Chapter 25 Sarah
SARAH
“Yes, three nights,” I said into the receiver. “Ocean views. Absolutely. See you tomorrow.”
Technology had saved us all.
I took a sip of coffee, appreciating the bitter bite. Dottie made a mean coffee, possibly a confrontational one. It didn’t ask how you were feeling. It demanded productivity, and I liked it.
I was still riding the quiet afterglow of the dinner Dottie, Helen, Lola, and Becca had thrown for me last night.
I was also deeply grateful that I’d remembered to alternate wine with water, which meant I could function like a normal, responsible adult today instead of moving through the morning one slow blink at a time.
Progress.
I took another sip of coffee and leaned against the front desk, listening to the hum of the inn, footsteps upstairs, the distant sound of a door closing, the quiet rhythm of a place that was, for once, doing exactly what it was supposed to do.
Busy. Calm. Functioning.
I smiled to myself. This was a good day to run an inn.
The front door opened, the bell giving a polite jingle, and a couple stepped inside.
They hovered just inside the threshold, like they weren’t sure if they were allowed to fully commit to being here. Mid-fifties, neatly dressed, vaguely coastal in that “we own windbreakers” way. They leaned toward each other, murmured something, and then looked at me.
“Hi,” I said brightly. “Welcome to the Hartwell Inn.”
“Hi,” the woman replied. Well, I think she muttered the word, but it was so low you needed superhearing to catch it. But her lips had formed the word hi, so I was going with that.
I leaned forward slightly. “Hi back?”
“Yes,” the man added, a bit louder than the woman but still ridiculously quiet. More like a loud whisper.
Ah. Low talkers.
This was going to require focus. “I’m Sarah,” I said, pitching my voice down a notch, like I was trying to communicate with woodland creatures. “How can I help you today?”
“We’re the McGees,” the woman said, at roughly the volume of a confession. “We have a reservation.”
I nodded, leaning in again, my eyes narrowed in concentration. “The… Magees?”
“McGees,” the man whispered.
“McGees,” I repeated. Nailed it.
I typed quickly. “Room 303,” I said, checking the screen. “One night?”
“For the day,” the woman said softly. “We’re… resting.”
I paused. “Like… a nap?”
The man smiled faintly. “Like… a long nap.”
Got it.
“Perfect,” I said. “Room 303 is ready and freshly cleaned.”
Their faces relaxed in unison, like I’d just delivered excellent news about weather conditions.
I reached under the desk and slid the key across to them. “Your luggage will be brought up shortly. Feel free to settle in.”
“Thank you,” the woman mouth-whispered.
They moved toward the stairs at a measured pace, whispering to each other the whole way, like they were afraid to startle the inn.
I waited until they were out of sight and then exhaled. That had been… weird… intense and strangely exciting.
I grabbed my coffee and headed toward the kitchen. “Jason,” I called out as I pushed open the kitchen door.
He looked up from the counter. “Yeah?”
“Room 303 has luggage,” I said. “The McGees. They’re very nice. Also very quiet. Like… emotionally whispering.”
Jason nodded solemnly. “Got it.” He finished whatever he was drinking, an energy drink from a can, got up, and disappeared with the luggage cart.
The wheels squeaked faintly as he headed for the stairs, and the kitchen settled back into its familiar production.
Pots simmered. A pan sizzled. Something smelled aggressively comforting.
Dottie stood at the stove, barefoot, her hair piled on top of her head in a way that suggested gravity had given up. She was humming, loudly and off-key, while flipping something with unnecessary confidence.
“What is that?” I asked, setting my coffee down.
“Portable breakfast,” replied Dottie cheerfully. “For people with places to be and things to do.”
She turned, revealing a stack of tortillas and an apron I hadn’t seen before. It was neon pink, splattered with something that might’ve been egg, and read:
POWERED BY CARBS.
“Dottie Wrappers,” she announced, beaming. “Trademark pending.”
Before I could respond, she grabbed one, folded it with expert speed, and stuffed it directly into my mouth.
I blinked in surprise, my cheeks full. “Mmmph,” I said.
“Chew,” she ordered. “Then judge.”
I chewed. Bacon. Eggs. Cheese. Salt. Happiness. Possibly healing properties.
“Yummy,” I said once I could speak again. “Okay. More than yummy. That’s very good.”
“I know,” she said smugly. “I made them for people who forget to eat when they’re busy being emotionally responsible. Like you.”
“I feel attacked.”
She flipped another wrap. “Good. That means it’s working.”
I laughed. “I feel energized to go clean.” I grabbed a rag from the counter, still chewing, and wandered toward the den. If I was already upright and fed, I might as well be productive. That was my new thing—functional coping.
Plus, I needed to burn off the extra carbs from Dottie’s cooking before my closet turned on me.
I gave Edna-portrait a nod. “Edna,” I said quietly. “You’re looking chippy this morning.”
Her painted eyes stared back at me, judgmental as ever. I took that as encouragement.
I smiled despite myself. I started dusting the side table followed by the bookshelf, moving slowly to let the normalcy of it all sink in.
The den looked good—lived-in but tidy, like a place where people curled up with coffee and a good book to forget what time it was.
Like a place where people stayed awhile instead of rushing through.
I heard footsteps and turned to see Mr. and Mrs. Drew, a couple from Maine, wandering in, coffee mugs in hand, settling into one of our plush sofas. They smiled at me. I smiled back, polite, warm, and respectful. It was all very wholesome.
Until Lola showed up.
“There you are,” she purred.
The gorgeous blonde sashayed her way over to me, tight red pants clinging for dear life and barely containing all her curves while her low black blouse looked wildly inappropriate for a morning that still involved breakfast wraps and caffeine dependency.
She looked like she was heading to a late brunch with a man whose name she didn’t intend to remember.
“Here I am,” I answered. “In daylight. With witnesses. You need something?”
Lola grinned. “More sex would be nice,” she said cheerfully.
I shot a look toward the Drews. Both of them were staring openly now, Mrs. Drew clutching her coffee like it had suddenly become educational.
Fantastic.
“I meant,” I said through my teeth, “what do you need from me.”
“Well,” said Lola, lowering her voice just enough to imply gossip without actually reducing volume, “I happen to have information that I know you’re going to want to know.”
I straightened, dread blooming. “What? Please tell me Helen hasn’t already started working on the fall festival. I’m still recuperating from the Pearls & Pints.” The thought of another festival so soon made my gut clench. My soul simply could not handle more bunting.
Lola waved a dismissive hand. “Relax. Nothing involving pumpkins, or handcuffs and whips,” she said with a grin. “That’s a different conversation.”
Yeah, I had no idea what she was talking about. I exhaled. “Okay. Fine.”
“Better,” she said brightly. She waited to get my full attention. “Alex is back in town.”
My hand stilled on the rag.
“A friend of mine saw him at Maple Mug Café this morning,” she continued. “Alive. Present. Just as sexy as ever.”
I bit my lip. “Okay.”
She watched my face like she was reading stock prices. “You’re welcome.”
“I am,” I said honestly.
“So,” Lola went on, her eyes gleaming, “what are you going to do about it?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, still dusting the same spot I’d already dusted three times. Of course I knew what she was implying, but… my brain was on pause right now.
“The ball’s in your court, darling,” she said. “And I would hate to see it just… roll away.”
“I didn’t know there was a ball,” I murmured.
“There’s always a ball,” said Lola. “You just have to decide whether you’re going to pick it up or pretend you didn’t see it.” She leaned closer. “Don’t waste it.”
Before I could ask her for more information, she winked at me, winked at the Drews—who looked like they needed a minute, a glass of water, and possibly therapy—and then swung her hips all the way out of the den like she’d just dropped a grenade and trusted me to deal with the aftermath.
I stared after her, the rag limp in my hand.
Dust-guy was back.
What the hell was I supposed to do with that?
Clearly Lola thought this was important to me, but I didn’t see why. He’d made his choice. He’d left. I was okay with that… right?
I glanced up at Edna-portrait. She stared back, her lips pursed and eyes sharp, forever frozen in that expression that said I told you so without moving her mouth.
“Oh, don’t start with me,” I breathed. “I’m not upset.”
From the corner of my eye, Mrs. Drew shifted on the sofa. I felt it, registered it, ignored it.
“I’m fine,” I continued, nodding at Edna-portrait like she’d just asked a question.
“Perfectly fine. This is me being calm. Look at me. Dusting. Functional.” I lowered my voice.
“I don’t care that he’s back. Why would I care?
He’s nothing to me. And, yes, he’s hot, but that’s just the shell.
And shells are useless. No one builds a life on a shell.
Except hermit crabs. And I am not a crab. ”
Mr. Drew cleared his throat quietly. Polite, concerned, maybe he was hoping I’d stop.
“He kissed me back,” I went on, still staring at the portrait, like Edna was the only one emotionally equipped to handle this.
“And not, like, a polite kiss. This was a major kiss. Full commitment. No hesitation. I’m talking open mouth, full tongue, the kind of kiss where you briefly forget your own name.
” I nodded to myself, as if confirming facts in court.
“There was leaning,” I added. “Intentional leaning. Hands involved. Eye contact afterward. The kind that implies follow-up questions, follow-up texts, and possibly follow-up sex. The kind that makes you think, oh no, this wasn’t a one-time thing. This was a sequel.”
Mrs. Drew made a small, distressed sound.
“And then,” I said, warming up now, “he pulled back like none of that had just happened. Like we hadn’t just exchanged saliva and possibly expectations.”
Mrs. Drew whimpered.
I finally glanced over at her. “Sorry,” I said, not sounding sorry at all.
“I’m processing.” I turned back around, shaking my head.
“And the worst part is,” I continued, pacing now, “I felt something. From him. I didn’t imagine it.
It was there. I was there. A connection.
Sparks, or whatever the hell you want to call them.
That moment when two people just… fit. And then he decides to take off and leave. ”
Mrs. Drew’s eyes flicked to her husband. They exchanged a look.
I waved my rag up at Edna-portrait. “I want you, but only on my terms, and only until it gets inconvenient. Seriously?” I leaned in a little closer to Edna-portrait, my tone sharpening. “He treated me like a problem to avoid instead of a person to talk to.”
There it was. The truth. Slipping out like it had been waiting for an audience.
I straightened. “And I do not need protection,” I said clearly. “I need respect.”
The den went very quiet.
Somewhere behind me, a chair scraped.
“Oh god,” I breathed. “I’m doing it again. Aren’t I?” I glanced sideways. One of the Drews, Mr. Drew, had stood up. He gave me a tight smile, the kind people use when they are backing away from something unpredictable.
“We’re just going to… take our coffee upstairs,” he said gently. “Rest a bit.”
“Of course,” I said, seeing that familiar anxious expression on their faces that I got when I talked to my book characters out loud. Yup. I was now the crazy lady who ran the inn. “Please do. Enjoy the inn. Ignore the public emotional reckoning.” I gave a small laugh.
They left quickly, like speed-walking quick. Mrs. Drew didn’t look back.
I turned back to the portrait. “See what you did? You turned me into a woman who argues with wall art and frightens the paying customers. You happy?”
Edna-portrait remained unmoved. Still, I could’ve sworn those thin lips of hers twitched—almost forming one word. Loser.
Either that, or I was officially losing it.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Loser,” I told her quietly. “You don’t get to call me that anymore.”
That did it. Something snapped cleanly into place.
I wasn’t embarrassed anymore or spiraling. The humiliation had burned off, leaving something solid underneath.
Resolve.
This wasn’t going to sort out itself. Dust-guy wasn’t going to magically wake up enlightened. And I wasn’t going to keep having conversations with a portrait while guests wondered if the inn came with complimentary therapy sessions.
I needed to see him.
And he was going to give me an explanation. Or I would make him give me one.
Because you don’t just plant a panty-combustion kiss on a woman and then disappear into the ether like that’s normal.
Resolute, I dropped the rag on the side table, marched toward the front desk, and grabbed my keys. Then my coat. I paused by the mirror near the stairs and caught my reflection.
“Okay. Hair’s gone rogue. Eyes are doing something intense. So I look a touch unhinged. His fault.”
Yes, I looked a little wild but also determined. I could work with that.
I squared my shoulders, turned toward the door, and stepped outside.
The inn door closed behind me with a decisive click. The ocean air hit my face, sharp and bracing, and for the first time all morning, my thoughts stopped looping.
Movement replaced overthinking. Purpose replaced hurt.
He didn’t get to decide for me.
It was time for Dust-guy and me to have a little chat.