Page 82 of The Accidental Innkeeper

Dottie grinned. “Define poisoning.”

I closed my eyes. Tomorrow night was a big deal.

And if I didn’t get my head back in the game, this inn was going to eat me alive.

17

SARAH

Iwoke up the next morning drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around my legs and sticking to me like I’d wrestled them in my sleep and lost. My brain was foggy, but unfortunately, my dream was still crystal clear.

A hundred Dust-guys were chasing me.

Not in a fun, consenting, caveman-sex-roleplay kind of way. Or with me naked and a hundred naked Dust-guys, all of them brandishing hard clubs in my general direction. No. This was a full-blown nightmare situation. They were everywhere—circling me, advancing slowly, all of them wearing the same calm, terrifying expression.

And chanting.

“You’re dirty,” they kept saying. “Let me clean you up.”

Hell no.

Even my dream-self, who is historically terrible at decision-making, knew that was not normal. Or sexy. Or safe. That was the kind of sentence you heard right before the wacko serial killer chopped you up in neat little pieces.

So I ran.

In the dream, anyway—full sprint, arms pumping, hair flying, probably screaming. When I finally jolted awake, my heart racing and lungs burning, I realized I must’ve been doing some light cardio in real life too, because my legs felt like I’d trained for a marathon in my sleep.

Fantastic.

I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling and trying to slow my breathing. “Get it together. You kissed one man. One.” And that kiss, let’s be honest, had been panty-melting good and then some.

My subconscious had clearly decided that was too much excitement for a single human body and responded by staging a horror film.

It was the morning of the Pearls & Pints Bachelor Weekend, and unfortunately, I could not spend it lying in bed replaying how hot that kiss had been.

Which was really a shame. Because it really had been.

So I rolled out of bed, stretched like I was preparing for battle, and braced myself for what was shaping up to be a very long day.

And it was.

By midmorning, I’d officially become the inn’s messenger boy, girl, woman, errand goblin, whatever title felt most accurate. If the inn didn’t already have something required for the cocktail party, I had to go get it. Which meant baguettes. And more baguettes. Oysters. Nuts. Olives. Five additional cheese trays because apparently cheese evaporates when left unattended.

Then I had to rush back out for toilet paper, candles, and table linens. And then, because why the hell not, I drove a full hour out of Maplewood Falls to the next town over to hunt down pearl accents. Faux pearls, to be exact. Bowls of them. Strands to drape over tables. Pearl madness.

After that, it was back to our local florist for centerpieces. And finally, most importantly, glassware. Because nothing says “classy cocktail hour” like not handing guests their drinks in mason jars.

The flowers alone would’ve financially ruined me, but Helen had waved me off.

“The town’s picking up the bill,” she’d said, adjusting her red glasses and shooing me away like an incompetent intern. “Go. And hurry. I need the table linens. I’m not hosting a cocktail party using those.”

Those were Edna’s table linens. Pink. With orange flowers. They weren’t ugly, just aggressively dated. Orange was big in the seventies. Today… not so much.

And since I planned on keeping the inn, that meant changes. Fewer florals. Less pink. More farmhouse-chic—earthy, neutral, a vibe that said welcoming instead of grandma refuses to let go of the seventies.

“Don’t just stand there looking like a simpleton,” barked Helen. “Go!”

Did it bother me that she was bossing me around? Yes. Deeply. But I could also tell she was under a lot of pressure, so I bit my tongue, climbed into my ancient Jetta, and went shopping like my life depended on it.