Page 13 of The Accidental Innkeeper

“Figures.” I rubbed my forehead and tried to organize the madness in my head into manageable pieces. It immediately turned into confetti. “Okay,” I said. “Basic question. Do I have running water?”

“Yes.”

My shoulders dropped in relief so fast I almost thanked god again. “Electricity?”

“Yup.”

“Heat?”

Becca winced slightly. “Technically.”

I stared at her.

“The boiler works,” she clarified quickly, “but it’s… temperamental.”

“Right.” I pressed my lips together. “So. Water and electricity are good. Heat is not really an issue in July.” But you can bet your ass it would be come September. Still, a place this big needed a lot of money to keep it going. Money I didn’t have. “How are those bills even being paid if it’s been closed?” I asked.

Becca’s expression softened. “Your aunt paid ahead. A couple of months in advance. She… didn’t want the lights shut off while you were getting here.”

“Thoughtful.” I didn’t expect that. Not from Edna Hartwell, queen of frowning at children.

Becca laughed and then stepped deeper into the den like she belonged here. She perched on the edge of a chair with the ease of someone who didn’t fear antique upholstery. “She closed the inn when she got sick,” continued Becca. “When she couldn’t run it anymore. And then… well… you know the rest. I’ve been checking in on the place, making sure it didn’t… you know. Collapse.”

“And I’m assuming Edna also gave you keys?”

“Yes.”

I set my suitcase upright near the doorway because I needed something to do with my hands that wasn’t clutching my head or waving at ghosts. The wheels rattled against the floor.

Becca watched me for a beat. “So,” she said carefully, “if you decide to stay… do you… know how to run an inn?”

There it was. The question.

It should have been asked before my aunt legally strapped a pink Victorian to my back like a cursed backpack.

My brain flashed through everything I knew about inns, which was basically: People sleep there, there are keys and doors, and muffins? Sometimes?

Yeah, I had nothing.

“I mean,” I said aloud, stalling like a professional. “How hard can it be?” The lies came shooting straight out of my ass.

Becca’s eyebrows lifted.

“You check people in,” I added. “You hand them keys, you pretend you’re not judging them for wearing flip-flops in public. Boom. Inn.”

Becca’s smile widened, but her eyes stayed sharp. “You know there’s more to it than that.”

“Like… cleaning,” I said and then grimaced as I looked around the room. “Which I can do. I have hands. I have rage. I have a deep, personal relationship with bleach.” I imagined Simon’s head exploding again and me cleaning up the mess.

Becca tilted her head, still amused. “And bookings. And maintenance. And breakfast. And staff.”

“Staff.” Damn. I forgot about that one. I let out a long breath and looked back toward the foyer. The inn was quiet, sunlit, deceptively calm. Like it was luring me into a false sense of security before it attacked.

Panic fluttered in my chest. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

I was a writer. My biggest emergency usually involved a plot hole and a deadline. I could handle imaginary chaos. Real chaos, however, came with plumbing.

But then something else stirred under the panic—something stubborn and electric.