Page 7 of The Accidental Innkeeper

His eyebrows shot up. “What? No—”

“So because I’m not wearing steel-toed boots and swinging a hammer right now, I couldn’t possibly handle renovations?” I gestured at myself. “Is it the dust? The sweat? Or the fact that I have breasts?”

He grinned at the word breasts. Total male. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Because I assure you,” I went on, gaining momentum, “I am fully capable of demo. I once ripped an entire bookshelf out of a wall in New York with nothing but rage and a crowbar.”

He blinked. “You did?”

“Yes. And it deserved it.” It actually came down on me by accident, but he didn’t need to know that.

The corner of his mouth twitched, but I was not done. “I’ve painted. I’ve sanded. I’ve assembled IKEA furniture without crying. Mostly.”

“I’m not doubting your…”

“And for the record,” I added, “I can use my hands for more than just writing. I’m very capable.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Come on, New York. That’s not what I meant.”

“Then clarify,” I said, crossing my arms and immediately regretting it because armpits.

“I meant,” he said carefully, “that you look like someone who’s used to thinking things through. Planning. Big picture. Renovations are brutal if you don’t know what you’re getting into.”

I paused. “I can do work. I just don’t want it done badly.”

“Exactly,” he said. “That’s all I meant.”

I stared out the windshield, suddenly very aware that I’d gone from righteous fury to awkward silence in under ten seconds.

“Still,” I muttered, “you could’ve led with that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And for the record,” I added, “I can swing a hammer.”

“I believe you,” he said. “You seem… intense.”

I smiled tightly. “I’m very approachable.”

He laughed again, and damn it, I hated that it worked. That deep rumble of his sent my sweat-o-meter into overdrive.

I squeezed my arms tighter against my sides again. “So, what type of work are we talking about?” If this was a money pit, money I didn’t have, I’d have to sell.

Dust-guy tapped the steering wheel once. “Foundation’s solid, but the roof’s aging. Windows are original in places. Plumbing’s a mix of old and newer patch jobs. It’s charming. It’s just… tired.”

I stared at him. “Have you been stalking my inn?”

He smiled. “I live here. And I do real estate.”

Right. That. The flipping houses thing.

“Oh,” I said slowly. “So this is where you tell me you want to buy it, gut it, turn it into luxury condos, and erase every ounce of character.”

His mouth twitched. “Is that what you think I do?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “You have the car for it.”

“Ouch, New York. That hurts.”