Page 50 of In Your Wake

And that’s why she’s still so much better a person than I’ll ever be.

Max

Some mornings, when the inn is silent and the guests are still asleep, I like to come in early and sit on the veranda with a hot cup of coffee. I shut my eyes and let the quiet spread over me and erase the loneliness, the regrets, the hurt. I exist in the contentment of the peaceful room and pretend I’m in my dream home by the sea, letting the sunrise’s promise of a new day heal all my wounds.

This nearly two-hundred-year-old house has witnessed so many generations come and go, and sometimes I hear the whispers of ghosts cradling me in their collective love.

And on other mornings, like today, the inn is silent not because of sleeping guests, but because of the lack thereof. There are no whispers of the past. Only the sound of me sipping my coffee and putting the cup down on the wooden table. There are no ghosts keeping me company, only my anxiety.

It could be a side-effect of my chat with Celia and resurrecting all those emotions I’d long since buried, but it’s impossible for me to relax no matter what I do.

Great. One more thing Mitch has ruined for me.

With a long exhale, I open my eyes and yelp. The coffee sloshes in my cup. There’s a stranger outside setting a ladder up against the side of the house, blocking my view of the garden.

I hurry out, shielding my eyes from the rising sun. “Excuse me. Can I help you?”

He’s an older gentleman, maybe in his early-sixties with gray hair and a kind smile. “Morning, Miss. I’m here to paint the siding.”

“I didn’t hire anyone to paint the siding,” I say.

He frowns, scratching his chin, then pulls his phone out of his back pocket. “Contract says I’m to paint the exterior of the Adams Inn. This is the Adams Inn, isn’t it?” He stretches his arm out, handing me his phone, but I don’t need to see the contract to understand what’s going on.

“Dammit, Mitchell,” I hiss under my breath, pulling out my phone.

~

“Who the hell do you think you are?” I shout, meeting Mitch halfway down the front path. “You can’t just have it painted!”

“Actually, I can,” he challenges with a smile I used to love before I started hating it. The sort of grin that says he gets a rise out of making me angry. “And you can’t deny the place looks like shit dipped in the eighties and needs a paint job.”

“I never agreed to this,” I say, pulling him aside so the old man doesn’t overhear. “I can’t pay for this.”

“You don’t need to, remember? I said I’d take care of it. Now stop being a whiny brat and get on board.”

He brushes past me and stops by the ladder. “Nice work, Rusty,” he says to the painter before heading inside, twirling his key ring around his finger.

“I don’t want your money,” I say when I catch up to him. “I don’t need your help.”

“Good thing, ‘cause I’m not giving you the money. It’s for the inn. It’s for my dad.”

His real meaning is loud and clear. “Right, since this isn’t technically my family’s business, I have no say in it. Is that it?”

“I didn’t say that.” As if he runs the place, he strides into the back office then helps himself to a cup of coffee at the Keurig. My Keurig.

“But you implied it. God, Mitch, you’re such a faker.”

“Is that so?”

“You don’t care about your father or the inn. You only care about your image. About what people will think.”

He slaps a sugar packet against his hand, a smirk lighting up his face as he glances back at me. The sound of his every movement scratches like sandpaper against my nerves, setting my teeth on edge. “You never were a morning person. Glad to see that hasn’t changed,” he adds with a chuckle.

“Can you blame me? You’ve barged into my life and have taken over. You’re always around. It’s like you’re… my babysitter!”

He props himself against the small cabinet, facing me, while the coffee machine churns.

“And as your babysitter, does that mean I can send you to your room if you’re being a bad girl?” Amused, he arches an eyebrow, but it’s the gravelly, deep tone of his voice that makes my stomach ignite with… something.