“You do,” Meredith said, already bagging them up with the force of destiny. “It’s for charity.”
Gregory materialized from nowhere, wearing his “Honorary Bitch” badge and a glower that could sour milk. “And if any one of ye steps past that gate, I’ll let these ladies show you what type of damage can be done with a knitting needle.”
“We’re not here for trouble,” Parka repeated, gaze sliding toward the upstairs windows. “We just need a shot of Mr. Byrne. Then we’ll be out of your hair.”
“Then you’re in the wrong place,” Esther said. “We’ve only got a John Smith.”
“I love them,” I said, pleased with their ferocity. Kingsbarns always stood for their own.
Behind me, the front bell dinged with the energy of doom. My guests had come downstairs.
I pasted on a smile and closed the door behind me, stepping into the foyer, where our Italian couple huddled with their luggage and the American clutched a newspaper to her chest like a shield.
“Skye,” the American said gravely, as if delivering news about a beloved but disreputable relative, “your front garden has turned into the BBC.”
“They’re not from the BBC,” I scoffed. “They’re … freelancers.”
The Italian woman wrinkled her nose adorably. “We cannot stay. We adore your inn, but the paparazzi outside the window, they make the romance…eh…”—she rotated her wrists helplessly—“limp.”
“Flat,” her husband supplied.
“Flat,” she agreed. “We will go to St. Andrews where there is more peace.”
“I completely understand,” I said, my smile starting to hurt my face. “I’ll comp your last night and help you book a taxi.”
“They’re blocking the lane,” the American observed helpfully out the window.
“I’ll get Gregory to move them,” I said, with the breezy confidence of a woman who would absolutely send Gregory out to menace the vans with pebbles.
The German pair came down at nine sharp with backpacks and expressions set to “efficient disappointment.” By ten thirty, the inn was a hollowed-out shell. Biscuits uneaten, bookings canceled, my bank account looking at me like it needed a hot-water bottle and encouraging words. Outside, the Book Bitches rousingly caroledO Come, All Ye Faithfulat a volume and a key likely chosen to specifically disrupt audio recording.
I retreated to the front desk with my ledger and my pride and a smile so brittle I was worried my jaw would lock. Noah appeared at my elbow, which I absolutely did not find comforting.
He looked unfairly good in a jumper and a baseball hat pulled low over his head.
“Hey.” His voice lowered. “You okay?”
“I’m thrilled,” I said brightly. “I’ve always wanted to conduct a stress test on my business.”
He leaned on the desk like he’d forgotten he was public property. I glanced up, glad I’d pulled the curtains closed.
“I can help.”
“With what, exactly? Waving at the cameras in a way that says ‘move along’? Writing a new song called ‘Get Off Skye’s Drive’?”
He slanted a look at me. “I was thinking more like … I could cook. Make sure the Book Bitches have enough tea so they don’t decide to body-check someone into the kirk. And also …”—he tapped the ledger with one finger—“… this.”
My laugh was sharp as glass. “You want to help with my accounts?”
“I know numbers,” he said, unoffended. “Tour budgets, overhead, that beautiful spreadsheet on how much bananas cost per show.”
“Um, no offense, Noah, but we’re literally in this position because of your lack of attention to numbers.” I grimaced, but that was the truth of it.
Noah straightened, his face tightening.
“That’s fair, but I worked with the numbers I was given. Which, apparently, were fake.”
“I’m sorry.” I sighed, and pushed the ledger away from me. “This isn’t your problem to deal with.”
