Page 111 of The Accidental Innkeeper

I stared out at the water again and tried to let the ocean scrub my thoughts clean, like a mental car wash. But instead I kept circling back to the same conclusion.

I misread everything.

Every look, every pause, every moment when I’d thought he was about to say something. All of it. It had been me, my wishful thinking, my stupid, hopeful brain that apparently wanted to make this place a romantic movie where the grumpy hot contractor fell for the frazzled innkeeper and everything turned into cupcakes and Christmas lights.

Except this wasn’t a movie. This was my life. And in my life, I had an inn that was hanging on by a thread and a bank that did not accept romantic subplots as collateral.

Control felt safer than hope. That was the truth of it. Hope made you reckless. Hope made you raise your paddle at an auction like you’d lost your mind. Hope made you look at a man and think, maybe.

Control made spreadsheets. Control made lists. Control made phone calls and budgets and plans.

So I grabbed on to control with both hands.

Fine. If Dust-guy wasn’t part of this, if he didn’t feel what I’d thought he felt, I didn’t need him. I didn’t need his steady presence or his quiet help or the way he made my stomach do stupid things just by walking into a room.

I needed to save the inn. Me.

That’s it.

That was my job, my mission, my only actual priority.

I could do this without him. I didn’t need him. Because depending on someone felt like walking out onto a dock during a storm and convincing yourself it was solid ground.

I’d done that before—not with Dust-guy but with other people, other situations. I’d learned the hard way that you don’t build your stability on something that can just… leave.

I exhaled slowly, like I was blowing out a candle. like I was extinguishing the last little flicker of hope that had gotten too bright.

Okay. Then. It was decided. I was officially done with Dust-guy.

I would not think about his hands, or his mouth, or the way he’d looked at me like he’d seen through all my noise. I would not imagine what it would’ve been like if he’d stayed. If he’d called me Sarah. If he’d asked me out like Becca had thought he was going to.

None of it mattered.

I didn’t need him.

I had contractor names. I had a growing booking schedule. I had a pink inn that, against all odds, was starting to feel like mine.

I turned and looked back at the pink monstrosity. Weird. The color didn’t even bother me anymore. I couldn’t even remember when I thought about how horrid the pink was.

Holy crap. The pink was starting to grow on me.

Which was either a sign of personal growth… or a sign that I’d been inhaling too many cleaning products.

Still, I stared at it a second longer. The sea breeze tugged at my hair. The inn sat there, loud and ridiculous and stubbornly alive, and something in my chest steadied.

Mine. It was mine.

Okay, then. If I could learn to love that shade of pink, I could learn to live without Dust-guy.

And that was definitely the truth. Totally.

Not self-protection at all.

Nope.

23

SARAH