Chapter 28 Sarah
SARAH
By eight-thirty in the morning, someone had already complained about the coffee, the stairs, and the lack of almond milk.
I considered this a win.
“That’s because it’s strong,” I said. “It has to carry us emotionally through the day.” I laughed. She didn’t.
Which was fine. Not everyone appreciated humor before caffeine. Or just my humor.
“It gets better after the second sip,” I said. “Less aggressive. More supportive.”
She took a sip, nodded once, and wandered off toward the dining room, already distracted by a basket of carrot muffins.
I turned and leaned back on the front desk, mentally ticking through my morning list. Sheets swapped.
Breakfast mostly survived. The east hallway window was still sticking, but at least it wasn’t whistling like a haunted teapot anymore.
Two stairs near the top floor still wobbled, but they wobbled in a predictable way now, which I could live with.
I opened my laptop and pulled up the booking app. It had been just about a month since the first time I stepped into this inn. A month ago, this list would’ve sent me into a spiral. Now, glancing at it, it just meant I needed more coffee.
Progress.
Progress also looked like I’d finished the first draft of my new paranormal romance.
I still needed maybe three weeks to edit before sending it off to Margarette, but I was ahead of my deadline, which basically made me feel like a responsible adult.
Briefly. Even better, I knew, deep in my gut, that this book was the best thing I’d ever written.
Oh, and I’d already plotted two more in the series.
Margarette was not emotionally prepared for this.
The sound of heels coming down the stairs pulled my attention around. “Darling, I like that top on you,” said Lola as she came around the front desk. “It makes your breasts fuller.”
“Why thank you.” Yup. I could always count on Lola to cut through the bullshit.
She had on a beautiful peach floral dress that hit just below the knee.
Her blonde hair was in loose, modern waves.
On her arm was a man around her age, which surprised me.
But what didn’t surprise me was that he was handsome and muscular like he bench-pressed trees for fun with short gray hair and neatly trimmed beard in a blue suit that moved like liquid water.
“Hope we didn’t keep you up last night,” she purred, running a hand over the man. “Henry here has the stamina of a bull.”
Oh, boy.
Henry grinned and leaned to whisper something in Lola’s ear. She pushed him away playfully and said, “I’ll see you later. Oh, and Henry, you better kiss me with that dirty mouth of yours.”
Henry blew her a kiss and stepped out the front door, the bell jangling cheerfully as it shut behind him.
“Fun night,” I said, leaning against the front desk.
Lola turned slowly, one manicured hand still resting on the counter and her mouth curling into a satisfied smile. “Fun night,” she repeated. “Yes. And an even better lunch with Antonio later.”
I snorted. “Of course there is.”
She reached behind the desk, plucked a pen from the holder, and twirled it between her fingers like she was considering a very pleasant to-do list. “Antonio makes excellent risotto,” she added. “And he listens. Very important qualities at lunchtime.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know how you manage all those men. Don’t you ever get them confused?”
Lola laughed, low and delighted, the sound bouncing lightly off the walls of the foyer. “Sweetheart, no. Men are not confusing. They’re enthusiastic.”
“If you say so.”
“They each serve a purpose,” she said breezily, tapping the bell once for no reason at all.
“Henry is dependable and excellent in the evenings. Antonio is charming, attentive, and knows how to order wine without asking questions. And before you ask—yes, they know about each other. I don’t lie. I curate.”
I stared at her over the counter. “You run a rotation.”
“I run a lifestyle,” she corrected. “And everyone involved is very happy, including me. Especially me.” She dropped her purse on the counter, pulled out her compact, checked her lipstick in the reflection, and met my gaze. “Monogamy is lovely. It’s just not mandatory.”
I folded my arms. “I only have the energy for one man.”
Lola smiled at me then, softer but no less confident. “That’s because you’re busy rebuilding your life. When you’re ready, you’ll remember men are supposed to be fun. Not a second job.” She sighed and said, “I’m starving. All that workout last night, this glorious body needs carbs. Bye, darling.”
She blew me a kiss, her heels clicking across the foyer as she headed for the dining room.
Dottie appeared with the timing of someone who lived for entrances, barefoot and breezy, a long denim skirt swishing around her ankles. She wore an apron that read:
I LICKED THE SPOON. RELAX.
Lola slid into one of the dining room chairs like she owned it—which, honestly, she sort of did with that large check of hers—stretching her legs out and sighing happily. “Ahhh. Silence. Tables. Possibility.”
Dottie didn’t say a word. She simply poured Lola a cup of coffee, generous and dark, setting it down in front of her with a decisive little nod.
Lola lifted the mug and inhaled. “God bless you, barefoot kitchen witch.”
Dottie smiled. “I do work magic in the kitchen.”
Lola took a sip and practically purred. “Perfect. Strong. Slightly judgmental.”
“That’s the blend,” Dottie said, already moving on.
Lola leaned back in her chair, coffee cradled between both hands, surveying the room like a queen before court. “You know,” she called out lazily, “this place really is coming together.”
I heard the clink of a spoon from the kitchen and Dottie’s voice floated back. “That’s because Sarah’s doing the work.”
Lola smiled into her coffee.
I laughed just as the front door to the inn opened and closed again, letting in a blast of ocean air and the unmistakable sound of panic.
“Sarah! This is a disaster!”
Helen came barreling toward me, her face flushed and dark eyes magnified behind her red glasses.
She wore a navy-blue shirt at least three sizes too big, baggy jeans that looked suspiciously like they’d once belonged to an old boyfriend, and sneakers that suggested she’d sprinted here without stopping to consider dignity.
In her hand was her phone, which she was waving like a weapon.
I came around the front desk. “Slow down and tell me what’s happening.”
“This,” she said, thrusting the phone toward my face. “Look.”
I glanced at the screen. “It’s an email,” I said. “And it’s addressed to you and to the innkeeper at—hey—that’s me. But I never got this.”
“Who cares,” snapped Helen. “The important thing is I got the email. I’m the mayor.”
I narrowed my eyes. “That’s… not how inboxes work.”
She ignored me. “Harbor & Hearth is sending a reviewer, a very important reviewer. He’s doing a feature on coastal towns with ‘heritage charm and modern hospitality.’”
I blinked. “Okay. That sounds interesting.”
“His name is Michael Waverly,” Helen continued, pacing now. “He’s influential. He’s picky. He once wrote three paragraphs about bad towels. And poof—the town was a ghost town after that.”
I rolled my eyes. “Come on. I seriously doubt that.”
“He’s coming tomorrow.”
I froze. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes. Tomorrow.” She stopped pacing long enough to point at me. “He’s reviewing the town. This town! And the inn. Specifically this inn.”
I took the phone again, scanning. “Okay, but… he never booked.” Because I would remember that.
Helen waved that off. “Of course he didn’t book. He’s a reviewer.”
“He still needs a room,” I said calmly. “Even reviewers need beds.”
Helen’s eyes widened. “He needs the best room.”
I nodded. “Yes, but, the best room is booked.”
Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “What do you mean booked.”
“Booked-booked,” I said. “Paid deposit. Checks in tomorrow morning. Loves ocean views. Very excited.”
Helen made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. “We have to bump them.”
“We absolutely cannot bump them.”
“But it’s Michael Waverly.”
I didn’t give a rat’s ass. “And this is a business. My business.”
She plucked her glasses off her face, dragged a hand down her eyes, and stuffed them back over her nose. “This is a catastrophe. This is how towns die. First a bad review, then a slow decline, and then suddenly we’re a trivia question.”
Before I could respond, Lola appeared from the dining room, coffee in hand and eyebrows raised. “Why does it sound like someone just yelled the word catastrophe like it’s a cocktail order?”
Dottie followed, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Why does Helen look like she’s about to have a stroke.
You know… I have something to calm your nerves.
” She reached into the depths of her apron pocket and produced a small glass vial filled with a cloudy green liquid.
“Stress-Away Spritz,” said Dottie proudly.
“It’s chamomile, lemon balm, something I found in the back garden, and a touch of vodka. For absorption.”
Helen spun toward them. “We have an elite reviewer coming tomorrow and no room to put him in.”
Lola sipped her coffee. “Oh. Is that all?”
Helen stared. “Is that all?”
“Is he handsome,” Lola said. “Single? Rich? Is he great in bed?”
Dottie dropped her vial back into her apron pocket. “We’ll feed him. Don’t worry. Everyone loves my food.”
“That’s not…” Helen looked back at me, clearly expecting me to join the meltdown.
I didn’t. I folded my arms and thought for half a second. “It’ll be fine, Helen,” I said. “I’ll handle it.”
Helen blinked. “You will?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
I smiled. “I’ll get creative.”
Lola’s mouth curved into a delighted grin. “I love creative. Especially when it involves two men who know how to share.”
Dottie clapped once. “I’ll start planning breakfast for tomorrow. Something new. Something that’ll blow his mind.”
Helen stared at the three of us, her chest rising and falling. “You’re… not terrified?”