Page 110 of The Accidental Innkeeper

I noticed everything. Yet somehow I’d still managed to be… wrong.

Maybe that’s what stung. Not that he’d left. Not that he hadn’t stayed to chat or smile or do whatever men do when they actually like you. But that I’d believed it.

I’d believed my own interpretation of him. I’d believed the kiss meant something beyond a kiss. I’d believed that quiet competence plus eye contact equaled feelings.

Which was, in hindsight, a ridiculous math equation. The kind you scribble on a napkin at two a.m. and think is brilliant until you see it in daylight and realize you’ve basically written: handsome + helpful = soulmate.

Good job, Sarah.

My gaze drifted down to the garbage bag at my feet, like it might offer emotional guidance. It did not. It just sat there, half full, filled with paper plates and napkins and plastic cups that had lived their best lives for approximately twelve minutes.

It felt fitting.

I inhaled and let the salty air fill my lungs. The ocean breeze cooled the heat in my cheeks. I could still feel it there, that flush, that lingering humiliation. Like my body hadn’t gotten the memo that we were trying to move past this.

Fine. Body, do what you want. I’m busy.

But my brain kept snagging on one stupid, tiny detail. Something so small I hadn’t even noticed it when it happened, but now it was stuck in my head like a song lyric you can’t unhear.

The contractor name. The one he’d given me, like it was nothing, like it wasn’t him handing me an exit route that didn’t require him.

I could hear his voice in my head, calm and certain, giving me the name like it was a tool. Like it was a solution. Like he’d already decided he wouldn’t be around, so here, take this. Use it. Don’t need me.

That name mattered. It shouldn’t have, but it did. Because it wasn’t just a name. It was proof that I’d never been his plan.

I’d been a detour.

I rolled my eyes at myself. God, listen to me. I was so dramatic. I should come with a warning label.

Caution: woman prone to emotional storytelling. Keep away from sharp objects and attractive men.

I shook my head and took another sip of coffee, even though it was getting cold. The bitterness helped. It felt appropriate.

Okay. Let’s be honest. The kiss.

The kiss was the problem.

Because I could reframe everything else if I wanted to. I could tell myself he was just being nice. That he was just doing his job. That he was the kind of man who couldn’t stand to see something broken and not fix it. That he helped because he’s a decent person and not because he cared about me.

I could do that. I could make it make sense.

But the kiss? The kiss didn’t fit into my new narrative where I’d imagined everything. The kiss had felt real. It hadn’t felt like a mistake. It hadn’t felt casual. It had felt like a moment where the world narrowed down to one thing and my brain finally shut up for once.

Which was rude, honestly. Because now my brain was back, and it was petty.

So I forced the reframing. I forced the story to be something I could live with.

It was a mistake, a lapse in judgment, a weird, romantic glitch. That kind of thing happened when you were tired and overwhelmed and standing too close to someone who smelled like sawdust and soap and… competence. That kind of thing happened when your life was already in chaos and you mistook adrenaline for connection.

Yes. That sounded plausible. That sounded like something I could tell myself without laughing.

I nodded like I’d just convinced a jury.

The kiss was a mistake.

Even though it wasn’t.

Even though my body had known it wasn’t the second it happened.