Page 35 of No Room in the Inn

I introduce myself to the real estate as the crazy lady who had to hang up suddenly the day before, and she says she remembers me—because of course she does. Everyone else who calls her undoubtedly remembers to turn on an oven timer when they make cookies.

But not me. No, I’m still a failure when it comes to adulting.

I explain my situation to the real estate agent, and together we set up the asking price and a timeline and all that. It’s sort of a scary conversation, just because I’m only pretending I know what I’m talking about. Really, I have no idea. I fake it reasonably well, though, with the help of some lightning-fast Googling and a quick mind, and by the time our phone call is done, I’m feeling more organized than I have in over a week. I’ve dealt with my squatter—even if “dealt with” means “made peace with his presence in my inn”—and I’ve called in repairmen. I’ve talked to a real estate agent, and she’s emailing me the paperwork I need to fill out. The ball is rolling, in other words, and that makes my anxious little heart happy. A looming, disorganized future is always a big stressor for me.

I call Sarah midday, because she’s usually able to talk around lunch time. I’m excited to tell her about all I’ve accomplished today.

“Hey!” I say when she answers. I flop backward on my bed, staring vaguely at the ceiling, and turn the phone on speaker so I can put it down next to me rather than hold it to my ear.

“Hey!” she says, her voice blaring loudly into the room. “I’m so glad to hear from you, because I’ve been worrying about you pretty much nonstop since you moved in to that place. Have you been surviving okay? Are you sure you can stay in the inn with this guy? If you say he’s okay I’ll believe you, but—”

“He’s okay,” I say, and I’m surprised to find that I mean it. Of all the things that concern me about Nixon, him harming me isn’t one of them.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Sarah says, “You’re sure?”

I think about Nixon, about the way he held me as I cried, the way his eyes flashed with pain as he told me about the car crash and the fire. I remember the way he flipped through Granny’s photo album, pointing out picture after picture with ease as though he’d seen the album a hundred times before. “I’m sure,” I say.

“Good,” Sarah says, sounding relieved. “In that case,” she says, her voice brightening significantly. “When do I get to meet him?”

Yikes. “Sarah,” I groan. I’ll be happy to postpone that happy event as long as possible. Sarah has no subtlety when it comes to guys. She would most definitely let spill everything I’ve told her about him. She doesn’t do it on purpose, of course; she’s just a talker.

“What?” she says, sounding indignant. “Look, Willow. If you describe a man as ‘Hot Santa’ and compare him to Jesse Williams—”

“To who?” I pull a pillow from next to me and shove it under my head, trying to make myself more comfortable.

“Jesse Williams. The guy who plays Jackson Avery in Grey’s Anatomy? That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

“Oh, right,” I say. “Yeah, that’s who he reminds me of.”

“Swoon,” Sarah says with a sigh, and though I don’t say anything, I kind of agree. The dark tan skin with the green eyes; the long, dark lashes; the full lips that may or may not have been in my dream last night—they’re all swoon-worthy.

“Anyway,” she goes on. “If you say all that, you have to know I’ll want to meet him. This can’t possibly come as a surprise to you.”

It doesn’t, but I had hoped.

“I don’t know when you can meet him,” I say, and it’s true. “You can come over to the inn sometime if you want, but I can’t promise he’ll be here. He does Santa stuff around town, and he works at Santa’s Workshop over near St. Albans City. My guess is he probably does a lot on weekends.”

“Hmm,” Sarah says, sounding pensive. “Let me look at my work schedule.” She hesitates. “Hey, do you need help going through Granny’s stuff?”

I swallow back the sudden lump in my throat, and the ceiling blurs above my head. Wiping my eyes with one hand, I say, “No. Thanks, but no. My mom and dad already went through a lot of it before I got to town. There’s just her room left. I can do it.” I pause, thinking. “And I guess Nixon might help.”

There’s silence on the other end, and then Sarah says, “He’s going to help you go through her stuff? When’s the wedding?”

My mind flashes to our not-quite-but-maybe-almost kiss in the kitchen, but I give what I hope is an incredulous snort. “Shut up. It’s not like that. Not—I mean—we’re not—”

Crap. I’m stuttering, and I need to get the words out, because Sarah is going to know I’m not being quite as truthful as she’d like.

“You’re not…what?” she says. “Finish your sentence.”

She sounds suspicious. Crap. Why does my stupid stuttering always have to give me away?

I try again. “We’re not—there’s nothing—”

But Sarah cuts me off, and her tone of voice tells me she’s going straight for the jugular. “Willow, whenever you try to lie you can’t even manage to finish the sentence. What aren’t you telling me? Oh, my gosh—did somethinghappen?”

“No!” I say quickly, even if I do have to force the word out. And to be fair, it’s kind of true. It just depends on Sarah’s definition of the word “something.”

“Oh, my gosh,” she says again, and I sigh. But she goes on. “It did! Something happened! Tell me. Tell meeverything.”

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