I’ve worked here since I first moved to Mayweather—I used to have Danny’s job—but the inn’s only been mine for almost a year now, and while I like to think I’m great at what I do, sometimes it feels like I’m just winging it.

There’s always that fear in the back of my mind that I’m going to fail.

And then I might not be able to pay May’s grandparents back the large sum of money they lent me to buy this place. Asking them for a loan was painful, but it was worth it for the chance at providing a better life for May.

Danny seems to take pity on me in my distress. He softens and lets out a sigh. “I’ve been trying to figure out all morning how this happened. I told you we need a newer computer that can run a better booking system.”

He’s not wrong, but fuck.

“I’ll handle it,” I tell him. But when I step behind the desk and see that he’s talking about a date next week, right between the end of a large corporate retreat’s visit and the start of Mayweather’s spring festival, I already know I’ll have to resort to something drastic to fix this. Like get the guests a room at another nearby inn for the night before moving them back here and comping part of their stay. That’s seriously unprofessional, but luckily my sunny disposition and charm can get me a long way.

And tourists visit here for the small-town charm, after all.

Forty-five minutes and one headache later, everything’s sorted, and I’m finally able to pop into the kitchen for more coffee. But the sight in there makes me pause.

Addison, my new head chef and culinary goddess, is crouched down, wringing her hands together as she peers into one of the ovens.

For the love of Drag Race, what now?

“Um. Everything okay in here?” I venture to ask.

“The oven’s broken,” she replies, not even bothering to glance my way.

“No, it’s not,” I say reflexively, then bite my lip. Is this déjà vu? A nightmare? Am I having a stroke?

Addison turns to me as she straightens up. Her shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back into a neat little ponytail, but her chef’s coat is unbuttoned, and her Chainsmokers concert T-shirt has a stain on the chest. “I assure you, it is,” she says dryly.

“Oh. Well. Okay. No big deal. We’ll get it fixed.”

No, no, noooo, please, no.

“In time for that big company’s fancy thing?”

“Um, yeah, of course,” I say. “I’ll get someone to come out and take a look at it today. It’ll be fine.”