Page 49 of No Room in the Inn

Nixon’s head lifts, and his eyes meet mine. I tear my gaze away, my cheeks probably turning the same color as one of his Santa suits, because is there anything worse than getting caught staring at someone? I try to get my head back in the conversation with the realtor, only to realize I’ve forgotten what I was saying.

Gosh, I’m such a stereotype. The girl who gets so distracted by a hot guy that she can’t even finish a sentence. Buthello—evolution and the propagation of the species demand that I pay attention to attractive males. So really, I’m just doing my biological duty.

“Ms. Scott?” the realtor says.

“Yes,” I say quickly. I risk a glance back at Nixon, and sure enough, he’s smirking at me—as though he knows how distracted I am and why. I pick a random spot on the refrigerator and look there instead. “Yes,” I say again. “Sorry. I’m here.” I think for a second, then shrug. “Well, you can bring the buyer over any time. Someone might be here, but if that’s all right…”

“That’s fine,” she says. “We’ll come by either today or tomorrow.”

I nod. “Great.” We say our polite goodbyes and then hang up, and I’m left with a shirtless Nixon, who’s making eating cereal seem way sexier than it actually is. I’m a little nervous to look at him, because I know how he feels about me selling the inn. So, like the coward I am, I find the box of cereal and make myself breakfast instead of saying anything.

As it turns out, I don’t have to bring it up at all.

“Someone is coming to look at the inn,” Nixon says. It’s not a question.

I turn to face him, my cereal bowl still in my hand. “Yes,” I say. I don’t bother denying or sugar coating it. He would find out anyway, and I don’t want to give him hope that I’ve changed my mind. “Someone’s coming to look.”

He nods, staring at his cereal absently, stirring it. “What are they looking at?”

“What do you mean?” I pour milk into my bowl and grab a spoon.

Nixon freezes mid-stir, and he finally looks up at me. “Are they looking at the inn, or at the land?” he says slowly.

I frown, trying to think back to what the overly cheerful realtor said. After a few seconds, I shake my head. “I don’t remember. Sorry,” I add.

Nixon glares at me.

“I was half-asleep,” I say defensively. “Her phone call woke me up.”

Nixon runs one hand over his hair. Then he fixes me with a determined stare. “Is selling really your only solution?” he says, drumming his fingers on the table.

When I speak, I try to keep my voice gentle, especially now that I understand what this place means to him. “Nixon, I don’t want the inn. I don’t know how to run a bed and breakfast.” I sigh. “And frankly, I could use the money.”

That’s probably underselling it; I couldreallyuse the money. I could put some toward my student loans. I could find a new place to live—somewhere I don’t worry so much about being mugged. I would have a bit of a cushion in case I’m not able to immediately find a job.

Nixon’s finger tapping intensifies. “And what if this guy—”

“Or girl,” I say, leaning back against the counter and taking a bite of cereal.

Nixon rolls his eyes, looking exasperated. “Or girl,” he repeats. “What if thispersonwants to tear down the inn? You’re okay with that?”

I shift uncomfortably where I stand. Once I swallow my food, I speak. “I mean, it’s not ideal, but…it would be okay.” Even as I say the words, though, my heart pushes back against my lie. It wouldn’t be okay. Or maybe it wouldbeokay, but it wouldn’tfeelokay.

My mind flits to the pictures in the photo album Nixon showed me. I meant what I said; that album was full of memories for me. Memories of baking with Granny in this very kitchen. Memories of staying up late to help her set up for the Christmas Eve dinner. Memories of crying on Granny’s shoulder when I fought with my parents.

Another memory makes its way in there, somehow: Nixon’s arms wrapped around me as I sobbed. I push that one away. It has no business in this conversation.

“It would beokay?” he says, looking incredulous. He pushes his cereal bowl aside and stands up. “You make it sound like you don’t care at all.”

I sigh. “I do care, Nixon. I do. But it’s not my decision. Whoever buys it—”

“That’s my point. Itisyour decision. It’s completely in your hands.” His eyes search mine, and I watch as his frustration fades away until all that’s left is a plea for understanding. “Don’t sell, Willow,” he says. “Please. This is a big deal for me.”

“Look, let’s say I don’t sell,” I say. “I uproot myself, leave my life in St. Louis”—not that it’s a great life right now, I admit—“and move here. You and I manage to get along long enough to get the inn back in shape. The bed and breakfast reopens with roaring success.” I pause, looking at him. “Then what?” I say.

A tense silence fills the room, but I go on. “You’re not going to feel better, Nixon. Because your problem is not the inn. It’s not about the bed and breakfast at all. Your problem is completely internal,” I say gently.

He just stares at me for a second, looking lost. “Maybe,” he finally says. “Maybe you’re right.” He pauses, and I watch as his expression grows determined again. “But if we’re going to have this conversation, we’re going to have all of it.”

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