Page 90 of The Accidental Innkeeper

Maybe this weekend was about money. And guests. And saving the inn.

But somewhere between pearls and pints and one very inconvenient kiss, I’d started to hope there was something more.

And that scared me just a little more than it should have.

18

SARAH

Idragged the chair across the grass with one hand, holding my coffee in the other. My head throbbed like a hundred tiny gremlins were inside my skull, taking turns hammering it with enthusiasm.

That’s what drinking two bottles of wine and shots would do.

Never mix alcohol. That had always been my number one rule—a rule I had respected for years but had absolutely bulldozed the night before.

Somewhere between Becca bringing up my ex and me realizing I was having fun, actual fun, I’d found myself planted at the bar, aggressively waving at poor Jason like he was withholding medicine.

“More wine,” I’d said at least four times.

“Maybe water?” he’d offered once.

“Don’t ruin this for me,” I’d replied.

Regrets were now happening.

“Hurry up, Sarah,” barked Helen. “The auction starts in five minutes.” She stood near the raised platform she’d had built on the lawn, her hands on her hips, surveying everything like a general preparing for battle. Her gray hair was up in a bun, and she was wearing another signature oversized blazer, this one a white one, with jeans that were in style in the eighties.

The platform faced the ocean, a wide stretch of wood nearly twenty feet long, elevated just enough to command attention without blocking the view. White folding chairs had been arranged in neat rows behind it, filling the lawn in a soft arc that funneled everyone’s focus forward. From the stage, the water stretched out endlessly, sunlight glinting off the waves like the whole event had been staged on purpose.

Helen had had a few local guys build it this morning.

And Dust-guy.

He’d showed up about two hours ago with a team, trucks, and all that construction stuff. Even though I looked like I was suffering from some sort of allergic reaction—puffy face, swollen eyes that refused to open all the way—I still tried to make eye contact with him.

A few times. Briefly. Hopeful.

He never looked up.

He was too busy checking bolts, tapping boards, and making sure the thing wouldn’t collapse under the weight of wealthy women bidding aggressively for companionship.

Honestly, probably for the best. I currently looked like a swamp creature who’d crawled out of a marsh and demanded coffee.

Still, I couldn’t get that kiss out of my head or the way he kissed me back, fiercely, like he’d been thinking about it for days, like he wanted it, wanted me. I wouldn’t lie and say it didn’t do wonders for my self-esteem. My inner monologue had upgraded from barely coping to possibly still desirable.

I shook the thought out of my head and glanced around instead, watching Jason haul four white folding chairs at once like it was nothing and set them neatly in the last row. Show-off.

I dragged my chair, the very last one, over and dropped it beside his.

“Afternoon,” he said cheerfully.

“Never speak to me again,” I grumbled.

He grinned. “Rough night?”

“You ever drink enough wine that your soul tries to leave your body?”

“Twice,” he said. “College.”