Page 50 of No Room in the Inn

“What do you—”

“Yourproblem isn’t the inn, either,” he says, cutting me off.

I swallow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His eyes narrow, all their intensity focused on me. “It means that you’re running away. I don’t think you have a problem with the bed and breakfast. I think you just have a problem being tied to the town where your family lives.”

“What?” I say, but my heart is picking up speed. “That’s—that’s ridiculous.”

Nixon raises one eyebrow, a silent challenge. “Is it?” He takes a step toward me. “Is it?” he repeats.

I look away, because his words are closer to the truth than I want to admit to him—or maybe to myself.

“Willow,” he says, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “Look at me.”

I let my gaze meet his, and he nods.

“If you can look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong…” He hesitates, then takes a deep breath. “If you can tell me I’m wrong, I’ll never bring it up again. I won’t say a word about you selling the inn.”

I cock one brow, trying to feign a casualness that I definitely don’t feel. “You’re awfully sure of yourself.”

He shrugs, but his green eyes are still intense on mine. “Call me a good people reader,” he murmurs, once again taking a step closer toward me. “Or maybe…” He pauses before going on. “Maybe you just wear your heart on your sleeve. So go on—tell me I’m wrong.” He moves closer still.

And I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes when he’s this close. I can smell him, woodsy and spicy. My mind unhelpfully catalogues his dark lashes, his lips, his high cheekbones—storing those features away for a time when memories are all I’ll have of him.

I draw in a deep breath and force myself to stay focused on the conversation itself rather than the drop dead gorgeous man I’m doing the conversing with. I exhale, preparing to tell Nixon he’s wrong. I coax my tongue around the words, string the sentence together in my mind again and again—but the words won’t come.

Because I can’t lie to him. Not about this. Not when he’s been so honest with me about his struggles.

“I can’t” is the only thing I can say, and it’s spoken in a whisper. But it feels like I’ve shouted the words, because I’ve finally admitted out loud what I’ve been trying to deny.

Nixon nods slowly. His eyes are understanding rather than gloating as he looks at me. He takes one final step closer until we’re separated by nothing more than my cereal bowl. He gently takes that from me and puts it on the counter behind me.

“Now let me paint a different picture,” he says, his voice soft. “We get the inn fixed up.”

“We?” I say.

“We,” he says firmly. “After that, you’ll leave—”

At this he breaks off, and something in his eyes changes, although I can’t put my finger on how or why. He glances down between us, at the twelve or so inches separating us, and takes a sudden step backward.

Awkward. I feel very awkward.

He clears his throat, then goes on as though nothing has happened. “We get the inn fixed up. You leave, go back to whatever you were doing before. Although I don’t think you’re attached to your life in St. Louis,” he adds. “You just don’t want to be in Woodfield. But regardless, you leave, and I’ll run the inn. When I save up enough money, I’ll buy the inn from you. The full asking price.”

“You’ll—what?” I say, sure I heard him wrong.

“I’ll buy it,” he repeats. “At your full asking price. I’ll buy it.”

I shake my head slowly. “How would that even work?”

“I just told you,” Nixon says. “I’ll run the inn until I can afford to buy it from you.”

“And the profits?” I say, frowning.

“We split them,” he answers promptly.

I’m silent for a second, thinking it over. What are the downsides to this?

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