Page 1 of The Accidental Innkeeper

1

SARAH

“What’d you expect? You got fat.”

Right. Because nothing says “I love you” like “You got fat.” Not exactly the phrase I pictured coming from my fiancé’s mouth this morning. “You’re gorgeous”? Nope. “Want pancakes”? Still no. Just straight to body-shaming before coffee. Impressive, really.

Instead, what I got was a full, naked, 360-degree view of Simon and our twenty-something neighbor from across the hall, the one whose name I could never remember because I’d been too busy pretending she and her perfect breasts didn’t exist.

For a solid five seconds, I just stood there, trying to process the scene in front of me. The brunette had a body sculpted by either the gods or a relentless Pilates instructor—firm everything, perky everywhere, the kind of boobs that laugh in the face of gravity. Don’t worry, honey. Gravity always wins.

Simon froze mid-motion, like a deer caught in the world’s worst Lifetime special. She shrieked, he stuttered, and I… blinked. Once. Twice. Then mentally added “eye bleach” to my next grocery list.

Crying would’ve been cliché. Screaming and throwing something would’ve been giving him too much credit. And honestly? Arguing with a man who couldn’t tell the difference between love and a lap dance felt beneath me.

I’ll admit, it hurt. The whole “you got fat” speech sucked, but the betrayal? That was the cherry on top of my emotional dumpster fire.

Sure, I’d noticed Simon acting off lately. Late nights, mysterious “work dinners,” suddenly using cologne that cost more than our rent. And yep. He’d been sleeping with both of us. Classy bastard. Simultaneous romance multitasking, how efficient. The thought made my stomach twist. The man didn’t even have the decency to end things before auditioning for the neighborhood adult film club.

Still, I refused to drown in self-pity over a man who clearly thought monogamy was a suggestion, not a promise. I deserved better.

So I did what any self-respecting thirty-two-year-old woman on the edge of a nervous breakdown would do. I packed up my pride, my laptop, and my dignity with a week’s worth of clothes and drove straight out of New York.

After driving for about two hours north, half fueled by coffee, half by pure rage, I’d already imagined Simon’s head exploding in at least four different cinematic ways. My personal favorite involved a frying pan as my phone started to buzz.

My ancient 2015 Volkswagen Jetta didn’t exactly come with hands-free luxury, unless you counted the duct-taped phone holder clinging for dear life to the air vent. I jabbed the screen with one finger, nearly swerving into the next lane.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I said to the speaker. “I’m working on it.”

“Working on it?” said an annoyed voice through the line. “Sarah, darling, you’ve been working on it for over a year. We’re not building the pyramids. We’re writing romantic fiction.”

Margarette Tardif—my editor and personal stress fairy. The woman had the compassion of a loan shark and the patience of a toddler on espresso.

“I just need a little more time,” I said, which was true. “Four months. Maybe five.”

“You have four,” she snapped. “If your book isn’t on my desk by then, Orson & Fig Publishing will regretfully release you from your contract. And regretfully is really code for we’ll never answer your emails again.”

“Margarette, I’m going through a breakup,” I said. “It’s been a rough day. Give me a little break.”

“You go through breakups like I go through mascara. Write through it. Channel the pain. Make him a villain with erectile dysfunction. You’re welcome.”

I sighed. “You’re a ray of sunshine.”

“That’s why I’m head of the romance division, darling. I ruin lives so others can find love.”

“Bye, Margarette.” I swiped the phone screen with my finger.

I stared at the phone and then at the road ahead, which looked about as inviting as my future. Great. Four months to finish a book I hated, a fiancé I wanted to strangle, and an emotional support Jetta that rattled every time I hit sixty.

Awesome.

I cut a glance at the manila envelope sitting on the passenger seat. Langley & Pierce, Attorneys at Law, the kind of firm name that screamed old money and passive-aggressive Christmas cards. It had arrived yesterday by registered mail, which usually meant jury duty, parking tickets, or impending doom. I hadn’t told Simon about it, mostly because I thought it was too ridiculous to be real.

But there you have it.

Turns out my great-aunt Edna left me her inn in Maplewood Falls.

I know. Shocking twist. Somewhere, the Hallmark Channel just got an erection.