Page 1 of No Room in the Inn

Chapter 1

Willow

I’ve always thought that crying in the rain is sort of romantic. I mean, sad, but romantic. After tonight, however, I can conclusively say that it is not romantic. It’s just…wet. And maybe a little pathetic.

It’s not even all rain. The weather is doing some sort of sleet thing, which basically just makes it like crying in the rain but colder.

I have a full-onLegally Blondesituation going on here. Like Elle Woods, I went to dinner with my boyfriend, fully expecting him to propose due to how weird he’s been acting this week. Spoiler alert: he did not propose. He broke up with me instead. Unlike Elle Woods’s boyfriend, however, my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—did not offer to drive me home. I walkedtothe restaurant, and even though I was very clearly trying to hold back tears, apparently Chauncey figured I could walk home, too.

Never mind that we were together for a year. Never mind that on Monday I’m supposed to start my new job athis father’s architectural firm. None of that matters, I guess. He dumped me and made me walk home—in the sleet.

High heels, as it turns out, are not ideal for such situations. I try to focus my mind elsewhere as I walk, to think about something other than this evening, but all I can do is flash back to dinner with Chauncey.

As I sat there at the restaurant listening to him explain all the reasons he thought we should break up, I could feel everything inside me starting to twist in panic. I just stared at my food, because it was better than staring at Chauncey and seeing how calm and composed he was. His blond hair was neatly parted and perfectly in place, smelling like cherries because he used my hair spray. It was something I used to write off as endearing rather than irritating—we’re so in sync that we use the same hair products!

But no. It wasn’t endearing, and Elle Woods would never have stood for it. So I just focused more on my food—a chicken marsala dish that was lovely until Chauncey’s words turned it to ash in my mouth. I never thought anyone could ruin chicken marsala for me, but the damage was done. And that realization was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back—the realization that led me here, walking through the sleet in a sketchy part of town.

Because I love chicken marsala, and if I can’t eat it ever again without thinking of Chauncey, we’re going to haveseriousproblems. That was the moment when I finally stood, told him I wanted to leave, and watched him gesture wordlessly to the door.

I take a deep, shuddering breath and watch it puff out of my mouth, barely visible enough to see. My feet are on autopilot now, which is nice since it requires less thinking, but it’s still a relief when I step into my building and out of the cold. I’m feeling little swells of indignation at having to walk home, though in Chauncey’s defense, it wasn’t coming down like this when I started my walk back; it was just a little drizzly.

But it sure as heck is coming down now. Like the clouds are crying for me—big, cold tears that pack a frigid punch.

My heels are slippery on my feet as I trudge up the stairs to the second floor of my tiny apartment building, and my pencil skirt clings uncomfortably to my thighs. I stumble several times as I walk, and I end up holding tightly to the railing just to be safe. The solitary click of each step I take echoes through the stairwell, reminding me that I’m returning home utterly alone rather than with a fiancé and a ring on my finger.

So that’s nice.

So far I haven’t encountered anyone in the building, but now I swipe furiously at the mascara I’m sure is smeared under my eyes, just in case. It serves me right for crying. My long, dark hair was curled before I left the restaurant, but now it’s a hopeless mess. I throw caution to the wind and don’t even bother with it. Then I do my best to straighten up, put my shoulders back, and leave the stairwell.

I sigh when I see that the hallway is empty, and with relief I let my posture droop just a little bit. No one should have to see me looking like a hot mess. I lean over and pull my heels off, because there’s no railing to hold onto here, and the shoes are still slippery. I carry them instead, making my way down the hall until I reach my door. I shove my key in the lock and twist. I’msoready for a hot bath and copious amounts of chocolate.

But the key won’t budge.

My phone rings, and I leave the keys dangling in the lock as I pull it out of my purse to see who’s calling. It’s my mother; I roll my eyes and shove the phone back in my purse before returning my attention to the lock.

I try to twist the key again, but it really won’t budge. Admittedly, this apartment is a total dive—four hundred square feet of stained carpet, walls, and ceiling. Some of the carpet stains border on suspicious, but that’s no surprise; this neighborhood isn’t the safest part of St. Louis. And while I do like being able to see the Gateway Arch from a distance out my window, if I could move west a bit, I’d jump at the chance in a heartbeat.

Unfortunately, that requires money—more money than I can responsibly spend right now. I had planned to move out once I got set up with a job. But that’s not looking so likely anymore; I haven’t given it extensive thought, but I already know there’s no way I’m going to work on Monday for my ex-boyfriend’s father. I don’t evenlikeChauncey’s dad. I just took the job because I needed one, and I thought it would be nice to be close to Chauncey.

I try to swallow down the anxiety that rises within me at that thought. I need to find a new job. Pronto. But no one is going to be hiring long term in November, are they? I could find something seasonal—do retail until the Christmas season is over and start again in January when companies get their new hiring budgets. That might work. I mean, retail is the absolute worst. But it’s better than starving.

My phone rings, and I grit my teeth when I see that it’s my mom again. I cram the phone back in my bag once more, maybe a little more forcefully than is necessary. But my mother is the last person I want to talk to right now.

Frustration wells up inside me, and though it’s not entirely helpful, I kick my door—only to realize too late that I’ve taken off my shoes. A shooting pain zips through my big toe and up my leg, and I hold in the word that really wants to come out. It’s a goal of mine to curse less. I’m trying to be a classy woman—although you’d never know, seeing me in this particular moment, hopping up and down on one foot and looking like a drowned rat. I take a deep breath before standing on both feet again, and this time when I turn the key in the lock, I hold nothing back. There’s a loud lurching sound followed by the creak of the door hinges, and I catapult into the apartment.

One or two curse words may slip out of my mouth when I hear my phone ringing yet again.

Usually, as a rule, I don’t answer when my mom calls me. But this is the third time in two minutes that my phone has rung, and suddenly my anxiety-prone brain is filling in all sorts of fun reasons she could be calling.

My cat died.

My dad died.

There was a fire.

There was a fire in which my cat and my dad died.

I tell my brain tocut it outbefore I give in, answering the phone. “Hello?” I say.

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