Page 23 of Room for Us

I nod with my gaze on my oatmeal, unable to face the forgiveness in her eyes.

“Chin up,” whispers Aunt B.

It takes a few minutes, but I eventually lift my chin again. Eat my breakfast, which is just as delicious as I remember. Pay my bill. Wave goodbye to Joan and get on with my day.

And you know what? I’ll do a lot to keep my first guest happy, but I’m not buying a damn espresso machine.

15

The Do Not Disturb sign stays on his doorknob all day. Even when he does come out around lunchtime—grabbing pre-sliced cheese, salami, crackers, and fruit—he’s easy to avoid. I know all the floorboards that creak and nooks to hide in. I wait until he’s back in his room before reemerging.

Still, I go through my day with an undercurrent of anxiety. Maybe it’s a rite of passage for every new innkeeper—the pressure of keeping a guest happy—but it’s a pain nonetheless. Cleaning the upstairs bathroom is the worst. Not because of any mess—besides a toothbrush and one rumpled towel, there’s no sign of him—but because I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, weirdly worried he’s going to walk in with his pants down. And then there’s the odd possessiveness I feel. A man is sleeping in my Lavender Room, peeing in my toilet, and showering in my shower. I can’t get over the idea that he’s an interloper. That I want him out.

“You have to let go of the idea of the house belonging to you,” remarks my aunt. “And careful, you’re going to slice off a finger.”

I pause my nearly mindless chopping, frowning at the chaotic, sliced-and-diced mess of bell peppers on the cutting board. Definitely not the lovely, thin slices I intended. Oh, well. They’re going in a salad. I’ll bury them near the bottom.

I answer my aunt, “Rose House does, technically, belong to me.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

I sigh. “It was a difficult day.”

“Hardly.”

“Leave me alone.”

Behind me, a deep, startled voice: “What? Oh, sorry.”

Whirling, gasping, withering inside, I see Mr. Hart. “No!”

He pauses with one foot out of the kitchen, his gaze bouncing between my face and the knife currently pointed in his direction. I quickly discard it on the cutting board.

“Sorry. I wasn’t talking to you. I was, um”—think, Zoey, think—“replaying a phone conversation I had earlier today.”

He frowns. “Do you do that a lot? Talk to yourself?”

“Yes!” I say, too brightly. “It’s something my therapist recommended for processing… stuff. I talk out loud. To myself. For therapy. Lots of life happening, you know? Going through a divorce, lost a family member recently. Basically the worst year—” I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood. But the damage has been done, the walls painted with verbal vomit. Mortification burns in my face and sweeps in a wave down my chest.

Chartreuse eyes squinting, he stares at me like he isn’t sure what to do—call a doctor or run for his life. Once again, I’ve made a mess with my mouth. I have to fix this. Maybe I can pretend it never happened?

Worth a shot.

“Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. Is there something you’d like in the interim? I make an excellent martini.”

His expression shifts, losing its natural aloofness. He doesn’t look like the jerk who closed a door in my face anymore, who made me a checklist akin to a celebrity rider. Instead, alarmingly, he looks intrigued.

“What’s for dinner?” he asks abruptly.

My blush deepens. The warm gravel of his voice, the question, the fact we’re alone, the way he’s looking at me...

My throat tight, I answer, “Seared halibut, fingerling potatoes, and fresh greens with homemade balsamic vinaigrette.”

He sucks in a breath. Licks his lips. Something flares in his eyes, causing my stomach to spin-dive.

“I don’t like halibut. Is there anything else?”

For a few moments, I simply stare at him. Waiting for him to take it back. Say he’s joking. Admit a mistake. When he returned my email with a general food preference checklist, halibut was clearly marked as an acceptable fish. I wasted at least five fillets perfecting this recipe. It was supposed to be in the weekly rotation for his stay.

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