laughing as she tried to regain control.
“Oh, Boomer, no…sorry…he gets excited,” she said, breathless.
New York pivoted instantly. The innkeeper smile snapped into place, calm and friendly.
“Good morning,” she said, already moving toward the desk. “You must be Mrs. Colton?”
“That’s me,” the woman said, still wrestling the leash. “He’s usually better behaved. I swear. Boomer. Sit!”
Boomer’s rear hit the floor, his tongue lolling over to the side, looking pleased with himself. His tail started drumming.
I crouched without thinking and gave him a quick scratch under the chin. Solid dog. Good eyes. Big square head. He leaned into it like we’d already come to an agreement.
“Good boy,” I told him, scratching behind his ears. I loved dogs, which was exactly why I didn’t have one. They needed time, routine, and someone around more than I was. I wasn’t the right owner. Too many late nights. Too many days gone. Dogs didn’t sign up for that. They deserved better.
Mrs. Colton relaxed visibly. People always did once the dog did.
New York glanced over, surprise flickering across her face for half a second before she smoothed it away. “Well,” she said, keys already in hand, “we’re happy to have both of you.”
Boomer wagged harder.
I snorted.
New York shot me a quick look before turning back to the guest. “I’ll get you checked in.”
“I’ll be on the roof,” I said, already shifting the toolbox on my shoulder.
She nodded, eyes dropping to the clipboard in her hands like she needed to anchor herself back in the task. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”
I almost said something though I didn’t know what. I didn’t say it.
New York was already moving, her voice warm and efficient. The bell rang softly as another guest stepped inside behind Boomer.
I turned toward the back door instead. Get the job done. That was the plan.
Still, as I stepped outside and grabbed the ladder from my Ford F-150 navy blue truck, the vehicle I used when I was working construction, I caught myself glancing back through the window.
New York was behind the desk, answering questions, the pen flying and her shoulders squared. She was professional, focused, and way more distracting than she had any right to be.
Damnit.
I tightened my grip on the ladder and headed for the side of the building, my eyes on the work. That’s where they needed to stay.
I hauled the ladder around the side of the building and set it in the grass where the ground felt solid.
The Hartwell Inn sat high on its little cliff like it had something to prove.
Pink paint or not, the place had presence with wide porches, strong lines, and wood that had been cut and fitted during a time when men took pride in work because pride kept you fed.
I leaned the ladder into place and gave it a shake. The rungs held. The rails didn’t flex. Good.
My tool belt felt familiar around my waist—weight, order, a place for everything. I didn’t need to think about where the drill was or where the tape measure lived. My hands already knew. That was why I liked work like this. It made sense. Cause and effect. Fix the thing, and it stays fixed.
I climbed the ladder, my boots ringing against the metal.
With each rung, the air shifted, cooler and cleaner.
By the top, the wind had me, salt heavy off the bay, the kind that carried through your clothes and reminded you that you were alive.
The roofline came into view, and I stepped up onto the shingles with controlled weight.
I looked around. The roof wasn’t new, but it wasn’t desperate either.
Age showed in the granules and the fading, in the way some shingles curled slightly at the edges near the eaves where sun and weather got the most time to do damage. But the lines were mostly straight. The valleys weren’t sagging. No obvious soft spots underfoot.
It told me this place had been maintained. Maybe not perfectly. Maybe not recently. But it hadn’t been ignored either.
I walked toward the chimney first. Flashing was where a lot of problems hid. Water found its way into the smallest weakness and turned it into rot and mold and money.
I crouched at the base of the chimney and ran my fingers along the metal. I could see that the flashing had been replaced once, maybe twice. One section was newer than the rest. Clean cut. Tight seal. Whoever had done it knew their job.
Another section had been patched with a line of sealant that had hardened into a rough ridge—not pretty but effective.
Edna would’ve approved of “effective.” She’d never cared how something looked, only that it worked and stayed working.
I took my phone out, snapped a few pictures. Close-ups. Angles. Seal lines. A fix list started forming in my head without asking permission.
Next, I moved along the edge toward the eaves, checking shingle integrity. I lifted one corner carefully. The underlayment looked intact. Nails weren’t popping. The edge flashing held.
I followed the gutters after that, stepping lightly along the perimeter.
Gutters were full of old leaves and pine needles, no surprise.
A little overflow stain on the fascia told me rain had spilled over at least once.
The fast fix was cleaning. The better fix was adding guards and re-checking pitch.
I snapped pictures of the low spots and made a quick note in my phone. Clean gutters. Re-pitch. Guards before festival.
Pearls & Pints had already infected my thinking. That timeline sat in the back of my mind like a ticking clock. I told myself it was because the event mattered for the town.
I told myself a lot of things.
A laugh floated up from below, bright and friendly. The sound carried through an open window on the second floor. A moment later I caught New York’s voice—warm, polite, moving fast. She was in full innkeeper mode.
“Welcome,” she said. “Yes, breakfast is included. Coffee’s hot.”
I paused with one boot braced on a ridge. New York wasn’t shrinking away. She was doing the job.
That part had surprised me. Most people talked big at the start and then stayed until the first real problem showed up. She’d stayed, opened the inn, and rolled up her sleeves instead of handing the keys to someone else.
Still, reality had a way of catching up.
Once she saw the list I was putting together, the structural fixes, the rot, the kind of repairs that came with real numbers attached, she’d do what made sense. Sell. Walk away. Let someone else deal with it.
And then she wouldn’t be my problem.
She wasn’t my problem.
My jaw tightened. What the fuck was I doing? The roof was my job today. The inspection. The list. The fixes. That was where my attention belonged.
I took a breath, forced my gaze back to the shingles in front of me, and kept walking.
Voices rose again from below. A dog barked, deep and excited. Nails skittered on wood. A leash snapped tight. Someone laughed, breathless.
I smiled. Boomer.
New York’s voice followed right after, calm as a hand on the back of a neck. “Okay, okay. Yes, yes. I love you too. Good boy, Boomer.”
Boomer barked again.
She was all in on him. Talking to him like he mattered, like he was the only thing in front of her.
I frowned at the shingle under my boot. That was new.
And I definitely wasn’t jealous of a dog.
Irritated, I took another step along the ridge, my jaw tight. I had rules for a reason. Don’t get involved. Don’t get distracted, especially not with clients. I forced my focus back to the job. No time for mistakes.
A violent gust came in off the water and pushed at my balance. I adjusted my footing. My boot slid half an inch…
The world dropped in my gut for one sharp second. My hand shot out and slapped down on the shingles, my palm flat and body low.
Shit.
My heart punched once, hard. I stayed still until the roof stopped feeling like it was moving under me. Then I looked down at my waist.
No harness. No line. No rope.
My throat went tight—rookie mistake, a stupid mistake, one I wouldn’t forgive in my own crew. I’d fired guys for things like that. Safety wasn’t optional. It wasn’t a suggestion. Gravity didn’t care if you had experience. Gravity waited until you got comfortable.
I swallowed and forced air back into my lungs.
My head had drifted. That’s what happened. To the sounds below. To that voice. To that woman trying to run an inn and not drown.
My focus slipped, just a little. And a little nearly killed me.
Fuck.
I crouched there, my hand still on the shingles, and let the anger settle into something useful. “Get it together,” I growled.
I couldn’t afford another mistake. Not up here. Not ever.