Page 64 of The Accidental Innkeeper

Dottie leaned her hip against the counter, studying me with that look she had, half maternal, half amused, fully unbothered. “It’s your first day. Totally expected.”

“It is?” Not sure how I felt about that.

“You’ve got the eyes,” she said. “Wide. Wired. Like you’re waiting for something to go wrong and explode.”

“I kind of am.”

Dottie made a face. “Speaking of exploding, I think I left my arthritis-glove prototype on a boiler in the lab. It hums when it’s happy.” She chuckled and went back to the stove. “Eat half. You’ll live.”

“I don’t know,” I said, eyeing the pancake like it might bite me. “What if a guest comes in while I’m chewing? What if I get syrup on myself? What if I choke?”

Dottie turned, her spatula pointed at me. “If you choke, I’ll Heimlich you. If a guest walks in, they’ll see the owner eating her own food and think, Oh good, she’s human. If you get syrup on yourself, congratulations. You’re officially running an inn.”

I stared at the pancake. She wasn’t wrong.

I picked it up, took a small bite, and immediately closed my eyes. Oh. Wow. “That’s… really good,” I said around a mouthful.

Dottie preened. “I know.”

The bell at the front desk rang.

Once. Clear. Sharp. Real.

Oh shit. Shit. Shit.

I swallowed, my heart jumping into my throat. “That’s them.”

Dottie waved me off. “Go. I’ve got this. You handle the smiling and the keys and the pretending you slept.”

I nodded, already backing toward the door. “Thank you. Seriously. Thank you.”

She smiled at me, softer this time. “You’re doing fine, Sarah.”

With that dose of confidence and pancake bite, I straightened my shoulders, wiped my hands on my pants, and headed back toward the front of the inn, the smell of breakfast following me like backup.

The bell rang again. Hang on to your butts. I’m coming.

It was game on.

I pasted on my best Welcome to my inn, I am calm and capable and not one inconvenience away from screaming into a pillow smile and stepped into the lobby.

They were already standing at the front desk.

Mid-forties. Coordinated outfits. Cashmere-looking. The kind of couple who looked like they’d never argued about money but absolutely argued about thread count. He wore loafers without socks. She wore a scarf indoors with the faint expression of someone who’d been promised magic and was already preparing to be disappointed.

“Good morning,” I said brightly, slipping in behind the desk. “Welcome to Hartwell Inn.”

The woman barely glanced at me. Her eyes swept the room like she was assessing a set piece. “We’re the Harringtons. We’re here for a romantic weekend,” she said, stressing romantic like it was a legally binding contract. “We’re celebrating an anniversary. We’ll need room 304.”

I blinked once. “I’m sorry, 304 is…”

“That’s the one with the bay view,” she continued. “I booked it specifically.”

I checked the ledger, even though I already knew. Yup, 304 was booked. Had been booked. And not by them.

“304 is currently occupied,” I said gently. “But I do have you booked in 302, which also has a lovely view…”

Her mouth tightened. “We didn’t come all this way for also.”