Page 67 of No Room in the Inn

“Yes. She died last night. Willow needs a win. So I’ll ask you again: What happened?”

I sigh, flopping backward on the bed. It’s a mistake; the bed is hard and supremely uncomfortable to sleep on, let alone flop on. But I stay there, because I don’t have the energy to move.

“She sold the inn behind my back,” I say, staring at the ceiling.

Sarah makes a little noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort. “Nixon, you’re an idiot. She didn’t sell the inn.”

“Yes, she did,” I say. Anger and hurt and betrayal all surge in me, swirling around in my gut until I feel sick. “I talked to the lawyer. He wanted to give her the paperwork to transfer ownership.”

“Yeah,” Sarah says, sounding exasperated—as though she has any right to be. “Toyou,” she continues. “To transfer ownershipto you.”

My heart leaps for a second, but just as quickly it falls again. I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “She wouldn’t need paperwork for that.”

“Of course she would,” she says. “Willow’s not stupid. If you’re going to take over managing her property and make a business out of it, there’s going to be paperwork involved.”

I swallow hard, suddenly more confused than I’ve been in days—thinking more about Willow than I’ve let myself do for days. Is that true?

Sarah goes on, filling the silence. “Nixon, I talked to her about this onFriday. Just over a week ago. She was going to take your offer. So call her and apologize.Now,” she adds. “Grovel.”

I swallow again. “Are you sure about this? Absolutely sure?”

“Yes,” she says, and even though I don’t know her that well, I can picture her rolling her eyes. “Like I said: we talked about it on Friday. She talked about having paperwork drawn up. She is not the bad guy here.”

“All right,” I hear myself say. My mind is spinning; I’ve mentally checked out of this conversation now. Guilt is stabbing at my insides, as well as shame. “Thanks for telling me.”

Sarah doesn’t answer; she just hangs up.

That woman is kind of scary.

When I look at the clock, I realize I’m running late. I hop off the bed and grab my bag of Santa stuff—my wig and beard and hat. I make it to work just in time—the drive is significantly shorter since I’ve been staying in St. Albans—and put my Santa persona in place.

It’s an interesting job. I’m good with kids, especially when all they do is sit on my lap for a few minutes, but I do miss adult interaction.

The kids come in waves, and during the slower times I’m allowed to read a book. After the afternoon rush, I try to concentrate on what I’m reading, but I can’t; all I can think about is Willow.

I messed up. It would be one thing if I just left, but I made it worse by not taking her calls. Anxiety churns in my stomach, and I finally close my book and set it aside. How can I fix this?

I let my gaze wander as I absently examine the Santa’s Workshop decor. This place is completely over the top, but that’s what people come for. It’s a little too much red and green for me; I prefer decorations like Gerty had in her home. Colorful but tasteful rather than garish.

And as I think of Gerty, half an idea begins to form in my mind. It would be difficult, but not impossible—and I’d need help. Lots of help.

I don’t know if it will work, but it’s worth a shot.

***

After I get off work and make it back to my room in the motel, I get my Santa suit off as fast as possible. It brings back memories of Willow—memories that are tinged with guilt now, and memories that are painful, like the image of her in that Santa dress. She was gorgeous and sexy and playful all at once. Her legs went on and on, and it showed off the kind of figure that men dream about. Soft curves in all the right places—

I shake my head, smacking my cheeks a few times. I need to snap out of it. Dwelling on Willow’s curves, as gorgeous as they are, is not going to solve anything.

Taking a few deep breaths, I get out my phone and pull up Willow’s number. I don’t know what I’m going to say; I only know that I need to see if she’s all right now that Myrtle is gone. I need to apologize, too, but that’s going to have to wait, because a simple “I’m sorry” probably isn’t going to do it.

The phone rings a few times before Willow answers. Her voice is flat as she says, “What do you want?”

I deserve that, I guess.

“I just—” I falter, trying to find words, before going on. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. I heard about Myrtle.”

There’s silence for a second, and when Willow speaks, I can tell she’s crying. “I’m not okay,” she says. “But it’s none of your concern.”

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