Chapter 15 Sarah
SARAH
Istood at the front desk, watching as my newest guests, Vicky and Joyce, forty-something best friends from New Jersey, walked out of the inn like they owned the place.
Bikinis. Flip-flops. Sheer beach tunics drifting over bare legs. Oversized cloth beach bags knocking against their hips as they walked, sunscreen-sticky and effortless.
“Back by lunch!” called Joyce on her way out.
“Save us bacon!” Vicky waved.
I waved back, smiling, still mildly stunned. They were headed for the inn’s private beach, a sentence I still couldn’t quite believe applied to me.
I hadn’t known there was a beach down there when I arrived.
Edna never mentioned a beach in her letter, just rubbing in the “loser” part.
I’d assumed the cliff dropped straight into jagged rocks and certain death, the kind of coastline that came with warning signs and memorial plaques.
So when Joyce casually mentioned “the beach below the inn” during our check-in call yesterday, I’d laughed politely and then gone to investigate like a woman expecting to find a crime scene.
Turns out, she wasn’t hallucinating.
Stone steps had been carved into the cliffside, smooth and worn, leading down gradually to a small, protected cove with white sand and gentle water. That kind of beach looked like it belonged in a travel brochure and not directly under a building I technically owned.
Boomer had been down there too, a stick clenched proudly in his mouth, tearing up and down the shoreline like it was his personal kingdom. His owner lounged under a pine tree for shade, book in hand, completely unbothered by the fact that she was living someone else’s vacation fantasy.
That was the moment something in my brain shifted.
Because the next day, I grabbed my laptop, found a flat rock near the stairs, and sat down to write.
And when I say write, I mean I stared at my screen for a solid ten minutes, sighed dramatically, deleted everything I’d been working on for months, and started over like a woman possessed.
My story revolved around an inn. What? I had to. And my new heroine, Sloane Mercer, was a vampire half-breed bounty hunter who tracked supernatural criminals and used the inn as her headquarters.
Once I started, my fingers didn’t ask permission anymore.
They just went. Words spilled out like I’d finally unplugged something that had been clogged for years.
Two chapters appeared before I remembered to eat.
The next day, three more. By the end of the week, I’d written ten chapters. Ten. In less than a week.
Before, a single chapter took me months and a blood sacrifice.
Something about the waves below… or the salt air… or the fact that for once, my life felt rooted instead of floating. Whatever it was, it worked.
Margarette was going to get her novel in less than four months—and not a rushed one, a good one.
I smiled as I flipped through the ledger at the front desk.
Fully booked. Every room. Wow. If you’d told me a week ago that I’d be running an inn—successfully—I would’ve laughed, cried, maybe peed a little, and asked you to help me sell it. I couldn’t imagine wanting this life, let alone being good at it.
The last few days had been sweat, panic, grit, and caffeine held together by sheer willpower. But I’d done it. Me. I was doing it.
And the terrifying part? I wanted it. All of it.
The inn. The guests. The responsibility. The smell of coffee in the mornings. The sound of footsteps overhead. The feeling of building something real.
Hartwell Inn wasn’t just a building anymore. It was part of my life, part of me. It meant something.
And it was mine. Just mine.
The sharp clap of heels against the wood floor snapped me out of my thoughts.
Lola swept through the front door like a parade float designed by lust itself. She wore a tight red dress that looked less “bought” and more “applied” with matching red heels. On her arm, definitely not a purse, was a man.
A very attractive man. Early thirties, if I had to guess.
His dark eyes were rimmed with thick lashes that felt unfair.
He had the kind of dark hair that made you want to ask what conditioner he used and then resent him for needing none.
He was fit in a way that suggested sports, not mirrors.
And he smiled like he knew exactly why he was there.
“Hi, Lola,” I said, my own smile spreading before I could stop it. That woman had moves, no doubt about that.
“This is Thomas,” she purred, dragging a manicured hand slowly down his chest before squeezing his pec. “He’s my test run for the Pearls & Pints Bachelor Weekend tomorrow.”
Oh crap.
She was right. Tomorrow was the Pearls & Pints Bachelor Weekend. The festival. The chaos. The pearls. The pints. The men. The women. The entire town descending into organized, charitable madness.
Yeah. No pressure at all.
Lola grabbed Thomas by the front of his shirt and hauled him toward the staircase like a woman with a mission and excellent grip strength.
“Later, darling. We’re off to do some bedroom Olympics.
My favorite sport. No interruptions for at least two hours.
” She giggled like this was a perfectly reasonable thing to announce in a place of business.
“Even if you hear screaming. Lots and lots of delicious screaming.”
Eww.
Thomas winked at me as they passed.
Double eww.
They disappeared upstairs, laughter trailing behind them like glitter I would never fully get out of the carpet. That among other things I didn’t want to think about right now.
I looked down at my empty coffee mug.
Right. Coffee. My drug of choice. My salvation. The only relationship in my life that never let me down.
I pushed myself away from the desk and headed down the hall, my steps lighter than they’d been all week. The inn hummed behind me, voices, doors opening and closing, the faint clink of dishes. It sounded… alive. And I loved it.
I pushed open the kitchen door.
The smell hit me first—bacon, coffee, something buttery and warm that felt like a hug to the face. That kind of smell would totally have me gaining ten pounds just by inhaling.
Dottie stood at the stove, spatula in hand, her apron already dusted with flour.
Next to her was a young guy I hadn’t met yet.
Early twenties, maybe, all limbs and enthusiasm.
He wore a borrowed pink apron and looked like he was taking the job very seriously, stirring something with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb.
“Morning,” I said.
Dottie glanced over her shoulder, took one look at me, and paused. “Huh,” she said. “Look at you.”
I stopped just inside the door. “What? Do I have ink on my face again?” I’d been mortified when Dust-guy had told me a few days ago. I’d probably had that smeared ink on my face for hours, meeting guests, and no one had the balls to tell me. Except Dust-guy.
She turned fully now, her eyes sweeping over me from head to toe like she was assessing a before-and-after photo. The words spread across her pink apron said: THIS MIGHT BE POISON.
Okay then.
“You look like you belong here,” she said.
I frowned. “I… have coffee breath and I’m pretty sure I sat on something sticky at the desk.”
She waved a hand. “Not that. You look… in it. Like you know what you’re doing.”
Huh. I leaned against the counter, suddenly aware that my shoulders weren’t up around my ears. My jaw wasn’t clenched. I wasn’t bracing for impact.
“Oh,” I said. “That.”
The young guy looked between us, clearly confused but polite. “I’m Jason,” he said quickly. “Dottie’s assistant. I’m here for as long as you need. I can do eggs, toast, prep, cleanup. I’m very good with lists.”
Dottie snorted. “He alphabetized my spice rack.”
“It was really disorganized,” said Jason, unapologetically.
“I like him already,” I said, and Jason beamed.
I’d confirmed with Dottie a few days ago that she would need help with the kitchen for the Pearls & Pints festival. He would also double as a waiter, which we desperately needed. I’d let Dottie do the hiring. This was her domain, not mine.
Dottie slid a mug across the counter toward me without asking. Coffee—dark, strong, exactly how I needed it.
“Festival tomorrow,” she said casually, flipping something in the pan. “Town’s buzzing.”
“Don’t remind me.” I sighed, wrapping my hands around the mug like it was a lifeline.
Dottie shot me a look. “You’re ready. Don’t worry.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry, did you hit your head?”
She ignored that. “Kitchen’s staffed. Rooms are full. Guests are happy. You’ve got help. You’re doing fine.”
Jason nodded enthusiastically. “Everyone’s very impressed. I heard someone call this place ‘a hidden gem.’”
My chest did a weird little flip. “Except the Harringtons,” I said automatically.
The entire time they stayed at the inn, they complained about everything.
The smell of the soap we used for the linens.
The mattress. The curtains were too thin and let in too much light.
The wood floors squeaked when they walked in their room.
I’d waved at them when they left.
Then, when I was sure no one was looking, I’d waved with both middle fingers.
“There’s always a Harrington,” Dottie said. “Fifteen years ago, we had a couple just like them. The Beaumonts. Complained about everything. My food. The wine. The inn. Said they were reporting us to the building inspector because it was unsafe.”
I raised a brow. “Really? What happened?”
Dottie nodded, calm as ever. “They went for a swim at midnight… and never came back.”
I stared at her. “Get out.”
“Some say they drowned,” continued Dottie. “I say the sirens got them.”
“The sirens?” I laughed. “You believe in all that fairy stuff?”
Dottie looked at me like I’d just admitted I didn’t believe in gravity. “Of course I do. I’ve seen them. And you never, ever go into the water at night.”