Page 70 of No Room in the Inn

I can tell my parents are excited about this dinner, even though I know it will be a bittersweet moment for them, and for my mom especially. Me too, for that matter. I’m trying not to feel anxious about seeing Nixon, but that’s not going so well. You’d better believe I’m dragging Sarah along with me. She’s going to be my buffer. I asked her if she talked to Nixon at all, but she just shrugged and mimed zipping her lips. I take that to mean yes, and that she probably gave him a very large piece of her mind. She’s the best friend I ever could have asked for. I’m beyond blessed to have her in my life.

Sarah talked me into buying a dress for this event, because, as she put it, “an ugly sweater probably won’t do.” She was right. Despite what I told Nixon, I actually was tempted to wear the Santa dress—purely out of pettiness. A “look what you walked away from” message, if you will.

But, since I’m trying to be mature, I resist. So now I’m standing in front of my mirror, wearing a satiny dress that hits just above my knees. It’s a deep red color, and even I can admit that it does good things for my curves, clinging to them generously. The cap sleeves aren’t ideal for a Vermont winter, but my black pea coat will work fine. I sort of wish I could just wear tennis shoes, because wearing heels while walking on ice sounds like a disaster waiting to happen, but I suck it up and put on the blue heels Sarah recommended.

I try also not to think about the fact that this dinner has Hallmark stamped all over it. I’m afraid I’ll jinx it somehow, because my track record with Hallmark events is a doozy. As I stare at my reflection, my brain helpfully begins listing all the ways this evening could go wrong. There are varying degrees of personal injury woven in there—starting with a twisted ankle due to the heels-on-ice thing. I nudge those thoughts away.

When I get downstairs, I find my parents waiting for me in the living room. I’ve been avoiding going in there, to be honest, because that’s where Myrtle died. Now I look cautiously around, though. It’s silly to be scared of a room, and I guess I’m not scared, but I just don’t love the memories.

“I’m ready,” I say, and we go out to the car, my parents complimenting my dress and my hair.

We’re quiet on the drive to the inn, all of us holding our breath in our own different ways. My parents are emotional about the fact that this dinner is being held in Granny’s honor, and I’m emotional about the fact that I have a really big crush on an idiot.

Although I do still have a folder full of paperwork for the aforementioned idiot, because I still want him to run the inn.

There are cars parked all along the drive, and when the bed and breakfast comes into view, I can see why so many people wanted to come to this.

The inn looks like Granny was the one who decorated it. There are lights strung everywhere, and a warm glow pours from all the windows. It looks like something out of a painting, and I find myself missing Granny so much it’s a physical ache in my chest.

My parents don’t say anything, but I can tell they feel the same way. They wind the car back around to the other side of the inn where only Nixon’s car is parked. I text Sarah, telling her we’re here and asking where she is. She’s my emotional support friend.

I only stumble twice in my heels on the little patches of ice on the sidewalk, which is way better than I expected. It’s not that I’m bad at walking in heels—it’s just that the ice is slippery. Once I reach the steps up to the porch, I’m fine, clutching the railing with one hand and holding my folder of paperwork with the other. My parents follow me, and when we reach the front door, we all look at each other.

“Are you ready?” I say.

My parents nod, and with that, we go inside.

Chapter 32

Willow

I’m hit with the strains of Christmas music and the delicious scent of baked goods as soon as the door opens. Like the incredible friend she is, Sarah is waiting for me just inside. She looks adorable in a black, off-the-shoulder dress, and for a second I’m jealous at how well she pulls off the pixie cut.

“All right,” she says under her breath as I look around, admiring the decor. “Status report?”

I link my arm with hers like we used to do in middle school. “Emotionally unstable and prone to tears,” I say, because I may as well own it. “Also prone to random accidents, since all my other Hallmark activities have gone awry.”

She nods. “Good to know. Well, my list of services this evening includes slapping Nixon in the face, kicking his butt, or kneeing him the groin. Feel free to take me up on any of those at any time.”

I laugh, and I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders—until I hear a familiar voice from behind me.

“I’d like to request that none of those things happen.”

I stop in my tracks before taking a deep breath and then turning around.

Nixon looks devastatingly gorgeous in a suit. A regular suit—not a Santa suit. It fits perfectly over his broad shoulders. What sort of strings did this man pull with the Good Lord to be granted a face and body like that?

It takes me a second to realize that I’m just standing here, checking him out. My cheeks heat as I pull my gaze up to meet his, but there’s none of the smugness or cockiness that I expect. His eyes are hesitant, his expression unsure as he looks at me. He clears his throat, nodding a brief greeting to Sarah before saying to me,

“Can we talk? Please?”

“Later,” I say, because I definitely need a few more pep talks before I’m ready for that conversation. But I meet his eye to let him know I’m serious, that I’m not just brushing him off.

He nods slowly. “Later, then.” He hesitates, his eyes sweeping over me. “You look incredible,” he adds, his voice soft.

“What about me?” Sarah says, sounding as rude as I’ve ever heard her. Which, granted, isn’t all that rude.

The corners of Nixon’s lips twitch. “You also look very nice,” he says.

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