Page 116 of The Accidental Innkeeper

Lola laughed. “Ah, yes. The Maplewood Fall Festival. Where pumpkins are weapons and cider is a lifestyle.”

I looked up. “There’s a fall festival?” I didn’t know why I was surprised. I had a feeling this town would throw a festival at any excuse.

Helen stared at me like I’d just admitted I didn’t know my own birthday. “Sarah. The Hartwell Inn has hosted the fall festival every year for decades.”

“Right.” Looked like she forgot I only got here a few weeks ago.

“With costumes,” Becca added. “And bonfires.”

“And the haunted hallway,” said Lola. “Which is only haunted because Helen insists on historical accuracy.”

“It’s not haunted,” corrected Helen, raising her chin. “It’s atmospheric.”

Dottie waved her spoon. “I’ll be doing caramel apple stations. And soup. And something with squash that will confuse people.” She widened her eyes. “Last year, I added some nuts I found drying in my lab. Turns out they weren’t for eating. People took naps they didn’t plan.”

I laughed, real and unguarded, looking around the table at them. The candles flickered. The food disappeared among the easy rhythm of shared stories and mild madness.

And suddenly, without effort or doubt, I knew.

This. This was where I was supposed to be. This table. This inn. This strange, wonderful group of women who argued and teased and showed up anyway.

This was what I was supposed to do. Keep this place alive. Fill it with warmth and noise and food and people who mattered.

Dust-guy crossed my mind for half a second. Then I let the thought go.

I took another bite of lasagna and smiled to myself.

This was home.

This was me.

24

ALEX

The Range Rover hummed beneath me, steady and smooth and completely unbothered by my mood as the road stretched out ahead.

I’d left Bainsville an hour ago, where I owned property, paid taxes, and pretended I had my life neatly sorted, telling myself I just needed to clear my head. A drive. Distance. Space. That usually worked. It always had. But my hands stayed tight on the wheel, my jaw locked like my body hadn’t gotten the memo.

I’d done the sensible thing, leaving Maplewood Falls a week ago. I told myself I was fine with the decision. Told myself I’d handled it the right way. That I’d left before things got complicated. Before I stayed somewhere too long. Before a woman with sharp blue eyes and a stubborn pink inn got under my skin and stayed there.

The road flattened out, trees blurring past in steady green streaks. I drove the way I always did, hands at ten and two, speed just over the limit, eyes forward. Control—that was the point of leaving.

I’d told myself that all week. Said it like a checklist item. Said it while I worked, while I slept, while I drove between properties and pretended the silence meant something good.

The days had been full, productive, the kind of week that usually settled me. Inspections. Meetings. A roof that needed replacing. A tenant who thought a leak counted as an emergency because it inconvenienced him.

I fixed what needed fixing. Signed what needed signing. Ate when I remembered to. Slept when my body finally shut down.

And none of it stuck.

Her face showed up anyway. Everywhere and at any time. Not when I was trying to think about her, when I wasn’t. When I reached for tools and walked into kitchens. When tenants were speaking to me. When I caught myself listening for a voice that wasn’t there.

Her face… always her face.

I told myself it was habit. Proximity. Residual noise from time spent in one place too long.

But the week didn’t settle. It just stacked up.