Page 58 of The Accidental Innkeeper

There it was again. That steady tone. No hesitation or panic bleeding through. Just momentum.

“I’ll send the email confirmation shortly,” she added. “We’re looking forward to having you.”

Footsteps resumed, quicker now, already moving on to whatever came next. And she hadn’t stopped to breathe once.

Most people would’ve panicked by now. Most people would’ve thrown up their hands, blamed the timeline, cursed the town, and walked away.

She hadn’t.

I went back to the panel, flipped a breaker, watched the response, and then flipped it back. The system groaned but held.

“Yeah. You’re tougher than you look.”

I closed the panel carefully, already running through what I’d need tomorrow. New breakers. Better labeling. A full rebalance. Maybe one full replacement section if I wanted to sleep at night.

I realized something that irritated me far more than the wiring ever could.

I was already planning past the inspection.

And that meant I was staying, whether I’d admitted it yet or not.

“What the fuck am I doing?”

I straightened, slid the panel cover back on, and took the stairs two at a time. The basement air clung to my clothes, damp, metallic, old concrete, so the first floor felt almost clean by comparison. The inn creaked as I climbed, a soft complaining sound that came with age and empty space. It wasn’t a warning. More like commentary.

Halfway up, New York’s voice floated down from above again—calm, clipped, and steady.

“Yes, that’s right. Next weekend,” she said followed by a pause long enough that I pictured her pinning the phone between her shoulder and ear while she flipped through a ledger. “Pearls & Pints Bachelor Weekend. Two nights. Friday through Sunday.”

Her footsteps moved, quick and light. The phone call ended but then started again almost immediately. She was running a front desk with one brain and a prayer.

By the time I reached the first-floor hallway, she was already there with a notepad in one hand and a pen in the other, her breath a little high in her chest like she’d jogged from the desk.

“You’re… fast,” she said, her gaze dipping before snapping back up.

I kept walking. “You’re… busy.”

She took a step after me before checking herself. “Should I come with you?”

“Up to you.”

The hallway lights were on, warm bulbs in old fixtures that tried to look charming while doing the bare minimum. I stopped under the first sconce, looked up, and scanned the ceiling line. The paint had been touched up more than once. Some areas were smoother. Some had that faint ridge you got when someone patched and painted in a hurry.

I reached up and tapped the base of the fixture lightly. It didn’t move. Good. I flipped the switch off. On. Off. On.

The light flickered once, a quick stutter, and then stabilized.

I took my phone out and snapped a picture of the fixture base.

Movement caught my peripheral vision as New York leaned in but then stopped herself and stepped back half a foot, like she’d suddenly remembered personal space.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Documenting,” I said and pointed my phone at the switch plate next. Photo. “Flicker. Loose connection, most likely. Could be the fixture, could be the wiring.”

She scribbled rapidly. “Flicker. Loose connection.”

I moved down the hall, checking each light as I went. Switch. Response. Heat. Stability. Most of them held steady. Two flickered. One buzzed faintly, like it had opinions.