Page 5 of The Accidental Innkeeper

I squeezed my arms against my sides as tightly as possible, trying to contain the situation. Like if I compressed myself enough, the smell would stay trapped inside my armpits, and we could all pretend this wasn’t real.

It probably didn’t work. It probably just made me look like I was constipated. Or actively trying not to fart. Or both.

The silence stretched. The air-conditioning hummed. Judgment radiated from the leather.

“You okay there?” Dust-guy asked, flicking a glance at me before returning his eyes to the road.

“Yup,” I said, rigid as a statue and definitely not okay.

“You’re a writer from New York?” inquired Dust-guy. “Are you visiting family in Maplewood Falls?”

I shifted in my seat, which only made me more aware of my sweaty ass committing felony-level crimes against his leather interior. Also, writer. Of course he’d clocked that too. I had the posture of someone who stared at screens for a living and argued with imaginary people in her head.

“I’m moving here,” I admitted.

“Huh.” He sounded amused by that. “That explains the plates.”

“And the attitude,” I added.

That earned me a smile. One corner of his mouth lifted like he approved of my self-awareness.

“Why Maplewood Falls?” he asked. “Inspiration for your writing?”

I hesitated—partly because I hated explaining this but mostly because I was filthy, sticky, and still mildly furious that he’d dust-blasted me earlier. Now he was asking personal questions like this was a first date and not a hostage situation involving air conditioning.

“My aunt,” I said finally. “She left me the inn.”

That got his full attention. He looked over properly this time, long enough that I almost told him to keep his eyes on the road before we both ended up dead in a ditch and proved me right about strangers.

“The Hartwell Inn?” he asked.

“That’s the one.”

He let out a low whistle. “So you’re that niece.”

That word landed funny. That niece. Like I was a known entity. A topic. A conversation.

“Apparently,” I said. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” he said easily. “Just… people talk.”

Oh. Great. I hadn’t even unpacked any of my boxes yet, and I was already local gossip. Fantastic.

I stared straight ahead. “Sounds like a fun place to live.”

Dust-guy chuckled under his breath. “You’ll get used to it.”

Doubtful. I waited a beat and then forced myself to return the question because silence plus sweat plus curiosity was a dangerous combination. “Then… What’s with the face?”

Dust-guy glanced at me. “The face? I have a face?” He flashed that smirk again. You know the one that says he knows the effect it has on females.

“So what do you do? Apart from showering strangers with dust storms?” I asked instead.

He smiled again. Damn those were some hot, hot lips. “I flip houses. Invest in real estate.”

Of course he did. That fit. Annoyingly well. The calm confidence. The expensive car. The hands that looked like they actually did things. And what else could they do…

Nope. Not going there.