Page 20 of Once Upon a Fall

“I’m sorry about the mattress. I had plans to replace them all, and then I had to do a bunch of other repairs I didn’t see coming, like the HVAC system needing to be replaced and then the plumbing issues in the Cinderella and Snow White rooms. I had no idea how much it would cost to run an inn.”

“I was teasing,” he says after my speech that was absolutely too much information. “The mattress is pretty terrible, but I actually found a spot in the middle and slept better than I have in a long time last night.”

“Oh,” I say. “You were teasing?”

“You couldn’t tell?”

Couldn’t tell? Is he crazy? I’d sooner tell the Ednas apart. Which is something I actually need to do before tomorrow. Or I’ll just drive to one of their houses and hope for the best.

“You do it so straight-faced,” I say. “Maybe you could lighten your tone when you’re teasing. Or smile or something.”

I won’t admit that I’m actually curious what his full smile looks like. I am really hoping for a dimple.

“I’ll work on it,” he says, his tone dry as always.

“Okay, so I guess you’ll need some supplies,” I say.

He scratches at the short beard along his jaw. “Yes, I’ll need—”

“Spackle, putty knife, primer, and paint,” I cut in.

He blinks twice, his hand pausing on his face. “Right,” he says.

“I’ve been doing this for a while, remember?” I give him a closed-mouth smile. “I have it all downstairs. I can show you where to find it.”

At least this time it’s all in the same spot and not covered with MDF dust. Hopefully.

“Great,” he says.

I lead him through the hallway and then down the stairs and to the door that leads to the kitchen.

Once inside, I’m again seeing the room with fresh eyes, that same twinge of vulnerability moving through me as I bring Dean into the space I hadn’t planned for guests to see, since this establishment is now only the “bed” part of B&B.

At least it’s clean. But that’s only because I don’t really use it like I should.

The kitchen is what I believe the kids these days are calling “farmhouse” style, with cream cabinets and open shelving. There’s a large sink and copper pans hanging above the oven/stove combo. In the center is a large island with high-back chairs on one side, where Jeanie—the former owner—used to bake up a storm for guests. I used to help her here and there but never enough to actually learn anything. Which is kind of a bummer. She was well known for her cinnamon rolls.

“So, this is the kitchen where you don’t make breakfast,” Dean says.

My jaw falls. He’s made a joke and insulted me in the same sentence. How delightfully confusing.

“I make some lovely microwave meals in this kitchen, I’ll have you know,” I say.

“Such wasted space.” He knocks twice on the worktable.

“You say wasted, I say underutilized.”

He pinches his brow. No upturn of the lips for that one.

“Come on.” I take him to the back of the kitchen, past the ovens and the pantry and to a large storage closet.

Jeanie used it to store baking supplies, and I’m currently using it to store renovation supplies. We are not the same.

It’s not all that organized, but I quickly locate the things he needs, including the Ballet Slipper Pink paint for the walls.

“Here you go,” I say after finding an empty box to hold everything and handing it to him.

“Thanks,” he says.