Page 53 of The Accidental Innkeeper

“Oh shit…”

I went down hard, flat on my back, the air punching out of my lungs as I smacked against the floor. “Ow.”

I lay there, staring up at the cracked plaster, my arms splayed and breathing shallow, wondering if this was the chapter where my body decided we were a comedy now. “Fantastic,” I muttered. “Just… excellent.”

That’s when I heard footsteps approaching the den.

Slowly, I turned my head, half expecting it to be Maria or Dottie.

Dust-guy stood there, framed in the doorway—tall, perfect, sexy as hell with toolbox in hand—taking in the scene in silence. And by scene, I mean me. On my back. Sweaty. Smelly. Defeated. Edna-statue looming behind me like she’d just won. I really hated that smug, unblinking bronze bitch.

Dust-guy looked from the statue… to me… then back to the statue. There was a long, awkward pause.

I stared up at him. “Before you say anything, I was winning.”

He stepped into the room and circled the statue, slowly and thoughtfully, like a man mapping out a solution before touching anything. One hand rested on his hip. His head tilted as he assessed my humiliation.

I waited for him to say something. He didn’t, which was weird. He didn’t even offer to pull me up, like he enjoyed me on my back. No idea why my mind went there. Nope.

After one last look, he turned and walked out of the room.

A rush of anger rose in me. “Thanks for your help!” I called out, my face hot. Prick. Of course. He’d seen enough—the mess, the struggle, me on the floor like I’d picked a fight with gravity and lost badly.

I pushed myself up with a groan, brushing dust from my shirt. “Who needs men anyway? We just need their wands occasionally for population maintenance. That’s it. Minimal contact. Very efficient.” I squared my shoulders. I could do this. I had to. Screw Dust-guy with his stupid perfect hair. And his stupid perfect lips. And his stupid perfect ass.

I interlaced my fingers and pulled, aiming for a dramatic knuckle crack like in the movies. I got a faint tug and what felt like mild disappointment. Rolling my shoulders then, I exhaled sharply and adjusted my footing, preparing to try again.

The sound of wheels rolling across the floor pulled me around.

Dust-guy was back, pushing a dolly ahead of him like this had been obvious all along. He positioned the dolly, locked the wheels with his foot, and tipped the statue forward with controlled strength. The base slid neatly into place. He strapped it down, tugged once to test that the hold was solid, and then he pushed. The statue rolled forward smoothly, obedient now, as if it had been waiting for someone who understood leverage.

I frowned. I hated that statue, possibly more than I hated my aunt for putting me in this situation. What kind of person develops a beef with a statue? I was clearly losing my mind, which sucked because my mind used to be my best feature.

Dust-guy maneuvered it through the doorway with ease, angling it just right to avoid the frame. “Where do you want it?” he asked, already moving.

I stared, my mouth open, which was deeply unattractive and probably made me look like a confused goldfish. “Storage,” I said. “Under the stairs. For now.”

He nodded and wheeled Edna-statue away.

I gave her a finger wave.

The den felt different immediately, lighter and open. I looked over the fireplace mantel and cringed inwardly. There was still the issue of the gargantuan painting of Edna, but that one I could easily move myself or ask Maria for help.

When Dust-guy came back, he wiped his hands on a rag like he’d finished a routine task. “You okay?” he asked, looking me up and down slowly.

Heat rushed to my face. “Yeah.” And standing there, watching him solve in minutes what had beaten me for an hour, something like respect settled quietly in my chest. The kind that changes things. The kind I didn’t want to examine too closely, especially not now.

“Thank you,” I said. “I think I gave myself a hernia and whiplash at the same time.”

Dust-guy glanced up from wiping his hands on the rag. His nod was small, like he accepted gratitude the same way he accepted gravity, as a known constant. “Yeah,” he said. “No problem.”

I shifted my weight, suddenly aware of my sweat situation again, of my hair, of the fact that I’d just been sprawled on the floor like a Victorian heroine with worse cardio.

“I should…” I gestured vaguely toward my pocket. “I can pay you. Cash. Check. Coffee. I make a decent coffee now that I’ve stopped burning it.”

He waved it off and bent to pick up the strap he’d used on the statue, coiling it neatly. “It’s fine.”

I blinked. “It’s really not. You’ve been here twice now.” Helping me, fixing things that I wouldn’t have been able to handle on my own, no matter how many hours I’d spent googling and watching YouTube videos.