Page 43 of The Accidental Innkeeper

She rubbed her forehead. “Got it. Fix boiler before it gets cold.”

There it was again. That refusal to quit. That look like she’d already decided failure wasn’t an option, even if it killed her.

I hated it. I hated that I respected it.

“I can give you a list,” I said, handing her back the toolbox. “Roofers. People who won’t rip you off. Guys I use for my flips.”

She hesitated but then nodded. “I’d appreciate that.”

I turned to leave.

But didn’t.

Because just then, footsteps pounded up the stairs, followed by Dottie’s voice carrying like a siren.

“Alex? You up there?” She appeared on the landing, took one look at the fixed door, and then grinned. “Well I’ll be damned. Look at you two. Domestic already.”

New York groaned. “Dottie.”

“What?” said Dottie cheerfully. “I call it like I see it.”

I stepped back automatically, putting space where there hadn’t been any seconds ago. “Door’s fixed,” I said. “I was just leaving.”

“Sure you were,” said Dottie, not buying it for a second. “Since you’re here, though…”

“No,” I said immediately.

She ignored me. “The boiler’s making that noise again. The one that sounds like it’s threatening violence. I know you can fix it.”

New York’s head snapped toward me. “You can?”

“I didn’t say I could fix it,” I corrected. “I said I’d take a look.” Damnit. That line was behind me now. I knew it. I felt it the second the words left my mouth.

Dottie smiled like she’d just won something. “Basement, then?”

I should’ve said no. I should’ve said I had an important meeting to attend. I should’ve taken the stairs two at a time and gotten the hell out.

Instead, I took the toolbox back from New York’s hands and nodded once.

“Basement,” I said.

New York watched me like she didn’t quite trust what she was seeing. Like she was waiting for me to change my mind.

I didn’t.

And as I followed Dottie back toward the stairs, I realized something that sat heavy and uncomfortable in my chest.

I hadn’t left. And right now I wasn’t sure I wanted to anymore.

Fuck.

The basement stairs were narrow and steep, the kind built back when people didn’t worry about comfort or lawsuits. I took them first, toolbox in hand, ducking automatically where the ceiling dropped low.

The air changed halfway down—damp and warm, like old soap and rust.

Then I heard it. A high-pitched screech cut through the hum of the building, sharp enough to crawl up the back of my neck.

“Jesus,” said New York behind me. “It’s been doing that?”