Chapter 16 Sarah
SARAH
Istood there, staring at the exact spot where his mouth had been, my brain doing absolutely nothing useful.
Smooth. Very smooth, Sarah.
Dust-guy cleared his throat. The sound alone made my spine tingle, which was extremely unhelpful given that my common sense had already packed a bag and left town. And my lady V was apparently auditioning for a drum solo.
Yup. When I screwed up, I screwed up big.
I couldn’t believe I’d just done that. Me. Kissing him. The last thing I needed right now was… that. I had an inn falling apart, a life mid-implosion, and exactly zero space for bad decisions with a tight ass and spectacular jawline.
Yet, he’d kissed me back.
What the hell did that mean?
“I should go,” said Dust-guy, his gaze everywhere but at me.
“Yes,” I said immediately, inhaling his musk-like cologne, which was very nice. “You should. Definitely. Because… pipes. And walls. And temptation.” There I went again with my mouth-vomit.
His lips twitched.
Great. Now I was flirting in fragments.
He took a step back, putting a very necessary two feet of space between us. The den felt suddenly smaller. Charged. And I felt the sudden loss of his body heat.
“Listen,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “That wasn’t…”
“Planned?” I offered.
“No.”
“Smart?”
“Also no.”
“Mutual?”
He hesitated for exactly half a second. Then nodded. “Yeah.”
Well. When I fall into the crapper, I fall neck-deep.
Silence stretched between us, thick and awkward and humming with everything we weren’t saying. The inn creaked softly, like it was settling in for the morning. Or applauding. Hard to tell.
I flicked my gaze up and found Edna-portrait staring. If she’d been alive and had witnessed that, she’d be mentally sharpening knives already. Loose, she’d call me. Loser, right on its heels. Possibly hopeless, just to round it out.
I could practically hear it, “Kissing a contractor? In my house” She’d never miss a chance to imply I couldn’t even inherit properly.
I swallowed and dragged my attention back to Alex, who was still very much standing there, still very solid, still very real.
“I don’t usually do that,” I blurted. Nope.
I usually had a lot more self-control. And a brain.
And a firm policy against kissing men in inherited inns like I’d lost my damn mind.
The only explanation was temporary insanity.
Acute. Environmentally triggered. Brought on by rave reviews, adrenaline, and the fact that the universe had clearly decided to test me today.
Dust-guy lifted a brow. “Kiss people in dens?”
“Men who are… you.” I waved a vague hand in his direction. “You know… looking like that… and all… competent. Annoyingly calm. With hands.”
His mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “You noticed my hands.”
“I noticed a lot of things,” I told him, trying to keep my eyes from staring at his crotch again. Because, well, if I did that twice in a week, I needed to be locked up.
That earned me a quiet laugh. He shook his head once, like he was trying to reset his brain. Then he ran his fingers through his tangled dark blond hair. “This is a bad idea.”
No shit. “Yes,” I agreed. “A spectacularly bad one.”
“And you’ve barely had time to breathe,” he said. “You’ve been here a week. You’re already neck-deep in repairs, guests, and whatever madness this place specializes in.”
“I thrive in madness,” I said automatically. “I marinate in it. It’s basically my brand.”
He gave me a look. Yeah, he thought I was a mental case.
“Okay,” I amended. “I flail in madness. Loudly. With hand gestures.”
He exhaled through his nose, amusement flickering before fading into something more serious. I noticed how fast he could switch his emotions like that. Only someone with extreme control and practice could do that.
“And you’ve barely had time to settle,” he said. “You’ve been here a week. This place alone is a lot.”
“I’ve handled worse,” I said. “Briefly. Poorly. With lots of wine. I’m a disaster fueled by caffeine.”
He studied me for a moment, really looked at me, like he was filing something away instead of brushing it off. “I don’t think you’re a disaster.”
Huh… I suffered from a bit of a brain fart right there. My mind was completely blank. Like… yeah… I got nothing.
He stepped back another inch, as if catching himself. “I should go,” he repeated. Firmer this time.
“Yes,” I said. “Before I lose all remaining dignity and tackle you like this is a contact sport.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Metaphorically,” I added. “Mostly.” What the hell was I saying?
He watched me for a moment longer and then his gaze dipped to my mouth. Just for a beat, and my face flamed like I’d stuck it in Dottie’s oven.
Damn. If his gaze alone did this to me, what other superpowers did he have?
Dust-guy cleared his throat, like a man trying to reboot his operating system.
“I should…” He stopped and shifted his weight. “I should give you this before I go.”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Then another. And another.
I blinked. “Is this… paperwork?” Of course it was. Why else would he be here this morning, other than to give me his bill.
“Yes.” He handed them over. I took them, my fingers brushing his, which was deeply unnecessary and extremely necessary.
I flipped open the first page. Printed photos were clipped to it, grainy shots of the roofline, a close-up of cracked shingles, a corner of flashing pulled loose. Handwritten notes ran along the margins in neat, precise lettering. Replace within six months. Not urgent. Watch after winter.
I turned the page. More photos. A fuse box. A loose wire circled in pen. Easy fix.
Another page, plumbing under the sink, a valve marked with a careful arrow. Minor leak. Tighten.
I kept flipping, my unease growing with every page. This wasn’t a glance-around inspection. This was thorough, methodical, expensive.
I stopped at the last sheet.
The total was fifty dollars.
I stared at it, looked back at the photos, and then at the total again. “This says fifty dollars…” I said slowly.
“Yes.”
“For the inspection.”
“Yes.”
I looked up. “I might not know much about construction, but I’m pretty sure that’s not a real inspection price.”
He leaned back against the doorframe, his arms crossing, far too calm for someone being caught undercharging. “It’s my rate.”
“No,” I said. “Your rate should be four hundred. Minimum. Possibly more if you used words like structural or load-bearing or oh god.”
“I didn’t use oh god,” he said. “And I charged you for my time. Not the stress.”
“That’s not how capitalism works.”
He shrugged. “It is today.”
I stared at him, suspicious. “Did you forget a zero?” I didn’t like owing money or anything to anyone. No matter how fabulous that kiss was, I wasn’t a charity case.
“No.”
“Lose a page?”
“No.”
“Is this some kind of small-town hazing ritual?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Do you ever think before you speak or just say whatever comes in your head.”
I shrugged. “Sometimes I use a filter, most times, I don’t.” I glanced at the other pages. “And these?”
“Contractors I trust,” he said. “Roofing. Windows. Plumbing. Minor electrical. People who won’t disappear mid-job or triple the bill because your inn has… personality.”
I snorted. “That is a polite way to describe it.”
“They’re good,” he added. “They’ll treat the place right and won’t screw you over.”
I swallowed and folded the papers carefully, like they might bite. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know.”
I studied his face. It was such a lovely face. “Well,” I said because silence was dangerous, “thank you for not financially obliterating me before lunch.”
“You’re welcome.”
We stood there for a beat too long. The air felt thick again.
“This doesn’t mean I’m easy,” I blurted.
He blinked. “The bill?”
“No. The…” I waved vaguely between us. “Everything. This. That. Mouth choices.”
His eyes flicked to my mouth again, just briefly. “I didn’t think you were easy.”
“Good,” I said. “Because I’m not. I’m impulsive. There’s a difference.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He straightened, clearly making the executive decision to leave before one of us did something else we’d have to narrate later.
“I’ll see you around, New York.”
“Later, Dust-guy,” I said.
That got me a smile, brief and dangerous.
Then he was gone.
I looked down at the papers in my hands. Fifty dollars. Trusted contractors. And a man who definitely did not kiss women in inherited inns unless things were already complicated.
“I’m a real winner.” I stood there for a full ten seconds before exhaling. “Oh my god,” I whispered to the empty room. “I just kissed my contractor.”
I glanced up at the portrait of Edna. I swear I saw her smirking.
“Don’t you judge me,” I told her.
Because I was doing a pretty stellar job of that myself, Olympic-level, really. If self-criticism were a sport, I’d have medals, possibly a sponsorship deal. Hell, if I could swing my legs high enough, I’d kick my own ass.
Why did I have to kiss him?
A hug would have been better. Awkward as hell, yes, but socially acceptable. Hugs were neutral. Safe. You hugged people when they brought casseroles or delivered bad news or helped you move a couch. You did not, under any circumstances, grab their face and make out with them.
I dragged a hand down my face, paced the length of the den, and then moved back again.
“I panicked,” I told Edna-portrait. “That’s all. Fight or flight. Apparently, I chose flirt.”
And it wasn’t like I even knew anything about him.
For all I knew, he was married, or engaged, or had a long-term girlfriend.
Sure, I hadn’t noticed a ring. His hands had been bare.
Very bare. Distractingly bare. But contractors took rings off all the time.
Safety hazard. Or maybe he just didn’t wear one.
Or maybe he rotated girlfriends like seasonal tires.
I groaned and leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling. “You don’t go around kissing men you barely know.”
Except I had. With enthusiasm.
I’d basically assaulted a man with my lips.
Not my finest hour.
I pushed off the wall and stopped short when my gaze landed on the folded papers still clutched in my hand. The inspection bill. The contractor list. Proof that this wasn’t just some heat-of-the-moment hallucination my brain had invented to cope.
Fifty dollars.
I snorted softly. “Great. So now I owe him money and my dignity.”
I felt eyes on me and looked up to find Edna-portrait staring down from the wall. “You’re enjoying this way too much.” I flung a finger at her painted face. “If you planned that, I will haunt you back. You just wait…”
“Sarah? Who you talking to?”
I flinched and whirled around, nearly dropping the papers in my hands as Dottie stepped into the den, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Me? No one,” I said.
Dottie flicked her gaze to the portrait. “Oh.” She nodded. “I talk to her all the time.” She marched forward, planted her feet, and shook a fist at Edna-portrait. “You behave yourself, you old hag. Or I’ll toss you in my oven. And don’t think I won’t.”
I stared at her.
Dottie turned back, beaming. “See? You just have to establish dominance. She’ll behave now.”
Somehow, I doubted that, but I wasn’t about to argue with a woman who threatened dead relatives with kitchen appliances.
Dottie tilted her head, squinting at me. “You’re flushed.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are,” she said cheerfully. “Did something happen?”
I lifted the papers automatically. “Just got the inspection report back.”
“Oh dear,” Dottie said, clutching her chest. “Will it break the bank? Sometimes these reports dig for problems that barely exist.”
I shook my head. “Worse.”
“Worse?”
I opened my mouth and then closed it. The truth was, I did not want to explain Dust-guy to Dottie right now. Or the kiss. Or the fifty-dollar inspection. Or the way my body had apparently decided to betray me like we weren’t on the same team.
Also, Dottie clearly cared about him. And I was… confused. Spiraling. Unqualified to discuss feelings before noon. This was not the time or place.
“Did you need to talk to me about something?” I asked instead.
Her eyes lit up. “Yes. Helen wants to serve shrimp cocktails tomorrow night.”
I blinked. “Okay?”
“And I want to serve my stuffed mushrooms.”
I paused. “And she doesn’t want? Aren’t you in charge of the food?”
“Absolutely,” said Dottie. “She says that they may or may not violate several health codes. They are perfectly safe,” she added. “Mostly.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
She waved a hand. “Helen says shrimp is classy. I say shrimp is overpriced and smells like poop if it sits out too long.”
“That is… vivid.”
“She thinks my mushrooms are ‘too much,’” Dottie went on. “Too much flavor. Too much garlic. Too much joy.”
I opened my mouth but then closed it. “You’re fighting with Helen about appetizers.”
“We are having a spirited disagreement,” corrected Dottie. “And I need you to side with me before tomorrow night.”
That snapped me fully back into focus for tomorrow. It was the kind of night that could make or break the inn’s momentum.
I straightened, the papers in my hand suddenly feeling heavier. “We need this to go smoothly.”
“It will,” replied Dottie confidently. “As long as you pick the mushrooms.”
I glanced down at the inspection report again—fifty dollars, trusted contractors, a thousand problems still waiting in line.
And I absolutely could not afford to be distracted by some guy’s mouth.
“Fine,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “Do the mushrooms. But no poisoning anyone.”
Dottie grinned. “Define poisoning.”
I closed my eyes. Tomorrow night was a big deal.
And if I didn’t get my head back in the game, this inn was going to eat me alive.