Page 51 of The Accidental Innkeeper

“For whose safety,” I whispered.

Helen folded her arms. “This weekend brings in more revenue than any other event all year. Restaurants, shops, tours. People plan for it.”

“I did not plan for it,” I said.

Helen’s expression softened just a fraction, not with sympathy but strategy. “You inherited an institution, Sarah. Maplewood Falls doesn’t stop because you weren’t ready.”

Lola nodded. “She’s right. I’ve been planning my outfits for months.”

“You live here,” I said weakly.

“Yes,” Lola said. “And I like to be prepared.”

I stared at the statue again. At the dust. At the half-cleared room. At my reflection in the dark window—sweaty, frazzled, holding together with caffeine and spite.

“One week,” I said.

“Yes,” Helen confirmed.

I swallowed.

Lola leaned closer, her voice low and delighted. “On the bright side, darling? You’re about to learn exactly how sturdy this inn really is.”

I looked at Helen. “And if it’s not ready?”

Helen met my gaze, steady and expectant. “Then Maplewood Falls will be very disappointed.”

Oh. Great. No pressure at all.

11

SARAH

Who puts herself in a situation where an event that will require the inn to be fully functioning is not ready and is happening in one week?

You guessed it. Me.

I stared at Edna, or rather, her statue. “You knew this was going to happen. Didn’t you? This was your plan all along. You wanted me to fail. You expected it.” Because apparently, I had the “loser” gene.

The statue stared back with that same smug, carved-in-bronze expression she’d worn in life—chin slightly lifted and lips pressed together like she’d just smelled something disappointing, possibly me.

Here I was, a grown-ass woman, having a heated argument with a life-sized statue of my dead aunt. Did that make me crazy? Possibly. Did I care? Not one bit.

Because right now, I was pissed, she was here, and she was going to get it.

It was okay, though. So far, no one was here to witness my delusions. Lola had gone to her room the moment Maria came down to tell her it was ready. And Helen had left a few minutes earlier.

“If the inn isn’t ready, we’re going to lose money,” she’d said, clipboard tucked under her arm like a weapon. “That’s on you.”

And then she’d left. I resisted the urge to give her the finger. I tried not to be vulgar when I had witnesses. Sometimes my word-vomit got the best of me, but on this occasion, I’d kept my mouth shut. It was not the time to create enemies.

But now it was just me and Edna-statue.

“You’re going down, you overpriced paperweight.”

I paced the den, my bare feet slapping softly against the old wooden floor, trying to think instead of panic. Or panic productively, if that was even a thing.

Okay. Fine. One week until the Pearls & Pints Bachelor Weekend. No big deal. Right? I mentally ran through the list again because apparently my brain enjoyed suffering.