Page 113 of The Accidental Innkeeper

Damnit.

I cleared my throat. “He gave me Tom’s number. That’s it. End of story.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

Lola hummed. “You watched him fix your inn like it was a love language.”

I gave a short laugh. “No, it wasn’t. It was maintenance.”

“And you’re currently defensive,” she finished. “Which is always my favorite flavor.”

I exhaled slowly. “Please stop. I’m fine. Just trying to run an inn.”

Lola studied me for a moment and then nodded. “Okay.” She leaned closer. “But for the record? I still think he was about to ask you out.”

But he didn’t.

I glanced around the lobby. The polished floors, the faint scent of lemon cleaner, the quiet hum of air-conditioning finally doing its job. The inn felt… steady. Alive. Functional.

“I don’t need him,” I said, more to myself than to her.

Lola nodded. “Of course you don’t.” She paused. “Doesn’t mean you didn’t want him. I mean… he looks like he’d be fabulous in bed. Attentive. Unselfish. The kind who waits until you’re done.”

I didn’t answer that. I just straightened a stack of brochures and adjusted the guest sign-in book until it was perfectly aligned.

Control. Order. Cool air. I could work with that.

I looked around as the inn settled into its nighttime hush. Most of the guests were out at dinner or tucked away in their rooms, scrolling on their phones or fighting with hotel pillows. It was my favorite time of night, that brief, sacred window when nothing was actively on fire, and I could pretend I had my life together.

Lola pushed off the front desk and straightened herself. “Well, this is a very interesting conversation, but it’s not why I came to fetch you, darling.”

I shook myself out of my thoughts. “Fetch me? For what exactly?” Knowing Lola, there was a nonzero chance this involved a male stripper, a dare, or a man who introduced himself using only one name.

“Come,” she ordered, already grabbing my wrist and steering me down the hall.

I squinted at her suspiciously as my feet moved despite my better judgment. “Should I be concerned?”

“Only if you hate joy,” she said lightly.

That did not help.

Lola pulled me toward the kitchen, and I frowned. “Dottie needs me?” I asked. “Because if this is about the spice incident earlier, I maintain that cumin and cinnamon should never be stored that close together.”

Lola just smiled wider, which was never a comforting sign. She pushed open the kitchen doors, and I stepped inside but then stopped short.

I stared. “What the…”

The kitchen had been transformed.

The long prep tables had been pulled together into one impossibly long dining table, draped with mismatched linens and dotted with candles that flickered warmly against the tiled walls. Real plates. Cloth napkins. Three wine bottles already uncorked and breathing like they’d been waiting for this moment their whole lives.

The air smelled incredible—garlic, butter, something roasted, something simmering that felt like comfort and effort and love all rolled into one.

Becca stood at the far end of the table arranging glasses, her brow furrowed in concentration. She looked impeccable in a light pink pant suit that looked fabulous against her tan skin. Helen was there too, her arms crossed over a red-and-orange floral blouse beneath a black blazer that looked like it used to belong to a man, clearly pretending this was all very practical and not emotional in the slightest.

And Dottie. Well, Dottie was everywhere at once. Moving between pots, humming to herself, wielding a wooden spoon like a wand. She wore a whimsical long kimono with bold yellow and green patterns over a flowy skirt, her toes poking out beneath the hem. A white apron was wrapped around her middle, declaring BUTTER IS A FOOD GROUP.