Page 29 of The Inn Dilemma

My eyes dart to Gladys, who lifts her lips into a mocking smile. “No offense, Mr. Graves, but I don’t believe you are exactly an expert on works of art or an unbiased party.” She leans back in her chair with an air of authority.

“And neither are you. For whatever reason, you have held a grudge against my aunt and Nova for as long as I can remember.” Holt turns his attention to Mr. Smith. “I am requesting another member of the historical society to speak to about this change.”

Mr. Smith’s nostrils flare as he glances at Gladys, and I can practically see smoke pouring out of her ears.

“The only reason I have allowed this private meeting to begin with is because Birdie got me a signed picture ofyou-know-who and I don’t want that favor hanging over my head any longer,” Gladys admits.

I assume Gladys is referring to a favorite celebrity of hers who stayed at the Storybook Inn. Aunt Birdie rarely asks anything of her famous guests, and I assume she requested this specific celebrity’s signed picture to get on the prickly woman’s good side.

Mr. Smith ignores Gladys’s silent, piercing protests. “Well, Mr. Graves, I will see if I can find someone else to meet with you next time,” At least the man appears to have grown at least a weak backbone.

Gladys strikes the table. “I will not have this! I will be respected! How dare you question me?”

Holt places his hands on the table and leans forward so he’s meeting Gladys head-on. “I’m simply asking for a fair, unbiased opinion.”

She sits up straighter, narrowing her eyes into little slits, but before she can say anything, Mr. Smith taps the table and ends the meeting with a promise of fair consideration for this request.

“You know it’s not true,” Holt says as we sit on the swinging bench on the Storybook Inn’s back porch.

“What’s not true?” I ask.

“You’re not a little…” He trails off.

I cough at the surprising choice of topic and words. “Not anymore. That’s not who I am now. But to give Gladys credit, she wasn’t wrong to call me Beau’s little?—”

“Don’t,” Holt says, placing a calloused finger on my lips.

My entire body warms at Holt’s touch. At the sincerity in his eyes. At him. I need to get a hold of myself. I’m on a dating sabbatical in order to help me clear my head, get right with God, and then maybe see if love finds me.Not that Holt would ever try to pursue something with me anyway.

Slowly, Holt pulls his hand back and casually lays his arm across the bench behind me. “There is no longer condemnation for those in Christ Jesus.”

I’m silent for a long moment, trying to apply that verse to the conflicting belief about myself. Holt pushes back on the bench and it rocks backward, throwing me temporarily off balance. He grips my shoulder and anchors me to him. Once we’re swinging in a steady motion, his thumb traces circles on my shoulder and I shiver. His heat permeates even through the flannel I borrowed from off the coat rack. This is not helping my case.

Maybe sharing the beliefs I have about myself will help diffuse the growing tension I feel. After another moment of deliberation, I say, “It’s not easy to recognize the new me over the woman I was for so long. The woman who was selfish yet controlled by someone else.” I chew the inside of my cheek, then add, “I should have stayed home. Or at least come home after the first year away. I missed my brother’s wedding, my dad’s diagnosis, and countless other things. No wonder Dad refuses to talk to me.” I swallow down the emotions clogging my throat.

Holt stops the swing, turns to face me head-on, and grabs both of my shoulders. “Your dad is the one in the wrong right now. Sure, you never should have run off. But how he’s handling you coming home isn’t your fault. It’shis. If I was him, I’d be thrilled you were back.” Holt takes my face in his hands, taking a moment, and I soak in the pure sincerity in his expression. “I am thrilled that you’re home.”

“Me too,” Aunt Birdie chimes as she steps out onto the porch. Holt’s hands drop from my face to take a steaming mug of…something off Aunt Birdie. She hands a second one to me.

I raise the mug to my lips, sniff, blow, and take a very cautious sip. It smells like cocoa but tastes like s'mores and coffee.

“What is this?” Holt asks, taking his own sip.

“Coffee that was made with freshly ground beans and mixed with s’more hot chocolate powder,” she answers.

I take another careful swig and allow the warm drink to slide down my throat, warming me from the inside.

Aunt Birdie looks between Holt and me excitedly. “So? What do you think?”

“Delicious.” “Disgusting.” Holt and I answer at the same time.

“Coffee shouldn’t taste like a s’more. Or chocolate. It should taste like coffee,” Holt explains.

Shrugging a shoulder, I say, “It still tastes like coffee but with a kick of something chocolatey. It’s yummy.”

Holt doesn’t look convinced, but he takes another sip anyway.

“Well, I’m glad at least someone enjoys my newest concoction!” Aunt Birdie says before going back inside.

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