Page 31 of The Accidental Innkeeper

I stared at the dirt. “I’m not. Drop it. I’ve got my hands full with this flip. I don’t have time to take on any new projects. Find someone else.” I shut down the image of New York balancing on a ladder, wobbling and swearing with one hand on a light fixture she had no business touching. Not my problem.

“Alex,” came Dottie’s voice, suddenly quieter, still Dottie but with that annoying note of sincerity she used when she wanted to steamroll you with kindness. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. I’m afraid she’s going to get hurt.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“It is if the boiler decides to scream again,” added Dottie. “And it will. Also, the front door sticks. The back stairs wobble. Her bedroom door fell off its hinges. I think there may be some rot there. She can’t even close her bedroom door, Alex. And she has bookings calling the front desk phone like it’s on sale.”

My shoulders tightened. “Bookings?”

“Oh, yes,” said Dottie, delighted again. “People are calling. Lola handed her a check. It’s happening.”

Lola Sinclair solved most problems with money and confidence, usually in that order. She’d probably thrown money at the problem and called it a solution.

“And what exactly do you want me to do?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

Dottie’s voice turned crisp. Business Dottie. Dangerous Dottie. “I want you to come look. Make a list. Tell Sarah what needs fixing now and what can wait. She’s talking about a soft open, and I’m not serving breakfast to people in a building that might try to eat them.”

“She wants to open?” I asked, and I hated how that sounded. Way too interested.

Dottie ignored my tone completely. “Of course she does. She’s stubborn. Like Edna, but with better hair and much more beautiful.”

I dragged a hand over my face. “Dottie…”

“She needs a plan,” Dottie went on, steamrolling. “And she needs it from someone who knows old houses. Who knows this house. Edna trusted you.”

Edna didn’t trust anyone. But she had… tolerated me. Which, coming from Edna, was basically a love letter.

I exhaled through my nose. “You realize you’re basically ordering me to come.”

Dottie laughed. “Yes. Be a good boy.”

“That’s not polite.”

Dottie made a dismissive noise. “I’m a breakfast cook. I’m not supposed to be polite. I cook and make people eat. I’m helpful.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Don’t start with me,” she said. “Come by. Ten minutes. You can go back to your precious schedule after. I’ll even give you coffee.”

“I don’t need—”

“And eggs benedict,” added Dottie. “Your favorite.”

Damn that woman. Dottie knew exactly what she was doing. “You’re bribing me with eggs,” I said flatly.

“It’s working. Isn’t it? Come on. How long has it been since you’ve had my famous eggs benedict?”

More than six months. I closed my eyes again because this was ridiculous. I didn’t have time. I didn’t have room in my day for a pink inn and a woman from New York who talked like she was always one second away from a breakdown or a joke.

Yet.

Dottie was right about one thing. The inn was a monster. If New York was going to try and wrestle it into submission, she’d need a plan, a real plan. And the help of someone who knew what they were doing and not trying to screw her out of money. If she hired some local guy, and I knew them all, one look at the desperation on her face and they’d be seeing dollar signs. She’d be drowning in debt by the time they were done with her.

I could make her a list. Give her priorities. Keep it professional. Just business. All in under ten minutes.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll swing by.”

Dottie’s victory was immediate. “Knew it! You’re a good man, Alex.”