Page 40 of The Accidental Innkeeper

Fuck.

I didn’t want to go there. This wasn’t the time. I didn’t have time for this.

“It’s the third floor,” she said. “The owner’s suite.”

I nodded. “Edna’s old room. I know.”

That surprised her. I saw it flicker across her face before she covered it.

I turned and kept going.

The third floor creaked more, but it was the honest creaking of old wood, not rot. The smell changed as I climbed, dust, lemon cleaner, something floral underneath. New York wasn’t just dumping money into this place. She was trying.

I reached the landing and stopped.

The door leaned against the wall like it had given up on life. One hinge was bent, the other stripped clean out of the frame. Amateur repair attempt at some point, wrong screws, wrong angle, impatience. I crouched and ran my fingers along the wood.

Fixable.

Behind me, New York hovered close enough that I could feel heat. And I felt her stiffen, like she was bracing for bad news.

“This was already loose,” I said. “Didn’t happen overnight.”

“I didn’t slam it,” she said immediately.

I glanced back, one eyebrow up.

“I didn’t,” she insisted. “I opened it and it just… died.”

“Died?”

She frowned at me. “You know what I mean,” she said, gesturing to the door with her hands. “It just fell like that.”

I huffed a breath. “You’re lucky it didn’t fall on you.” I pushed the door upright, testing the frame. It was warped slightly, but the studs were straight. Someone had overpainted without sanding. Typical.

“You’re going to need longer screws,” I told her. “And a shim.”

“I have a toolbox,” she said quickly. “Somewhere. Well, not mine. Edna’s probably or whoever used to take care of this place. I saw it when I was going through all the closets last night.”

I straightened and looked at her then. Really looked. She was still flushed, her hair pulled back like she hadn’t planned on sweating today. There was a smear of something on her cheek, ink, dust, maybe both. She stood straight, her forearms tense and hands already half-curled like she was ready to grab whatever I needed. She looked like she wanted to work.

“Good,” I said. “Bring it.” I had my own toolbox in my SUV, but I figured it would go faster if she brought hers, and I wasn’t planning on staying long.

She blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She hesitated and then nodded before turning and moving fast with purpose.

I watched her go before I could stop myself. She moved like someone who refused to quit, like she was running on stubbornness, caffeine, and the absolute certainty that failure wasn’t an option, even if she didn’t know how she’d win yet.

I’d seen that look before on job sites and on people who stayed when things got hard. I respected that.

She came back a minute later, toolbox clanking against her leg and breathing a little heavier but her eyes sharp. “Tell me what to do,” she said.

I was suddenly aware of how close we were in the narrow hall—old wood, low ceiling, no space to step back without making it obvious.

“Hold the door steady,” I said. “It’s pretty heavy.”