Page 8 of The Accidental Innkeeper

“Liar.”

He chuckled. “I don’t flip inns.”

“Yet.”

“If I were interested,” he said, “I’d tell you. I don’t poach family inheritances. And the inn has history. Maplewood Falls history. No one builds them like that anymore.”

I studied his profile, trying to decide if I believed him. He looked unbothered. Open. Annoyingly sincere. “Okay,” I said carefully, “you’re not circling my inn like a vulture.” Funny how I was already calling it my inn, though I’d never seen it.

“No.”

“Or planning to swoop in the second I look overwhelmed.”

He considered that. “Well… maybe circling. But not swooping.”

I snorted despite myself and then immediately regretted it because laughter plus sweat was still not my friend. “I’m keeping it,” I said firmly. “At least for now.”

He nodded again. “Good.”

I blinked. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It suits you.”

I glanced out the window, suddenly very invested in the passing scenery. “You don’t know anything about me.”

He smiled. “Give it time, New York.”

And something in my chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with the heat.

After a small rise, the road dipped, and that’s when Maplewood Falls finally came into view through the windshield.

It looked exactly the way I remembered. Victorian houses lined the street, tall and narrow with peaked roofs and wide porches that wrapped around them like open arms. The paint had faded into soft coastal colors, fog gray, pale blue, sea-glass green, nothing shiny or new, everything gently worn and loved. I caught flashes of wind chimes tapping somewhere, laundry moving on a line, white sheets snapping lazily in the breeze as we passed.

Nothing here felt rushed. Even the road refused to go straight, curving instead and bending toward the water I couldn’t see yet but somehow felt nearby—steady, patient, and waiting.

It was a picturesque town. Definitely inspiration quality.

Dust-guy slowed as we rolled into a gravel lot with a squat building that looked like it had been patched together over several decades. A faded sign read HUGH’S GARAGE, the letters sun-bleached and slightly crooked, like even they were tired.

He pulled in and cut the engine.

The second I opened the door, the smell hit me: oil, grease, metal, and something vaguely flammable. It was… aggressive. Also comforting, in a this-place-has-seen-things kind of way.

A guy emerged from the garage wiping his hands on a rag that had long ago given up on being clean. He looked around forty, give or take a hard decade, with oil-stained overalls, permanently dirty hands, and a smile that revealed a few missing teeth. Friendly, though. The kind of friendly that said he’d absolutely help you but also absolutely judge your car.

“Hugh,” said Dust-guy, already stepping forward. “Got a Jetta broken down. Overheated. Steam. Not drivable.”

Hugh nodded along, serious now. “Yeah? Those things’ll do that. Radiator probably shot.”

“Cool,” said Dust-guy. “She’s pulled over safe. Might need a tow.”

I cleared my throat loudly. “I can speak for myself.”

Both men stopped and turned to look at me. Surprise marred their features, like I’d suddenly spoken fluent squirrel.

“I know,” said Dust-guy carefully. “I was just…”

“Explaining my car,” I finished. “Which I own. And drove. And broke.”