Page 2 of In Your Wake

I wave a hand through the air. “Nonsense. Don’t worry about it. If anything, I should apologize to you. That toilet is due for a change.”

So is everything in this rundown house.

She nods politely, letting me inside.

“I know you’re attached to this room, Mabel,” I begin. “But are you sure I can’t offer you another one so you don’t have to deal with faulty plumbing?”

“No, thank you, my dear. This is our room. I wouldn’t dream of switching.”

“But I could let you have the honeymoon suite,” I offer, wiggling my eyebrows. “It has a Jacuzzi.” That leaks, I think, but it’s not like she’ll actually use it.

“That sounds lovely, but I’m fine here. Clogged toilets and all.” She affectionately rubs my arm, then sits on the small loveseat while I head into the bathroom and begin clearing the drain.

After about ten minutes of wrangling with the snake, I loosen the clog and clean up.

“Good to go,” I say, stepping out, but find Mabel asleep on the couch, her delicate hands tucked beneath her papery cheek. She looks at peace, smiling, reminding me of my late grandmother.

As quietly as I can, I cover her with a blanket, then leave the room, closing the door behind me.

After putting the tools away, I shove Zayne’s feet off my chair and sit back behind the desk. “We need to find a plumber and change the toilets. I’m sick of doing this.”

“Cha-ching!” Zayne jokes, but he’s right. What money could I even use to pay for all the repairs needed here? We’d need a windfall. Some random gift from above.

“Isn’t the Powerball jackpot up to a billion dollars tonight?” I ask.

Zayne taps a pocket of his dark jeans. “Yes ma’am. Got the winning ticket right here, baby.”

I check the time. “I’m going to the store.”

“But we need to set up for class.”

Right. Our weekly paint night with the local retirees.

“You set up. I’ll be back in ten. Need anything?”

“Can you pick me up something sweet? With peanut butter?”

“You and your peanut butter,” I kid with a laugh, then grab my purse and head out.

Outside, the air is still and muggy, but a pleasant, cool ocean breeze drifts up from a block away and hits my skin. I stop in my steps and take a huge inhale, letting it fill my lungs and ease some of the panic rising in my chest.

Zayne’s right, we’re running out of options. Celia’s suggestion to let my brother Hunter help might not be as bad as I thought. But asking him for help would mean that Spencer and Mitch would find out, too, and that creates a searing pain deep down in my stomach.

The inn might be close to hitting rock bottom and shutting down, but I refuse to ask for help. If I have to sell my blood or organs, I won’t let this fail. I can do this myself. I’ll do anything to make the Adams Inn a success again and to bring in more than just elderly people with broken hearts.

Mitch

If it’s not the name, it’s the face.

It’s the deep-set green eyes, the serious brow. The brown hair that sits on top of my head in a messy mop. It’s the straight edge to my nose, the slight bump near the top from the time Malenkov broke it in the playoffs. Fucking prick.

I think I’m an okay-looking guy. A little broody and imposing at two hundred-twenty pounds, six-foot-one—six-three on skates—which helps with the appeal and with keeping opposing players in their place.

People recognize me because of who I am, and in the rare instance they don’t, then they’re usually attracted to how I make them feel. Scared with a side of excitement. I’m not really a bad guy, but I’ve learned to lean into my strengths. And my intimidating presence is definitely one of them. It brings people in as much as it terrifies the shit out of some.

Take this perky flight attendant who keeps asking if I need more whiskey. She’s already served me a scotch, which is plenty on this one-hour flight from New York, but she hovers at my side anyway.

“Sir, are you sure you’re all right?” she asks with a charming smile.