Page 112 of The Accidental Innkeeper

“Thanks, Tom,” I said, shaking his hand and immediately registering the hard calluses, the kind you only get from decades of actual work. You didn’t get these by typing. You got them from real, repetitive, unglamorous labor. “Call you if anything else decides to die on me.”

Tom—a fifty-something, balding man who was so tall I had to lean back slightly just to maintain eye contact—smiled easily. He was the contractor Dust-guy had given me the number for. The replacement. The very official, very not-him solution.

“No problem,” he said, flipping his pad shut before tearing off the bill. “Your HVAC unit’s good now. Guests will have cool air again.”

I took the bill and did my very best not to visibly flinch at the number of zeros. I had learned, quickly, that reacting emotionally to invoices only encouraged them. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate it,” I said because nothing says hospitality like not melting in your sleep.

I watched him walk out the front doors, his heavy steps echoing across the lobby, and felt something loosen and tighten at the same time. Dust-guy trusted him. That mattered. It meant something, which was ridiculous because Dust-guy wasn’t a character reference anymore. He was just… a man who had kissed me once and then vanished like a seasonal ghost.

Still, I believed Tom wouldn’t rip me off. Strangely enough, I believed that immediately. This bill was real. Honest. Painful, yes, but earned. Not like the invisible bills Dust-guy had been quietly racking up while fixing things around the inn without telling me. Those were the worst kind. The kind you only realize exist once they’re gone.

It had been a week since I’d seen him. The last time had been the Pearls & Pints Bachelor Weekend’s auction day, which felt both like yesterday and like something that had happened in a different lifetime.

Had I thought about him? Yes.

Had I obsessed about him? No.

Total lie. But a polite one.

Mostly, I’d focused on the inn. On bookings and repairs and invoices and things that needed doing now, not later. Control. Spreadsheets. Functioning. All the things that didn’t require me to think about strong hands or quiet looks or the way my body had betrayed me so spectacularly.

I was fine.

“He’s not as handsome as Alex, that’s for sure,” said Lola, appearing at the front desk like she’d been summoned by unresolved sexual tension. She wore tight cropped black pants and a gold tank, perfectly dressed for an evening that involved wine and a man. She leaned against the counter and fanned herself dramatically. “But you know what they say about average-looking men?”

I didn’t look at her. “Why do I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

“They make up for it in the bedroom.”

Yup. Knew that was coming.

“Tom’s great,” I said firmly. “He fixed the HVAC unit.”

“Thank god.” Lola sighed, pushing herself upright. “I cannot stand this humidity. It makes my skin shine too much. Shining is for cheekbones, not foreheads.”

I snorted despite myself. “Your forehead is flawless.”

“Correct,” she said and flashed me a grin. “But still. Climate control is essential.” She glanced toward the door Tom had exited through and then back at me, her eyes sharp but not unkind. “So. The new guy.”

“He’s not new,” I said automatically.

Lola arched an eyebrow. “He is to your emotional ecosystem.”

I sighed. “He’s just… the contractor.”

“Mmm,” said Lola, unconvinced. “And how does the contractor compare?”

“To what?”

“To the previous contractor,” she said lightly. “The one with the shoulders. And an ass you could serve dinner on.”

I turned my attention to a stack of mail that absolutely did not need my attention. “He fixed the HVAC. That’s all I need right now.”

“That was not the question.”

“I am not discussing him,” I replied.

Lola smiled. “You just did.”