Page 13 of Resting Beach Face
“I guess,” he grumbled. “I could really use you. The analyst they’ve got here is cramping my style.”
“Impossible,” I said.
He chuckled. “So, you really like it out there?”
“Well…” I hedged. “It’s different. Things are slower here. More relaxed. I have all the time I want to read and garden.”
“Sounds like a retirement plan,” he said skeptically.
I didn’t disagree. Compared to the long hours I worked as an analyst, itwaseasier. And yet, having new people in my home every week, struggling to give them a warm welcome and connect the way they wanted, was more challenging than any financial report I’d ever read.
“Listen, Declan, I’m serious. If you ever want to come back, my door’s open.”
“I can’t,” I said. “I’ve got a B&B to run.”
“Well, look, you own it, but you’re not married to it. You could always?—”
A harried-looking guest headed toward the front desk.
“Mr. Sullivan, sorry to interrupt, but we need you!”
“Sorry, Nate, I’ve got to go.”
“But Dec?—”
I hung up on Nathan. Not to be rude, but because the man didn’t know the meaning of the word no. He could persuade a rock it was a shiny seashell. He was a good guy, but also the ultimate salesman, and I didn’t have time for his pitch right now.
Not when Harrison Stroberg, the first guest to book my Tree Hut since I’d taken over the B&B, looked as if he’d just stepped out of a rainstorm on a bright sunny day.
“What happened?” I asked, already resigned to bad news.
“A pipe burst in the bathroom. It’s spraying water everywhere.”
“Did you turn off the water?”
“We tried, but it didn’t work. Noah was turning the valve and?—”
“Nevermind.” I rounded the counter, running past him. “I’ll take care of it.”
I should have never opened the Tree Hut for bookings. It had sat vacant too long, and after a thorough cleaning and repainting, it was still giving me headaches.
When the Swallow’s Nest Resort opened, I had actually been relieved. Maybe it would take away a few guests, and I could enjoy my weeks with fewer interruptions. I didn’t need much to keep this place going since it was my house, too. Just a trickle of guests would suit me fine.
I’d mostly taken on the B&B for my aunt’s memory, not out of a desire to actually house strangers day after day.
But instead of taking my bookings, the darn resort had somehowincreasedthe flow of tourists. Their marketing had put Swallow Cove front and center—even before they were open—and apparently a Treehouse B&B was just too charming to pass up.
So, as bookings filled, I opened up the Tree Hut for the first time. And now here we were, with a burst pipe, water damage, and damp, unhappy guests.
Harrison’s boyfriend, Noah, opened the door when I arrived. He was six-foot-four and damn near wider than the door frame. He wrung his hands. “I tried to turn off the water to the toilet, but I made it worse.”
“You better show me.”
Noah turned, striding away, and I tried not to notice how very short his shorts were. It was tough with the way his hips swayed with every step.
Water pooled on the bathroom floor. It was tile, so that wasn’t so bad. If the story ended there. Sadly, it did not.
Because it wasn’t just water on my floor, but…sewage. The toilet must have been clogged. And the water turn-off valve that came out of the wall? It was broken clean off, with water spraying from the pipe, adding to the mess.
