Page 8 of Once Upon a Fall

“As part of your stay, I’ll make sure your room is tidy daily,” she says, as if that’s a benefit of staying here and not something most hotels offer, especially the ones I’m accustomed to.

“Thanks,” I say, hoping I was able to keep most of the sarcasm out of my tone.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she says, walking toward the door. “Let me know if you need anything. I’m just a holler away.” She shuts the door behind her, and I hear rapid footsteps as she makes her getaway.

I close my eyes, wondering how I went from the W in Boston last night to this: a fairy-tale room covered in so many pink ruffles that I’m wondering if it might be too much for even a five-year-old.

I walk over to the edge of the bed and sit on it. Then I lie back and notice how the mattress shifts me toward the middle.

Muttering a string of curse words that could actually bring my grandma back from the dead (she hated cussing of any kind), I wonder if I should just leave now.

No, I’ll stay for the night, and then tomorrow I’ll check out and find myself a better place to stay for the month.

I can survive one night in this pink frilly room with the terrible bed. I’ve survived worse.

Rosie

The princess, it seems, was not all that adept at running a castle.

The next morning I’m humming to myself—a princess song, because why not—as I unwrap the brass call bell I bought for the front desk and try to find the perfect spot for it. I settle for the middle toward the edge.

What I really should be doing is working on the guest rooms. Oh, and making some headway on the fall festival that I’ve barely done anything for. It’s a well-oiled machine; we’ve been doing it for years. At least that’s what Pam Vasser—the pastor’s wife, and the person who usually heads up the festival—told me when she asked me if I could run it this year.

So far it doesn’t feel all that well-oiled. I’ve got a stack of random papers on the desk in my room with things I need to do for it and a text messaging app and email inbox full of questions and requests I haven’t had a chance to go through.

Pam texted this morning asking if the mayor had confirmed the community breakfast that kicks everything off. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I haven’t even contacted him yet.

Right now, though, I’m feeling sort of frozen, last night’s events running through my mind.

Yesterday was . . . not perfect. I’d wanted to be downstairs when my very first guest arrived, but I was adding some last-minute touches to the room—dropping a hammer that narrowly missed my toes and trying to remember something I needed for the room. Something I still can’t recall. I really hope it wasn’t necessary.

And then there was him. Dean. My guest. Let’s just say that he’s . . . not ugly. In fact, he could possibly be the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, with his rugged looks—those brown eyes, that dark, thick hair, and short-trimmed beard. Wearing those jeans and that gray T-shirt. I’d love to say that the scowl on his face ruined his vibe, but it only added to the appeal. And that’s saying something because I’ve never been a fan of brooding men.

It’s for the best, because if he smiled? I’m pretty sure I might have done something embarrassing—like giggling like a teenager, or possibly even swooning. I have no idea if he has a good smile; it’s just a hypothesis. But I’m pretty spot on about that kind of thing. I know when there’s good-smile-potential.

What if he has a dimple? That would be very bad for me. I’m a sucker for a dimple. I’d better pray he just keeps the scowl on his face.

I’m telling myself it’s a win that I noticed his rugged good looks. After my very terrible breakup two years ago with Jackson, I haven’t really been paying attention to or even noticing anyone from the opposite sex. I was starting to wonder if I was broken.

Apparently not.

One thing’s for sure: Dominic can never see him. Dean is exactly what my twin was worried about. It would have helped if my guest for the next month was actually a weirdo, but I only got grumpy vibes from him, and as a fellow grump, Dom will take one look and decide they’re basically the same person. And then he’ll probably move in to protect me from a guy like him.

Yikes.

Of course, then I could put him to work . . . no. I lived with Dom for nineteen years of my life, and that was long enough. He’ll be here this morning to help me with the Cinderella room, and I’ll have to run defense to make sure he never sees my guest.

My phone rings and vibrates from the back pocket of my favorite dark green corduroy overalls, and I see that it’s one of the Ednas calling.

“Hello,” I say after pressing answer, putting the phone on speaker and setting it on the desk while I move the bell two inches to the right because it’s still not in the perfect spot.

“Hello, Rosie,” one of the Ednas says. There are two of them. It could be Gilbert or Bloomberg. I’ve never put their last names in my phone, and I keep forgetting to ask.

They are basically the same person, known around town as the duo that knows anything happening around here. The Ednas are both in their eighties and know everything about everyone in Autumn Ridge, probably because they’ve lived in this town longer than most everyone.

“Hello, Edna, how are you?”

“Doing well, dear. I just wanted to make sure that you would still be able to take Edna and me to the game on Friday?”