Page 63 of The Accidental Innkeeper
Breakfast.
Shit.
What were we going to serve for breakfast?
My brain did that horrible record-scratch thing and went completely blank. Not empty in a peaceful, Zen way. Empty in a forgot-to-study-for-the-exam-you’re-already-taking way.
Menus. I hadn’t gone over the menus with Dottie. I hadn’t confirmed what she was making. Or how much. Or if it involved allergens. Or if it involved fire. Dottie’s cooking lived somewhere on the spectrum between comforting and mildly illegal, well, from what I’d observed so far.
I looked at the clock behind the desk. 6:52 a.m.
Seven minutes.
Seven freaking minutes until guests started emerging, hungry and hopeful, expecting things like food and competence.
I grabbed my coffee, took a frantic gulp, immediately burned my tongue, hissed, and slapped the cup back down.
“Great,” I hissed. “Fantastic start.”
I rounded the desk and power-walked toward the back of the house, my internal monologue sprinting ahead of me.
What if Dottie decided breakfast was optional? What if she was still asleep? What if she’d made one of her experimental health concoctions she’d tried to force-drink me last night?
I walked with my butt cheeks squeezed together, which made no sense but seemed required for speed-walking. I barreled down the hallway, nearly tripping over my own feet, and made a beeline for the kitchen.
The door was already ajar. Light spilled out. So did sound.
Pans clinked. A radio hummed something cheerful and vaguely old-fashioned. The unmistakable smell of bacon, real bacon, not “turkey-adjacent” bacon or “bacon-flavored.”
I rushed into the kitchen. The kitchen island was covered. Bowls. Whisks. Plates. A stack of pancakes rested under a clean towel. A skillet sizzled on the stove. Eggs waiting patiently in a carton.
Dottie stood at the counter, her hair piled up in a messy knot, moving with the confidence of someone who had fed an entire town at least once. The white apron across her middle read: EXPERIMENTAL BATCH.
Not sure how that made me feel.
I sagged against the doorframe, my spine turning into warm pudding. “Oh thank god,” I breathed.
Dottie glanced up, spatula in hand and her eyes bright. “Mornin’, sunshine. Did you sleep well? I slept great. Closed my eyes and—bam—giant mushrooms. Very hostile. I did brew a little tea before bed. Picked the mushrooms myself in the woods behind my house. Pretty sure they were fine.”
I walked forward. “You’re… cooking.”
She smiled wider. “That is generally what I do in kitchens. But I do have a lab at home. I call it ‘Dottie’s Try-It-And-See Room.’” She flipped the spatula once, pleased. “That’s where I brew all my natural remedies. Tonics. Creams. Tinctures. Salves. Teas. Sometimes devices.” She lowered her voice, like this was common sense. “Doctors are helpful, but they miss things. Herbs don’t. Also, I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t grow at least one plant.” She waved a hand. “It’s very organized. If you don’t count the wires. Or the soldering iron. Or the smell. Mostly eucalyptus.”
“Right,” I admitted, my hands braced on the island. “I completely forgot to go over breakfast with you. I thought I’d opened an inn with no food, and we’d all have to apologize and hand out protein bars.”
Dottie flipped something in the pan with a practiced flick. “Don’t worry. I’ve been doing breakfast here longer than you’ve been alive.”
That was both comforting and mildly insulting.
I scanned the spread. “What are you making?”
“Eggs. Bacon. Pancakes. Fruit. Toast. French Toast. Beans in maple syrup. Coffee strong enough to wake the dead.” She eyed me. “You look like you could use the last one.”
“I slept four hours,” I said. “And I spent most of that time thinking about fire codes and towels.”
Dottie snorted. “Rookie mistake. You think about towels after breakfast.” She slid a plate toward me. A pancake, perfectly golden, with steam curling up like it was calling my name. “Hungry?” she asked.
My stomach answered immediately with an enthusiastic growl. “I am. Very. But also I might throw up if I eat.” Yeah, pretty sure I would.
