Page 6 of Maybe We Can Fake It

As soon as I head inside and approach the front desk, my theory already appears to be proving true. Because Danny, my assistant manager and right-hand guy, is scowling at the computer monitor while he crumples a piece of paper into a tight ball in his fist. Danny sort of has a resting grouch face anyway,unless he’s in front of a customer. But this looks like a new level ofI want to burn this place to the ground.

“Everything okay?” I ask cautiously.

“We’re overbooked.”

“No, we’re not.”

Danny turns his scowl from the computer to me, making me flinch. “So you’re telling me I’m only imagining that this outdated, waste-of-space machine shows we have more reservations for the same date than we have rooms?”

“Hey, don’t insult Cynthia!” I cry, reaching across the desk to pat the top of the computer affectionately. He’s not wrong about her being outdated, but I like to think that if I treat her nicely and use enough words of encouragement, she might miraculously last me another year or so. Because buying another one isnotsomething I want to think about right now. Running an inn is expensive. Who knew?

Danny isn’t amused.

“Okay,” I relent. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you. I’m only saying wecan’tbe overbooked,pleasepleaseplease, because I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do if we are.”

I’ve worked here since I first moved to Mayweather—I used to have Danny’s job—but the inn’s only been mine for almost a year now, and while I like to think I’m great at what I do, sometimes it feels like I’m just winging it.

There’s always that fear in the back of my mind that I’m going to fail.

And then I might not be able to pay May’s grandparents back the large sum of money they lent me to buy this place. Asking them for a loan was painful, but it was worth it for the chance at providing a better life for May.

Danny seems to take pity on me in my distress. He softens and lets out a sigh. “I’ve been trying to figure out all morning howthis happened. I told you we need a newer computer that can run a better booking system.”

He’s not wrong, but fuck.

“I’ll handle it,” I tell him. But when I step behind the desk and see that he’s talking about a date next week, right between the end of a large corporate retreat’s visit and the start of Mayweather’s spring festival, I already know I’ll have to resort to something drastic to fix this. Like get the guests a room at another nearby inn for the night before moving them back here and comping part of their stay. That’s seriously unprofessional, but luckily my sunny disposition and charm can get me a long way.

And tourists visit here for the small-town charm, after all.

Forty-five minutes and one headache later, everything’s sorted, and I’m finally able to pop into the kitchen for more coffee. But the sight in there makes me pause.

Addison, my new head chef and culinary goddess, is crouched down, wringing her hands together as she peers into one of the ovens.

For the love of Drag Race, what now?

“Um. Everything okay in here?” I venture to ask.

“The oven’s broken,” she replies, not even bothering to glance my way.

“No, it’s not,” I say reflexively, then bite my lip. Is this déjà vu? A nightmare? Am I having a stroke?

Addison turns to me as she straightens up. Her shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back into a neat little ponytail, but her chef’s coat is unbuttoned, and her Chainsmokers concert T-shirt has a stain on the chest. “I assure you, it is,” she says dryly.

“Oh. Well. Okay. No big deal. We’ll get it fixed.”

No, no, noooo, please, no.

“In time for that big company’s fancy thing?”

“Um, yeah, of course,” I say. “I’ll get someone to come out and take a look at it today. It’ll be fine.”

I might be lying my face off, but I can’t show how stressed I am, because Addison’s already been stressed for weeks over this corporate retreat and the festival. She’s only been working for me for three months, after the previous chef who’d been here longer than me resigned. (And no, that’s not a big deal to lose the head chef at an inn where the restaurant is a huge draw.Nope, not at all.) So these will be the biggest events she’s had to cook for so far.

“Okay, but I have another problem.” Picking up a stray dish towel, she starts balling it up like a marginally less hostile version of Danny.

“Which is?” I ask, even though I’m afraid of the answer.

“Randy and Ronny quit.”

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