Page 109 of The Accidental Innkeeper

Becca nudged my arm gently. “Hey. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not like you were dating. Or exclusive. Or even technically flirting, if we’re being strict about definitions.”

“I know,” I said quickly. “That’s what I keep telling myself. I’m just… shocked. Hadn’t seen that coming. That’s all.”

She studied my face. “You sure?”

I nodded, even though it took effort. “I’ll be fine. Really. I’ve bounced back from worse. This just… caught me off guard.”

Becca smiled softly. “Okay. But if you decide to dramatically spiral later, I’m available. I also have lots of wine.”

I glanced at her. “You’re a good cousin.”

“I know,” she said. Her face screwed up. “Hey. Why did Alex call you New York?”

Ah. There it was.

“Because when we first met, he saw my New York plates. And it’s been New York since.”

“Really?” Becca frowned. “And he’s never called you by your name? Never Sarah?”

I thought about it, and the answer landed with a dull, unpleasant thud. “No. Never.”

Weird didn’t even begin to cover it. It felt like another tiny crack in the story I’d built in my head, the one where he saw me, really saw me, and not just some idea of me attached to a place.

“Huh,” said Becca, shaking her head. “Well, I should get going. I need to turn on all the lights, open a few windows, let some air in so the house doesn’t feel stuffy. See you later. Call me if you just want to shoot the shit.”

I laughed, but it came out thinner than I meant it to. “Okay. I will.”

I watched her walk away, coffee cooling in my hands as the wind tugged at my hair like it was trying to get my attention.

New York.

Not Sarah. Not the woman who owned the inn. Not the person who’d spent days watching him fix things and reading meaning into every quiet look. Just a nickname. A placeholder. A convenient label he’d never bothered to replace.

God, I’d been a fool.

Not for liking him, that part I could forgive. But for thinking I’d been special. For believing the story I’d stitched together out of glances and gestures and my own wishful thinking.

I stared out at the water and took a long sip of coffee, enjoying the sweet bitterness.

Next time, I told myself, maybe try using your brain instead of your imagination.

Just a thought.

I sighed and looked out into the ocean. I don’t know what it was about the sound of waves crashing below, the smell, the breeze hitting my hot face, but it… calmed me. Really did. The water didn’t care that I’d just publicly embarrassed myself. It didn’t care that I’d spent the last twenty-four hours swinging wildly between “I am a mature adult” and “I am one awkward comment away from running into the woods to live with squirrels.”

The ocean just did what it did—crash, pull back, and crash again—like it was demonstrating how to have a reaction without turning it into a whole personality.

If I was still in New York, I’d be climbing up walls or binge eating the entire contents of the fridge, and then I’d be drinking more wine. Yeah, not smart. I’d be doing that thing where I convinced myself I was fine while also conducting a full forensic analysis of the last conversation I’d had with a man, complete with charts, timelines, and an emotional autopsy.

And, okay, maybe I was still doing that. Just with better scenery.

Because even while the waves did their soothing thing, my brain kept replaying it all like it was determined to find the exact moment when everything went wrong. Not because I wanted to torture myself—no, no, this was totally a healthy mental exercise. I was learning. Growing. Becoming wiser. Or whatever.

It started with the way he’d looked at me. Not flirty, not smarmy. Just… focused. Like he saw details. Like he didn’t miss things. Which, apparently, was hilarious, because I had missed something pretty major: the part where he could kiss me like that, leave me with my panties on fire, and then walk away like it meant nothing.

I replayed the conversation again. The ones before the kiss. The ones after. The way he’d stood so close sometimes, his shoulder nearly brushing mine when he leaned to look at something I’d pointed out. The way his voice changed when he said certain things, lower and rougher, like he didn’t use it often but knew exactly how to. The way he’d fixed things around the inn like it was second nature, like he couldn’t help himself.

The radiator. The crown molding. The wiring. Some pipes. The little repairs he thought I didn’t notice.