Page 25 of The Accidental Innkeeper

Within a few blessed minutes, I was holding a steaming mug of hot coffee in both hands, breathing in the smell like it was oxygen.

I took the first sip—heaven, pure, uncut salvation.

“Okay,” I said to the empty kitchen. “I can survive anything now.” Which, in hindsight, was wildly optimistic.

I took another gulp of delicious coffee.

“Not on an empty stomach you can’t,” said a voice.

“—hkffp!” Coffee shot out of my mouth, half spraying the counter and half dribbling down my chin. I coughed, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and spun around.

“Excuse me?” I croaked. “Who are you? And what the hell are you doing here?”

The voice belonged to a woman in her fifties with dirty-blonde hair piled into a messy bun and skewered in place by what looked suspiciously like two chopsticks. Bare feet peeked from under a long, flowing skirt, a denim blouse had been rolled at the elbows, and a scarf was wrapped loosely around her neck, like it had lived several lives. She radiated bohemian confidence, the kind that said she trusted herbs more than laws.

She wrestled two overstuffed cloth bags onto the island and let them drop with a heavy thud, pausing to catch her breath. “Well,” she said, her cheeks flushed like she’d jogged here carrying livestock, “I’m Dottie. The breakfast cook. Or I was, for fifteen years, until your aunt…” She sliced a finger across her throat in a brisk, efficient gesture. “So here I am.”

I blinked. Once. Twice. “I’m pretty sure the front door was locked,” I said slowly.

Dottie grinned, completely unbothered. “I have a key, silly. I came as soon as I heard you were here.” She waved a hand like this explained everything. “You’ll need a cook. One with experience. Me.”

My brain stalled. “Wait. Wait. Wait.” I held up a hand. “I haven’t even decided if I’m keeping the inn.” Who the hell was this person?

“Of course you are,” said Dottie immediately, already unloading the bags like she was setting up for a cooking show.

Eggs. Cheese. Tomatoes. Lettuce. Onions. Mushrooms. Red and green peppers. Fresh herbs I didn’t recognize and frankly didn’t trust. She reached for a bowl.

“My aunt might’ve left me the inn,” I said, louder now, “but that doesn’t mean I’m opening it.” I really hadn’t made up my mind yet. I needed more time to think. And all this was happening way too fast.

Dottie snorted, waving a hand at me. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly. I’m being realistic.”

I watched as Dottie yanked out a rolled-up square of fabric, snapped it open, and tied a white apron around her waist. Bold black letters across the front read: THIS MIGHT BE POISON.

Okay then.

Dottie cracked an egg one-handed into the bowl, the shell landing neatly in the trash. “Edna left you the inn because she knew you’d keep it.”

“That is… wildly inaccurate,” I said. “She left it to test me. Or punish me. Or both.” She wanted or expected me to fail, that was for sure.

Dottie whisked like she was auditioning. “Edna didn’t give things away. She planted them.”

I had no idea if that was true. I barely knew the woman. “I don’t even know how to run an inn,” I said. “I don’t know anything about bookings or guests or…”

Dottie turned on the stove, humming. She was freaking humming.

“Breakfasts,” I continued, “or health codes or…”

She poured the eggs into a pan.

“Insurance or boilers or…”

Butter hit the skillet and sizzled.

My stomach betrayed me with a loud, traitorous growl.

Dottie smiled without looking at me. “You smell that?” she asked.