Page 10 of The Accidental Innkeeper

And yes, I was aware—deeply, vividly aware—that there was a very good chance Dust-guy was watching me walk away. Yup, totally staring at my ass.

I kept my pace steady, not a power strut but not a panic march. Just a woman walking through town with dignity. And sweat. So much sweat.

Ten minutes later, I was still walking.

The town unfolded around me in quiet, postcard-worthy pieces. Little shops had hand-painted signs out front. A bakery smelled like sugar and regret. A bookstore boasted a bell on the door, I absolutely planned to visit once I stopped smelling like a road accident.

People nodded and smiled as I passed, friendly but curious, like they were already clocking me as new. Of course they were.

I finally stopped near a small bench where an elderly man sat feeding something to the birds. He had a cap pulled low over his white hair and a face carved with years and amusement.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Can you tell me where the Hartwell Inn is?”

He looked up slowly, and then his mouth split into a grin. “Oh,” he said. “That one.”

I raised a brow. “Yes?”

He pointed down the road behind him. “Follow Main Road straight to the end. You can’t miss it.”

“Great,” I said, relieved. “Thank you.”

He chuckled—not a polite chuckle but a knowing one.

I frowned. “Why are you laughing?”

“Oh, you’ll see,” he said, still smiling. “Welcome to Maplewood Falls.”

Great. Nothing said, “You’ll be fine,” like a man chuckling at your future.

I continued walking, unease creeping up my spine with every step. The road narrowed, the houses thinning out as the air changed. I could hear the water now—waves, distant but constant.

A few minutes later, I reached the end of the street.

The land dropped away into a cliff, the ocean stretching out beyond it, wide and endless and breathtaking.

And there, perched right on the edge, was the inn.

It was big. Old. Proud.

And pink.

Not soft blush pink. Not tasteful rose.

Pink-pink.

I stopped dead, my bag slipping down my shoulder as I stared.

“What the fuck is this?”

The Hartwell Inn rose against the sky, all turrets and wraparound porches and unapologetic color, like it had decided decades ago that subtlety was for cowards.

The old man’s laughter echoed in my head. You can’t miss it.

No. No, you really couldn’t. Even with my eyes closed, that pink remained burned into my retinas.

My aunt had left me an inn on a cliff.

Hell was real.