Chapter 22 Sarah #2
Because even while the waves did their soothing thing, my brain kept replaying it all like it was determined to find the exact moment when everything went wrong.
Not because I wanted to torture myself—no, no, this was totally a healthy mental exercise.
I was learning. Growing. Becoming wiser. Or whatever.
It started with the way he’d looked at me.
Not flirty, not smarmy. Just… focused. Like he saw details.
Like he didn’t miss things. Which, apparently, was hilarious, because I had missed something pretty major: the part where he could kiss me like that, leave me with my panties on fire, and then walk away like it meant nothing.
I replayed the conversation again. The ones before the kiss.
The ones after. The way he’d stood so close sometimes, his shoulder nearly brushing mine when he leaned to look at something I’d pointed out.
The way his voice changed when he said certain things, lower and rougher, like he didn’t use it often but knew exactly how to.
The way he’d fixed things around the inn like it was second nature, like he couldn’t help himself.
The radiator. The crown molding. The wiring. Some pipes. The little repairs he thought I didn’t notice.
I noticed everything. Yet somehow I’d still managed to be… wrong.
Maybe that’s what stung. Not that he’d left. Not that he hadn’t stayed to chat or smile or do whatever men do when they actually like you. But that I’d believed it.
I’d believed my own interpretation of him. I’d believed the kiss meant something beyond a kiss. I’d believed that quiet competence plus eye contact equaled feelings.
Which was, in hindsight, a ridiculous math equation. The kind you scribble on a napkin at two a.m. and think is brilliant until you see it in daylight and realize you’ve basically written: handsome + helpful = soulmate.
Good job, Sarah.
My gaze drifted down to the garbage bag at my feet, like it might offer emotional guidance. It did not. It just sat there, half full, filled with paper plates and napkins and plastic cups that had lived their best lives for approximately twelve minutes.
It felt fitting.
I inhaled and let the salty air fill my lungs. The ocean breeze cooled the heat in my cheeks. I could still feel it there, that flush, that lingering humiliation. Like my body hadn’t gotten the memo that we were trying to move past this.
Fine. Body, do what you want. I’m busy.
But my brain kept snagging on one stupid, tiny detail. Something so small I hadn’t even noticed it when it happened, but now it was stuck in my head like a song lyric you can’t unhear.
The contractor name. The one he’d given me, like it was nothing, like it wasn’t him handing me an exit route that didn’t require him.
I could hear his voice in my head, calm and certain, giving me the name like it was a tool. Like it was a solution. Like he’d already decided he wouldn’t be around, so here, take this. Use it. Don’t need me.
That name mattered. It shouldn’t have, but it did. Because it wasn’t just a name. It was proof that I’d never been his plan.
I’d been a detour.
I rolled my eyes at myself. God, listen to me. I was so dramatic. I should come with a warning label.
Caution: woman prone to emotional storytelling. Keep away from sharp objects and attractive men.
I shook my head and took another sip of coffee, even though it was getting cold. The bitterness helped. It felt appropriate.
Okay. Let’s be honest. The kiss.
The kiss was the problem.
Because I could reframe everything else if I wanted to. I could tell myself he was just being nice. That he was just doing his job. That he was the kind of man who couldn’t stand to see something broken and not fix it. That he helped because he’s a decent person and not because he cared about me.
I could do that. I could make it make sense.
But the kiss? The kiss didn’t fit into my new narrative where I’d imagined everything. The kiss had felt real. It hadn’t felt like a mistake. It hadn’t felt casual. It had felt like a moment where the world narrowed down to one thing and my brain finally shut up for once.
Which was rude, honestly. Because now my brain was back, and it was petty.
So I forced the reframing. I forced the story to be something I could live with.
It was a mistake, a lapse in judgment, a weird, romantic glitch.
That kind of thing happened when you were tired and overwhelmed and standing too close to someone who smelled like sawdust and soap and…
competence. That kind of thing happened when your life was already in chaos and you mistook adrenaline for connection.
Yes. That sounded plausible. That sounded like something I could tell myself without laughing.
I nodded like I’d just convinced a jury.
The kiss was a mistake.
Even though it wasn’t.
Even though my body had known it wasn’t the second it happened.
I stared out at the water again and tried to let the ocean scrub my thoughts clean, like a mental car wash. But instead I kept circling back to the same conclusion.
I misread everything.
Every look, every pause, every moment when I’d thought he was about to say something.
All of it. It had been me, my wishful thinking, my stupid, hopeful brain that apparently wanted to make this place a romantic movie where the grumpy hot contractor fell for the frazzled innkeeper and everything turned into cupcakes and Christmas lights.
Except this wasn’t a movie. This was my life. And in my life, I had an inn that was hanging on by a thread and a bank that did not accept romantic subplots as collateral.
Control felt safer than hope. That was the truth of it. Hope made you reckless. Hope made you raise your paddle at an auction like you’d lost your mind. Hope made you look at a man and think, maybe.
Control made spreadsheets. Control made lists. Control made phone calls and budgets and plans.
So I grabbed on to control with both hands.
Fine. If Dust-guy wasn’t part of this, if he didn’t feel what I’d thought he felt, I didn’t need him. I didn’t need his steady presence or his quiet help or the way he made my stomach do stupid things just by walking into a room.
I needed to save the inn. Me.
That’s it.
That was my job, my mission, my only actual priority.
I could do this without him. I didn’t need him. Because depending on someone felt like walking out onto a dock during a storm and convincing yourself it was solid ground.
I’d done that before—not with Dust-guy but with other people, other situations. I’d learned the hard way that you don’t build your stability on something that can just… leave.
I exhaled slowly, like I was blowing out a candle. like I was extinguishing the last little flicker of hope that had gotten too bright.
Okay. Then. It was decided. I was officially done with Dust-guy.
I would not think about his hands, or his mouth, or the way he’d looked at me like he’d seen through all my noise. I would not imagine what it would’ve been like if he’d stayed. If he’d called me Sarah. If he’d asked me out like Becca had thought he was going to.
None of it mattered.
I didn’t need him.
I had contractor names. I had a growing booking schedule. I had a pink inn that, against all odds, was starting to feel like mine.
I turned and looked back at the pink monstrosity. Weird. The color didn’t even bother me anymore. I couldn’t even remember when I thought about how horrid the pink was.
Holy crap. The pink was starting to grow on me.
Which was either a sign of personal growth… or a sign that I’d been inhaling too many cleaning products.
Still, I stared at it a second longer. The sea breeze tugged at my hair. The inn sat there, loud and ridiculous and stubbornly alive, and something in my chest steadied.
Mine. It was mine.
Okay, then. If I could learn to love that shade of pink, I could learn to live without Dust-guy.
And that was definitely the truth. Totally.
Not self-protection at all.
Nope.