Page 33 of No Room in the Inn

I blink in surprise, because the blows just keep coming. “That was…you?” I say. My mind is whirring, my burned thumb forgotten as I stand there, staring at him.

And I don’t know how I know. I don’t know what part of me is screaming to proceed carefully. But something within me knows, as surely as I know my own name, that getting upset or angry at Nixon right now will hurt him far worse than I have the ability to heal.

“It was me.” His jaw clenches, and he speaks through gritted teeth. “So I’m the reason Granny fell and broke her hip and her leg, and I’m the reason that the dining room has fire damage, because if I hadn’t crashed the car, the dining room wouldn’t have needed repairs, and the repairmen wouldn’t have triggered the old wiring. I’m the reason Granny lost both her livelihood and the ability to get around at all.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t. I don’t know what to say.

Nixon scrubs one hand over his face and then looks at me, and I’m struck once again by the look in his eyes. “And she never got better, Willow. Not really. You don’t heal from a broken hip when you’re in your eighties. I mean, what if it’s my fault she died, too?”

I shake my head, because I do have an answer for that. “She died of old age, Nixon. You didn’t do that.”

“But before I showed up, she was fine,” he argues.

“Before you showed up, she was still in her eighties,” I say gently. “She was old. Her body had been trying to keep up with her mind for years. Whatever else happened, you didn’t kill her.”

Nixon doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t look convinced. He just stares at his hands as he drums his fingers on the table.

“That’s why you were living with Granny,” I say as the realization hits me. “You feel guilty.”

He looks supremely uncomfortable as he grudgingly says, “Yes.”

“And why you want to turn the inn back into a bed and breakfast again.”

He looks more uncomfortable still. “Yes.”

“Huh,” I say, thinking. This might complicate things. “How did the crash happen?” I ask, glancing at him. “Had you been drinking?”

He glares at me, and a sense of relief washes over me.

“Sorry.” I hold my hands up. “I was just asking.”

“I was sober,” he says. “I was going too fast, though. I rounded the corner on the road that runs behind the inn. I hit a patch of ice and slid off.”

“Hmm,” I say, nodding slowly. “Did Granny know? That it was you, I mean.”

“Of course she did.” He sighs. “And she was so nice about it. She said all she wanted was company and some help around the place. I guess your parents couldn’t be around as much as she needed. She didn’t let me pay rent, and she didn’t even want me to help with groceries or utilities.”

That puts a little squirm of guilt in my gut. If I had been here, I could have helped her. “But?” I say, because I can tell where this is going.

“But I paid for them anyway,” he admits. “She sent me to the store with her credit card, but I always used my own money. For utilities, too.”

“What about my parents?” I ask. “Do they know?”

He shakes his head. “No. At least, I don’t think so.” Then his eyes cut to mine. “Are you going to tell them?” He looks nervous but resigned, like it’s what he expects me to do, but he’s still not looking forward to it.

“It didn’t even cross my mind,” I tell him truthfully.

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks,” he says.

The kitchen falls silent, and I don’t push it. I turn away and grab a Band-Aid from the cupboard where I found the Vaseline. It’s a little difficult to unwrap with my thumb burned, and I fiddle with it for a second.

“Let me,” says Nixon, his voice low as he approaches from behind me. I hear him step closer until he’s near enough that I can feel his chest brush up against my back. “Come on. Give me the bandage.”

I try to suppress the shiver that runs through me. The ghost of his breath on my ear as he leans forward to speak, the heat of his body so near—he has to be doing this on purpose. You don’t stand this close to someone by mistake. I swallow, take a steadying breath, and then turn slowly to face him.

His proximity forces me to take an automatic step backward, and I feel the countertop press into my lower back. But Nixon closes the distance between us again with one slow, measured step. His eyes, as intense and magnetic as always, capture mine. He holds out one hand, and I wordlessly pass him the Band-Aid.

He doesn’t look away as he unwraps the bandage. He doesn’t look away as he takes my hand in his. He only glances down when it’s time to wrap the burn. My heart is galloping way too enthusiastically, and his hand on mine burns just as surely as the cookie sheet did. He applies the Band-Aid with a gentle, steady touch before his gaze comes back to mine.

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