Page 62 of The Accidental Innkeeper

I was a total spaz and clearly losing my damn mind.

Around three a.m., I stared at the ceiling and accepted that sleep was more of a suggestion than a guarantee.

When I finally dragged myself out of bed, my head was throbbing, and every muscle in my body hurt more than it had yesterday. Shoulders. Legs. Arms. Muscles I didn’t even remember owning were filing formal complaints.

Why is that? Why does the body wait until the crisis is technically over before giving out?

My phone said 5:35 a.m. when I shuffled into the bathroom, my eyes half-open and crusted, soul fully exhausted.

And that’s when I noticed it.

Fresh towels.

Fresh towels. Light gray and fluffy, so no exfoliating while drying off with the other ones. There was also new hand soap. Actual hotel soap. Body wash. Shampoo. Conditioner. The tiny bottles you steal and hoard like currency even though you never use them.

Maria had been here. Bless her. May her pillow always be cool.

I stared at the setup for a long moment, genuinely touched, and then glanced down at Edna’s ancient bar of soap sitting on the sink like a threat. That thing could’ve sanded furniture.

I grabbed it, didn’t even aim, and flung it over my shoulder.

I heard a distant plop.

“Consider this a breakup.”

The shower was hot. Blessedly hot. Steam filled the room, loosening the knot in my head, and when I reached for the body wash, it slid into my hand smooth and slick and smelling like lavender and calm and a life where things were under control.

I moaned. Out loud. Zero shame.

If this was what nice hotels felt like, I understood why people paid money for them instead of inheriting a pink madness.

By the time I got dressed, with my only pair of black dress pants and fitted black shirt, my headache had retreated to a dull pulse instead of a full marching band, and my reflection looked… marginally human. Tired, yes, but determined. The kind of determined you get when failure is not an option because you’ve already burned the exit ramp.

By morning, I’d retrieved my car, deposited Lola’s check at the Maplewood Falls Bank, and convinced myself that four hours of sleep counted as rest.

The bank smelled like disinfectant, like I’d just missed the early cleaning crew. The lobby lights were on, but the place was empty except for the ATM humming. I fed Lola’s check into the deposit slot and watched the screen think about it. Too long. Way too long. Panic rose in my chest. This wasn’t a small check. It was a massive one. And there was always the risk of the machine spitting it back and telling me to go see the bank teller.

Please don’t bounce. I have plans for you. Big plans.

The machine finally accepted it.

No alarms or flashing red warnings. And no sirens summoning a financial SWAT team.

Okay, then.

The inn opened at seven. I was back there at six forty-five, coffee in hand, optimism already on life support.

I unlocked the front door and stepped inside, the quiet hitting me all at once. Morning light spilled through the windows, dust motes floating lazily. The place smelled faintly of coffee, wood polish, and something floral that might’ve been lavender or lilac.

I set my cup down behind the desk and took a breath. “You can do this.”

Today was the day. My first guests. Five of them. Well, six, if you counted Boomer, the dog belonging to the woman who’d booked one of the ground-floor rooms and asked three separate times if there were “rules about barking.”

There were no rules. I was making them up as we went.

I checked the reservation book again, even though I’d already memorized it in a sleep-deprived haze. Names. Dates. Notes. One allergy. One early riser. One guest who requested “low ambient energy.” No idea what that meant. But… whatever. I was going to wing it and see what happened.

I straightened the bell on the desk, adjusted it, and adjusted it again. Too far left. Too far right. Perfect. And then a thought occurred to me.