Page 17 of The Accidental Innkeeper

She hit me with her cane.

“Mind your own damn business,” she’d yelled, a cigarette dangling from her mouth like punctuation.

I’d laughed. I could still smell the smoke on her breath when I thought about it. She was mean. Sharp. A straight arrow who didn’t care if you liked her. She respected work, effort, and people who followed through.

Which was why the niece confused the hell out of me.

New York was… different.

She talked too fast, thought even faster, and looked like she’d been dropped into this town by mistake. Covered in dust and attitude she hauled around baggage, pretending it didn’t weigh anything.

She was also standing alone in a place that would eat her alive if she let it.

I slowed as I passed the inn. I felt like a fucking creeper, spying on her like that. I didn’t stop, just wanted to confirm the lights were on. And they were.

A white BMW SUV was parked out front. I recognized it immediately. Becca Hartwell, local realtor. I’d bought a couple of properties through her over the years. Fair deals. No bullshit. We weren’t friends, but we were on nodding terms. The kind you get in small towns when you’ve crossed paths often enough to trust the paperwork.

So New York wasn’t completely alone. Good. I told myself that was all I needed—a check, nothing more.

Then I kept driving.

She wasn’t my problem.

I didn’t get involved with odd women carrying emotional suitcases bigger than their actual ones. I flipped houses. I fixed things. I left. That was the rule.

Yet…

I drove on, my jaw tight, annoyed as hell that a pink inn and a woman from New York had managed to get under my skin in under twenty-four hours.

Damnit. This was exactly why I didn’t do distractions. And exactly why I had a feeling this one wasn’t going to listen.

Main Road stretched ahead, darkening as the town thinned out. Streetlights gave way to long patches of shadow. The ocean was off to my right somewhere. I couldn’t see it, but I could smell it—salt, kelp, and that damp, old breath the coast carried like it owned you.

I rolled my shoulders and tried to shake her out of my head.

Didn’t work.

It wasn’t just the looks, though I noticed those: blue eyes, dark hair, thick lips, great ass. It was the way she moved, like the world owed her a fight. Like she’d take a hit, laugh it off, and refuse to ask for help no matter how bad it got.

I’d seen that before. It usually ended badly.

I kept my hands steady on the wheel and did what I always did when something threatened to turn into a problem.

I put it in a box. New York: boxed. Pink inn: boxed. The urge to turn around and check again: boxed.

I drove past the turn for my place and didn’t even notice until I saw the sign in my headlights.

“Shit.” I corrected course at the next intersection, taking the loop that would land me back where I belonged.

The thing about routines was, they worked. Until they didn’t.

I’d built my life around rules that kept me sane and kept my business clean. Rules made sure I didn’t end up tangled in someone else’s mess, dragging it behind me like a suitcase with busted wheels.

Rules.

Rule one: Don’t get attached to properties.

I didn’t buy homes because they were “charming.” I bought them because the math made sense. Because the bones were good. Because I could take something neglected and make it valuable again. Then I sold it. That was the whole point. You didn’t fall in love with drywall.