By nine the next morning, I had received forty-seven emails about a ghost, two requests for paranormal investigations, and one marriage proposal from a man in Ohio who apparently found my inn’s website while looking for haunted honeymoon destinations.
I hadn’t even finished my coffee.
For the record, I declined the marriage proposal.
Politely.
The paranormal investigations could wait until I’d had breakfast.
I sat behind the front desk, scrolling through the latest messages while the smell of freshly baked cinnamon muffins drifted from the dining room.
Sunday mornings at Briar House were usually my favorite. Guests wandered downstairs in sweaters and slippers, helped themselves to coffee, and settled beside the windows to watch the autumn leaves fall.
There was something satisfying about watching people enjoy a place you’d worked so hard to create.
Today, however, half the guests seemed more interested in Room Thirteen than the complimentary breakfast.
A woman had already asked whether our rooms came equipped with paranormal detection devices.
I told her they came equipped with hair dryers.
She’d looked disappointed.
The front door opened, letting in a gust of cool October air.
“Please tell me you serve coffee that doesn’t taste like it was filtered through an old sock.”
I looked up.
Of course.
Because apparently one encounter with Christopher Wilder wasn’t enough punishment for a single weekend.
He stood in the doorway wearing dark jeans and a charcoal Henley, a brown paper bag tucked beneath one arm and a cardboard drink carrier in his hand.
No leather jacket today.
Which was unfortunate.
The shirt wasn’t doing me any favors either.
“Good morning to you, too,” I said.
Kit smiled and stepped inside.
“That depends. Are you going to throw me out?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Fair. Mind if I put these down before you do?”
I gestured toward the counter.
He set the drinks beside the guest register and slid one toward me.
“Peace offering.”
I looked at the cup.
Then at him.
“Is it poisoned?”
“Not intentionally.”
“Comforting.”
He grinned.
“It’s from Bramble & Bean. Best coffee in town.”
“I know. I get mine there.”
“Then I’m already doing something right.”
I picked up the cup and took a cautious sip.
Black.
Very black.
The kind of coffee that tasted like somebody had bottled a bad attitude.
I lowered it.
Kit noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That face wasn’t nothing.”
“What face?”
“The one you just made.”
I glanced at the cup.
“Do you hate happiness?”
He laughed.
“Excuse me?”
“Who drinks coffee this bitter voluntarily?”
“People with sophisticated tastes.”
“People who need therapy.”
His smile widened.
“Noted. How do you usually take it?”
“Cream. A little sugar. Preferably without the lingering taste of regret.”
Kit reached for the other cup in the carrier.
“Then you’re going to want this one.”
He handed it to me.
I narrowed my eyes.
“What is it?”
“Vanilla latte. I got it for myself, but I’m willing to make a sacrifice.”
I took a sip.
Oh.
That was better.
Much better.
“Fine,” I admitted. “You’re forgiven for the coffee.”
“Just the coffee?”
“Don’t get ambitious.”
He leaned against the counter, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I set the cup down before I smiled at him again.
This man was going to be a problem.
Not a serious problem, obviously.
More like an irritating song that got stuck in your head and refused to leave.
An attractive, six-foot-something song with excellent shoulders.
God help me.
“So,” I said, opening the reservation screen on my computer. “What brings you here?”
“Besides my sparkling personality?”
“Preferably.”
Kit reached into the paper bag and pulled out a muffin.
“I wanted to apologize for last night.”
I looked up.
“You already apologized.”
“I know. But I also wanted to let you know I changed the tour route.”
That caught my attention.
“Already?”
“Sent the update to my guides this morning. We’re moving the Briar House story to the corner near the old cemetery. Better sightline, wider sidewalk, and nobody’s standing underneath a guest-room window.”
I studied him.
That was surprisingly efficient.
“I appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome.”
He opened the paper bag and held it toward me.
“Blueberry?”
I looked inside.
Two muffins.
One blueberry, one chocolate chip.
“Are you bribing me with baked goods?”
“Is it working?”
“Potentially.”
He handed me the blueberry muffin.
I took it.
A woman had to eat.
“Seriously, though,” Kit continued, “I don’t want my business interfering with yours. Our tours are supposed to give people a good experience, not create headaches for other businesses.”
His expression had shifted.
No teasing smile.
No flirtatious little comments.
Just a man talking about his company.
I found myself paying closer attention.
“Your group wasn’t the only problem,” I admitted. “Someone posted a video of Room Thirteen last night. Now people think my inn is actually haunted.”
Kit nodded.
“I saw it.”
“Of course you did.”
“It’s making the rounds.”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
When I’d checked that morning, the video had passed eighty thousand views.
Eighty thousand.
I’d spent hundreds of dollars promoting our fall packages and couldn’t get half that attention.
Apparently, I should’ve invested in ghosts instead.
“Have you figured out what was in the window?” Kit asked.
“Probably a guest.”
“Probably?”
“Mrs. Pritchard was staying in that room last night. She was wearing a white facial mask and a very dramatic bathrobe. My money’s on her.”
Kit pressed his lips together.
I pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“You’re thinking something.”
“I’m thinking you’ve accidentally discovered the world’s most effective skincare advertisement.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
His expression brightened.
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He took a bite of his muffin.
I hated how pleased he looked.
“Anyway,” I continued, “someone’s already shared our booking website in the comments. I’ve spent the entire morning answering questions about paranormal activity.”
“Has anyone booked?”
I hesitated.
“A few people.”
“How many?”
“Four since last night.”
Kit lifted his eyebrows.
“Four?”
“Five, actually, if you count the woman from Ohio who wanted to honeymoon here with a ghost.”
He laughed.
“That’s impressive.”
“The ghost or the honeymoon?”
“Both.”
I shook my head.
“It’s not exactly the image I’ve been trying to create.”
“What image are you going for?”
“A charming historic inn. Comfortable rooms. Exceptional service. Romantic weekend getaways.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Thank you.”
“Maybe a little haunted.”
I gave him a look.
He held up both hands.
“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”
I wasn’t entirely convinced.
But I was beginning to understand why his tours were popular.
He had that irritating ability to make people feel like they were in on the joke.
And if I was being completely fair, he’d done everything I’d asked him to do.
He’d moved the tour stop.
He’d apologized.
He’d even brought coffee.
Terrible coffee, initially, but still.
“You know,” I said, “you’re not quite what I expected.”
Kit tilted his head.
“Should I be offended?”
“Probably.”
“What were you expecting?”
I considered the question.
“A middle-aged man in a velvet cape who spends his weekends pretending to communicate with dead people.”
He looked down at his shirt.
“Well, that’s disappointing. I left my cape at home.”
“Dry cleaning?”
“Naturally. Ghost blood is a nightmare to get out.”
I laughed.
Again.
This was becoming a concerning pattern.
The front door opened just as Kit reached for the last bite of his muffin.
Two women stepped inside.
Both appeared to be in their early twenties. One wore a black hoodie and carried an oversized iced coffee. The other had her phone held upright, already recording.
I recognized that particular combination immediately.
Social media tourists.
The woman with the phone slowly turned in a circle, filming the lobby.
“Oh my God, this is it,” she whispered to her friend.
I stepped away from the counter.
“Good morning. Welcome to Briar House. Are you checking in?”
The woman lowered her phone.
“Oh, no. We’re just looking.”
Her friend smiled excitedly.
“We saw the ghost video!”
Of course they had.
“Right,” I said. “Are you interested in making a reservation?”
“Actually,” the woman with the phone replied, “we were wondering if we could see Room Thirteen.”
I gave her my most pleasant customer-service smile.
“I’m sorry, but we don’t offer tours of occupied guest rooms.”
“What if nobody’s in there?”
“The room is currently occupied.”
“Oh.”
She looked disappointed for approximately two seconds.
“Could we just go upstairs and see the hallway?”
“No, I’m afraid not. The upstairs corridors are reserved for registered guests.”
Her friend glanced toward the staircase.
“We won’t touch anything.”
I kept my smile in place.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t, but our guests expect privacy during their stay.”
The woman with the phone sighed.
“We drove forty minutes.”
I sympathized.
Truly.
But driving forty minutes didn’t entitle someone to wander through a hotel and photograph strangers’ bedroom doors.
Before I could respond, Kit stepped beside the counter.
“Hey, ladies.”
Both women turned.
The one holding the iced coffee gasped.
“Oh my God. You’re the ghost-tour guy!”
Kit smiled.
“Guilty.”
“We watched one of your videos!”
“Hopefully one of the good ones.”
The woman laughed.
He glanced at me before addressing them again.
“Eden’s right about the rooms. Briar House is a working inn, so the guest areas aren’t open to visitors.”
The women exchanged glances.
“But,” Kit continued, “if you’re interested in the history, there’s a walking tour this afternoon that covers the original buildings in Briar Glen. We do the Violet Ash story near the old cemetery.”
“Really?” the woman asked.
“Three o’clock. Starts downtown by the visitor center.”
She brightened.
“That’s actually perfect!”
Kit nodded toward the door.
“And if you need somewhere to grab lunch beforehand, the café across from the square makes an excellent grilled cheese.”
The women thanked him and headed back outside, already discussing their afternoon plans.
The second the door closed, I looked at Kit.
“That was smooth.”
He shrugged.
“People usually just want something interesting to do.”
“You’ve clearly dealt with this before.”
“A few times.”
I crossed my arms.
“You’re telling me you never have difficult tourists?”
“Oh, constantly.”
“Really?”
“Last Halloween, a guy demanded a refund because he didn’t see an actual ghost.”
I stared at him.
“You’re joking.”
“Wish I was.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That the ghosts were independent contractors and I couldn’t guarantee their availability.”
I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my latte.
Kit grinned.
“See? You’re starting to understand the business.”
“Don’t push it.”
He glanced toward the entrance.
“Seriously, though, if you get more visitors like that, send them my way. I’ll make sure my guides know not to encourage anyone to enter the inn without a reservation.”
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
His expression softened slightly.
“You’re welcome, Eden.”
Something about the way he said my name made me look away.
Which was ridiculous.
People said my name all day.
Guests.
Employees.
Vendors.
Usually while telling me something had broken.
There was absolutely no reason it should sound different coming from him.
I picked up my coffee.
Definitely needed more caffeine.
By eleven, our weekend front-desk clerk had arrived, and I’d managed to finish most of the morning reports.
Kit was still there.
Not because I’d invited him to stay.
Technically.
He’d been telling me about the updated walking route, and somewhere between a story about a haunted churchyard and a surprisingly detailed explanation of pedestrian traffic patterns, I’d agreed to look at it myself.
Which was how I ended up walking through downtown Briar Glen with Christopher Wilder on a Sunday morning.
Voluntarily.
There were several things about my life I needed to reevaluate.
“So,” Kit said as we crossed the square, “how long have you been in the hotel business?”
“Since college.”
“That long?”
I looked at him.
“Careful.”
He grinned.
“Just asking.”
“I’ve worked in hotels for almost ten years.”
“Corporate?”
“Mostly.”
“Must’ve been a big adjustment, going from that to owning Briar House.”
I considered the question.
“Some days.”
“Good adjustment or bad adjustment?”
“Depends whether the plumbing is working.”
He laughed.
We passed a bookstore with orange mums spilling from wooden barrels beside the entrance. Across the street, families lined up outside Bramble & Bean, where a chalkboard advertised maple lattes and apple cider doughnuts.
Briar Glen was especially busy this weekend.
Peak foliage season.
For the next few weeks, tourists would descend on the Hudson Valley in search of colorful trees, quaint little towns, and enough pumpkin spice to financially support the entire coffee industry.
I loved it.
Even when it exhausted me.
Kit slowed as we approached the corner near the historic cemetery.
“This is where we’re moving the stop.”
I surveyed the area.
The sidewalk widened beside an old stone wall. A small grassy space separated it from the road, and the entrance to the cemetery sat a short distance away.
It was a much better location.
“How many people do you usually have on a tour?” I asked.
“Depends on the night. We cap the regular tours at twenty.”
“Why twenty?”
“Big enough to make the numbers work. Small enough that people can still hear the guide without crowding the sidewalks.”
I nodded.
That made sense.
“We also schedule extra guides during October,” he continued. “Halloween weekend gets crazy, so we run several smaller groups instead of packing everyone into one.”
I looked at him.
“You actually sound like you know what you’re doing.”
Kit placed a hand over his chest.
“Wow.”
“What?”
“That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. I’m framing it.”
I rolled my eyes.
He laughed.
We reached the old cemetery gate, where an ornate iron arch curved above the stone entrance.
Several faded headstones were visible beyond the fence.
Kit leaned against the low wall.
“My grandfather used to bring me here when I was a kid.”
I glanced at him.
“To the cemetery?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a very specific family bonding activity.”
“He loved local history. Knew every story about every building in town.”
Kit’s expression shifted into something softer.
“He’d tell me about the people who lived here. What they did, where they worked, how the town changed. Half the stories were probably exaggerated, but I loved every one.”
“Is that why you started the tours?”
“Pretty much.”
He glanced toward the old headstones.
“When he died, I kept thinking about all those stories disappearing with him. I figured someone should keep telling them.”
I looked at Kit a little differently.
I’d assumed he started Lantern & Lore because haunted attractions were popular and Halloween tourism was profitable.
I’d never considered there might be something more personal behind it.
“That’s actually really nice,” I said.
He turned toward me.
“Careful, Walsh. You’re being pleasant.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
Kit laughed.
We stood there for a moment, listening to the sounds of the town.
A bicycle bell rang somewhere behind us.
Leaves skittered across the sidewalk.
From the nearby café came the faint smell of fresh bread and coffee.
Then Kit asked, “What made you choose Briar House?”
I looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“You could’ve managed a hotel anywhere. Why buy an old inn in Briar Glen?”
I hesitated.
It was a reasonable question.
One I got asked fairly often, actually.
Usually by people who assumed I’d inherited a fortune or married someone wealthy.
Neither was true.
“I wanted something that was mine,” I said finally.
Kit waited.
I appreciated that he didn’t immediately interrupt.
“I spent years working for other people. Opening hotels. Fixing problems. Managing teams. I was good at it, but eventually I wanted more control over what I was building.”
“So you bought an entire hotel?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds impulsive.”
“Was it?”
I thought about the night I’d first found the listing.
The wine.
The laptop.
The absurdly beautiful photographs.
The immediate and completely irrational certainty that the inn belonged to me.
“Maybe a little.”
Kit laughed.
“Respect.”
“I did my research.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“I had spreadsheets.”
“Naturally.”
“Multiple spreadsheets.”
He shook his head, smiling.
“Of course you did.”
I nudged a fallen leaf off the toe of my boot.
“The previous owner was retiring. The property needed work, but it had potential. And I liked the idea of having a place where people could come to get away from everything.”
Kit studied me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“Looking at me like you’re thinking something.”
“I am thinking something.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Not this time.”
He smiled, but there was something different about it.
Less teasing.
More thoughtful.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think you picked a good place.”
I glanced back in the direction of the inn.
“Thanks.”
“And you’ve done a hell of a job with it.”
The compliment caught me off guard.
There was no joke attached.
No little smirk.
Just a simple statement.
I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.
So naturally, I made things awkward.
“Well, I do have excellent taste.”
Kit grinned.
“Obviously.”
I looked at him.
He looked back.
And for one brief second, I had the distinct feeling we weren’t talking about the inn anymore.
Before I could decide what to do with that information, someone called his name.
“Kit!”
A bearded man approached us from the opposite sidewalk, carrying a folder and a travel mug.
Kit lifted a hand.
“Ollie. Perfect timing.”
The man joined us.
“This the new stop?” Ollie asked.
“Yep. Eden, this is Ollie Dawson, my operations supervisor. Ollie, Eden Walsh. She owns Briar House.”
Ollie offered his hand.
“Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
He smiled.
“Sorry about the crowd last night. We hadn’t realized that window was so close to the old stopping point.”
“I appreciate you both making the adjustment,” I told him.
Ollie opened his folder and showed Kit an updated route map.
“We can move the group around this corner, but we’ll need to change the timing on the courthouse stop.”
Kit studied the map.
“That’ll work. Just make sure the guides know we’re using the marked crossing.”
“Already sent the update.”
They spent another few minutes discussing the tour schedule, guest counts, and upcoming bookings.
I listened with growing interest.
It was strange seeing Kit like this.
Professional.
Organized.
Completely familiar with the details of his business.
I’d spent most of our first conversation assuming he was some charming local guy who made money telling ghost stories.
Instead, he was running a legitimate tourism company with employees, schedules, safety procedures, and an actual operational plan.
I hated being wrong.
Especially about attractive men.
Ollie eventually excused himself to take a call.
Kit tucked the updated map into his jacket pocket.
“So,” he said, turning toward me, “what’s the verdict?”
I looked around the corner one last time.
“The location works.”
“High praise.”
“The sidewalk is wider, you’re away from guest windows, and your visitors won’t block our entrance.”
Kit nodded.
“Good.”
“Thank you for taking care of it.”
He smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
I hesitated.
Then added, “And your operation is impressive.”
Kit stopped walking.
I immediately regretted speaking.
“What?” I asked.
He slowly turned toward me.
“Could you repeat that?”
“No.”
“Just once.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I’d like to record it for future reference.”
“Keep walking, Wilder.”
He laughed and fell into step beside me.
We took the longer route back toward Briar House.
Not because it was necessary.
Kit said he wanted to show me another historic property near the square, and I decided it would be useful to learn more about the local attractions.
A completely professional decision.
One that had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I was enjoying myself.
We passed an antique shop with a display of old hotel keys in the window.
Kit stopped.
“That reminds me. Have you ever looked into the original guest records at Briar House?”
“Some of them. Why?”
“Your place has one of the better-known local legends.”
“I gathered.”
He smiled.
“The previous owner let my grandfather look through some of the old records years ago. He was obsessed with Violet Ash.”
“Was she actually a ghost?”
“Very funny.”
“I’m asking for historical accuracy.”
“Violet owned the property for almost thirty years,” Kit explained. “Back when it was a boardinghouse.”
That caught my attention.
“She owned it?”
“According to the records, yeah.”
“Interesting.”
“Most people only know the story about her mysterious lover.”
I frowned.
“What lover?”
Kit glanced at me.
“You really haven’t heard the whole story?”
“Do I look like I spend my evenings listening to ghost stories?”
He considered me.
“Actually, you look like you spend your evenings yelling at spreadsheets.”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
That was alarmingly accurate.
“You’re not wrong.”
He laughed.
“Well, according to the legend, Violet was in love with a man who disappeared before they could marry. She supposedly waited for him at the upstairs window every night.”
I looked at him.
“That’s depressing.”
“Romantic, depending on who you ask.”
“No. Depressing.”
Kit raised an eyebrow.
“Not a fan of grand romantic gestures?”
“I’m a fan of women having better things to do than stare out windows waiting for men.”
He laughed.
“Fair point.”
“Seriously. She owned an entire boardinghouse. Surely she had bills to pay.”
“Probably.”
“Guests to manage.”
“Definitely.”
“Plumbing issues.”
Kit grinned.
“You’re really taking this personally.”
“Someone needs to defend Violet.”
He looked at me for a moment.
Then smiled in a way that made me feel strangely self-conscious.
“I think you’d have liked her.”
I glanced at him.
“You think?”
“Yeah.”
“Based on what?”
“She apparently didn’t put up with much nonsense.”
I laughed.
“Well, that I can respect.”
We reached the corner where Briar House came into view.
The inn looked beautiful in the late-morning sunlight. The maple trees framing the property were turning brilliant shades of orange and red, and the porch decorations practically glowed against the pale siding.
I loved that building.
Even when I wanted to set its plumbing on fire.
Kit stopped beside me.
“Listen, Eden. If you ever want help putting together a little historical display or something for your guests, let me know.”
I looked at him.
“A display?”
“Yeah. Old photographs, a few stories about the property. Maybe some information about Violet that doesn’t involve summoning her from beyond the grave.”
I considered the idea.
It wasn’t terrible.
Actually, it was pretty good.
Our guests loved learning about the history of the inn, and I’d been meaning to update the little library display for months.
“That could be interesting,” I admitted.
Kit smiled.
“There’s another compliment.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
We walked up the front path together.
At the porch steps, he stopped.
“Well, I should get going.”
“More ghosts to bother?”
“Always.”
I smiled before I could stop myself.
Kit noticed.
Again.
He really needed to stop doing that.
“Thanks for coming out this morning,” he said.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“Even though the first one was terrible?”
“Especially because the first one was terrible. Really set the bar low.”
He laughed.
“Next time I’ll get it right.”
Next time.
There was a perfectly reasonable response to that.
Something casual.
Something professional.
Instead, I said, “We’ll see.”
Kit’s smile turned slow and entirely too pleased.
“Have a good afternoon, Eden.”
“You too, Kit.”
He headed down the walkway.
I watched him reach the gate before turning toward the entrance.
Then I caught myself watching him again.
Ridiculous.
Absolutely ridiculous.
I was a grown woman.
I owned a business.
I had employees and a mortgage and an overflowing email inbox.
I was not going to stand on my own porch admiring some man’s backside like a teenager.
Even if it was a particularly impressive backside.
I went inside.
Immediately.
Well.
Almost immediately.
The lobby was busy when I returned.
Our front-desk clerk was helping a couple check out, and the dining room staff was clearing away the last of breakfast.
I stepped behind the desk and opened my laptop.
Three new reservations.
Two more questions about Room Thirteen.
And an email from the heating contractor.
I clicked it.
Then wished I hadn’t.
Subject: Briar House Inn — Boiler Replacement Estimate
Wonderful.
Just what every woman wanted on a Sunday afternoon.
I opened the attached document.
The contractor had inspected the aging heating system earlier that week after one of the upstairs rooms struggled to maintain a consistent temperature.
I’d been hoping for a repair.
A reasonable repair.
Something involving a part that cost less than my monthly mortgage payment.
Instead, the estimate recommended replacing the entire boiler before winter.
Labor.
Equipment.
Installation.
Removal of the old system.
I scrolled to the total.
$18,400.
I stared at the number.
Then scrolled back up.
Maybe I’d misread it.
Maybe there was a decimal in there somewhere.
There was not.
“Eighteen thousand four hundred dollars,” I whispered.
The computer offered no sympathy.
I read through the contractor’s explanation.
The boiler was still operating, but the internal components were deteriorating. Repairs might keep it going temporarily, but they wouldn’t solve the underlying problem.
The contractor recommended replacement before freezing temperatures arrived.
I leaned back in my chair.
The timing couldn’t have been worse.
I’d already spent more than planned restoring the guest bathrooms, updating the mattresses, and replacing several windows before the busy fall season.
Those renovations were necessary.
Guests expected hot showers, comfortable beds, and windows that didn’t whistle every time the wind blew.
Apparently, they also expected heat.
Entitled monsters.
I opened the financial spreadsheet I’d been avoiding all weekend.
The repair reserve wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t exactly overflowing either.
Twelve thousand nine hundred dollars.
That was what I had set aside for unexpected maintenance.
Not terrible.
Not enough.
And spending every penny would leave me with nothing for the next emergency.
With an old house, there was always a next emergency.
I rubbed my forehead.
There were options.
I could look into financing.
Adjust the timeline on the remaining renovations.
Push winter package sales.
Possibly negotiate a payment schedule with the contractor.
None of it was impossible.
But none of it was especially comforting.
My phone buzzed beside the keyboard.
For one hopeful second, I thought it might be Mina asking whether I wanted to grab dinner later.
Instead, it was another notification from the ghost video.
I opened the app.
Over one hundred thousand views.
People were still commenting.
Still tagging their friends.
Still asking how to book the haunted room.
I almost laughed.
All this time, I’d been investing in professional photographs, search ads, and seasonal promotions.
Meanwhile, a blurry video of a woman in a bathrobe had done more for my October reservations than my entire marketing plan.
I checked the booking calendar.
Halloween weekend was nearly sold out.
That was something.
A small something.
I looked back at the estimate.
Eighteen thousand four hundred dollars.
Then at the reservation calendar.
Three weekends of strong occupancy wouldn’t magically solve everything.
And once the leaves were gone, the bookings would slow.
January was already looking painfully empty.
I sat there for a while, listening to the familiar sounds of Briar House.
The gentle hum of the refrigerator behind the front desk.
Footsteps on the staircase.
A guest laughing in the dining room.
The low murmur of conversation drifting through the lobby.
I’d wanted this place so badly.
Not just the building.
The life.
The freedom to make my own decisions and build something I could be proud of.
I’d spent years working for a company where every good idea had to pass through six departments and three executives before anyone could act on it.
Here, the decisions were mine.
So were the consequences.
A guest appeared at the front desk carrying two shopping bags.
“Excuse me?”
I straightened immediately.
“Of course. How can I help you?”
She smiled.
“We’re heading into town for the afternoon. Is there somewhere you’d recommend for lunch?”
I reached for the map beneath the counter.
“Absolutely. If you’re looking for something casual, there’s a wonderful little café near the square. And if you want a proper sit-down lunch, The Orchard Table has a great seasonal menu.”
“Oh, perfect!” she said.
I marked both locations.
She thanked me and headed toward the door.
I watched her leave.
Then looked back at my computer.
The contractor’s email was still open.
At the bottom was a note asking for a signed approval and deposit by Friday to hold the installation date.
I read it once more before opening my spreadsheet.
There wasn’t much point staring at the estimate.
The number wasn’t going to change because I disliked it.
I entered the expense, adjusted the projected cash flow, and saved the file.
Then I opened the reservations inbox.
Seven new inquiries waited.
One was for an anniversary weekend.
Another for a mother-daughter getaway.
Two were asking about our winter packages.
I clicked the first message and began typing a response.
Outside, a few tourists paused to photograph the inn beneath the turning leaves.
I could hear their laughter through the open window.
For a moment, I let myself enjoy the sound.
Then I went back to work.
Briar House wasn’t going to run itself.
And until Violet Ash started contributing to the mortgage, neither was I.