Chapter 23 Sarah
SARAH
“Thanks, Tom,” I said, shaking his hand and immediately registering the hard calluses, the kind you only get from decades of actual work. You didn’t get these by typing. You got them from real, repetitive, unglamorous labor. “Call you if anything else decides to die on me.”
Tom—a fifty-something, balding man who was so tall I had to lean back slightly just to maintain eye contact—smiled easily. He was the contractor Dust-guy had given me the number for. The replacement. The very official, very not-him solution.
“No problem,” he said, flipping his pad shut before tearing off the bill. “Your HVAC unit’s good now. Guests will have cool air again.”
I took the bill and did my very best not to visibly flinch at the number of zeros. I had learned, quickly, that reacting emotionally to invoices only encouraged them. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate it,” I said because nothing says hospitality like not melting in your sleep.
I watched him walk out the front doors, his heavy steps echoing across the lobby, and felt something loosen and tighten at the same time.
Dust-guy trusted him. That mattered. It meant something, which was ridiculous because Dust-guy wasn’t a character reference anymore.
He was just… a man who had kissed me once and then vanished like a seasonal ghost.
Still, I believed Tom wouldn’t rip me off.
Strangely enough, I believed that immediately.
This bill was real. Honest. Painful, yes, but earned.
Not like the invisible bills Dust-guy had been quietly racking up while fixing things around the inn without telling me.
Those were the worst kind. The kind you only realize exist once they’re gone.
It had been a week since I’d seen him. The last time had been the Pearls & Pints Bachelor Weekend’s auction day, which felt both like yesterday and like something that had happened in a different lifetime.
Had I thought about him? Yes.
Had I obsessed about him? No.
Total lie. But a polite one.
Mostly, I’d focused on the inn. On bookings and repairs and invoices and things that needed doing now, not later. Control. Spreadsheets. Functioning. All the things that didn’t require me to think about strong hands or quiet looks or the way my body had betrayed me so spectacularly.
I was fine.
“He’s not as handsome as Alex, that’s for sure,” said Lola, appearing at the front desk like she’d been summoned by unresolved sexual tension.
She wore tight cropped black pants and a gold tank, perfectly dressed for an evening that involved wine and a man.
She leaned against the counter and fanned herself dramatically.
“But you know what they say about average-looking men?”
I didn’t look at her. “Why do I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
“They make up for it in the bedroom.”
Yup. Knew that was coming.
“Tom’s great,” I said firmly. “He fixed the HVAC unit.”
“Thank god.” Lola sighed, pushing herself upright. “I cannot stand this humidity. It makes my skin shine too much. Shining is for cheekbones, not foreheads.”
I snorted despite myself. “Your forehead is flawless.”
“Correct,” she said and flashed me a grin. “But still. Climate control is essential.” She glanced toward the door Tom had exited through and then back at me, her eyes sharp but not unkind. “So. The new guy.”
“He’s not new,” I said automatically.
Lola arched an eyebrow. “He is to your emotional ecosystem.”
I sighed. “He’s just… the contractor.”
“Mmm,” said Lola, unconvinced. “And how does the contractor compare?”
“To what?”
“To the previous contractor,” she said lightly. “The one with the shoulders. And an ass you could serve dinner on.”
I turned my attention to a stack of mail that absolutely did not need my attention. “He fixed the HVAC. That’s all I need right now.”
“That was not the question.”
“I am not discussing him,” I replied.
Lola smiled. “You just did.”
Damnit.
I cleared my throat. “He gave me Tom’s number. That’s it. End of story.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Lola hummed. “You watched him fix your inn like it was a love language.”
I gave a short laugh. “No, it wasn’t. It was maintenance.”
“And you’re currently defensive,” she finished. “Which is always my favorite flavor.”
I exhaled slowly. “Please stop. I’m fine. Just trying to run an inn.”
Lola studied me for a moment and then nodded. “Okay.” She leaned closer. “But for the record? I still think he was about to ask you out.”
But he didn’t.
I glanced around the lobby. The polished floors, the faint scent of lemon cleaner, the quiet hum of air-conditioning finally doing its job. The inn felt… steady. Alive. Functional.
“I don’t need him,” I said, more to myself than to her.
Lola nodded. “Of course you don’t.” She paused. “Doesn’t mean you didn’t want him. I mean… he looks like he’d be fabulous in bed. Attentive. Unselfish. The kind who waits until you’re done.”
I didn’t answer that. I just straightened a stack of brochures and adjusted the guest sign-in book until it was perfectly aligned.
Control. Order. Cool air. I could work with that.
I looked around as the inn settled into its nighttime hush.
Most of the guests were out at dinner or tucked away in their rooms, scrolling on their phones or fighting with hotel pillows.
It was my favorite time of night, that brief, sacred window when nothing was actively on fire, and I could pretend I had my life together.
Lola pushed off the front desk and straightened herself. “Well, this is a very interesting conversation, but it’s not why I came to fetch you, darling.”
I shook myself out of my thoughts. “Fetch me? For what exactly?” Knowing Lola, there was a nonzero chance this involved a male stripper, a dare, or a man who introduced himself using only one name.
“Come,” she ordered, already grabbing my wrist and steering me down the hall.
I squinted at her suspiciously as my feet moved despite my better judgment. “Should I be concerned?”
“Only if you hate joy,” she said lightly.
That did not help.
Lola pulled me toward the kitchen, and I frowned. “Dottie needs me?” I asked. “Because if this is about the spice incident earlier, I maintain that cumin and cinnamon should never be stored that close together.”
Lola just smiled wider, which was never a comforting sign. She pushed open the kitchen doors, and I stepped inside but then stopped short.
I stared. “What the…”
The kitchen had been transformed.
The long prep tables had been pulled together into one impossibly long dining table, draped with mismatched linens and dotted with candles that flickered warmly against the tiled walls.
Real plates. Cloth napkins. Three wine bottles already uncorked and breathing like they’d been waiting for this moment their whole lives.
The air smelled incredible—garlic, butter, something roasted, something simmering that felt like comfort and effort and love all rolled into one.
Becca stood at the far end of the table arranging glasses, her brow furrowed in concentration.
She looked impeccable in a light pink pant suit that looked fabulous against her tan skin.
Helen was there too, her arms crossed over a red-and-orange floral blouse beneath a black blazer that looked like it used to belong to a man, clearly pretending this was all very practical and not emotional in the slightest.
And Dottie. Well, Dottie was everywhere at once.
Moving between pots, humming to herself, wielding a wooden spoon like a wand.
She wore a whimsical long kimono with bold yellow and green patterns over a flowy skirt, her toes poking out beneath the hem.
A white apron was wrapped around her middle, declaring BUTTER IS A FOOD GROUP.
I turned slowly, overwhelmed. “Why does it look like I accidentally wandered into a cooking show finale?”
Lola released my arm and gestured grandly. “Because, my dear, you are the star.”
“What?” I asked, my voice doing that thing where it wobbled just slightly, like it might betray me if I wasn’t careful.
Lola leaned in, lowering her voice. “We decided you deserved a dinner in your honor.”
I stood there, trying to make sense of it all. “In my honor?” I repeated like a simpleton.
“You’ve worked your ass off since you got here,” continued Lola. “You’ve kept this place standing. You didn’t run screaming back to New York after the first plumbing disaster, which frankly impressed all of us.”
Becca looked up and smiled. “We’re really glad you stayed, Sarah. The inn wouldn’t be the same without you.”
Helen cleared her throat and nudged her glasses up her nose. “Let’s be clear. This is not a sentimental gesture,” she said. “It’s appreciation. And morale. You’re a Hartwell. The inn belongs to a Hartwell. End of discussion.”
“And also Dottie refused to take no for an answer.” Lola laughed.
Dottie beamed. “I needed an excuse to use the good olive oil.”
My eyes burned as a sudden rush of emotions fluttered through me, fast and disorienting, like someone had shaken a snow globe inside my chest. My ex-fiancé cheating.
Moving here. The inn. The endless repairs.
My book deadline. Aunt Edna’s loser comment, which I pretended didn’t bother me but absolutely did.
Even Dust-guy, because of course he was in there too.
All of it came crashing down at once with no warning and no mercy.
I’d been holding it together for weeks—smiling, nodding, making lists, fixing things, being productive and functional and impressively fine. I’d told myself that was strength. That as long as I didn’t stop moving, none of it could catch up to me.
Turns out, it had just been waiting for candles and a long table.
I swallowed hard, my throat tight, and stared very intently at the tabletop like it might give me instructions. Say something normal. Say thank you. Don’t cry. Definitely don’t cry in front of people who will immediately notice and make it worse by being kind about it.