Chapter 1 Falling Inn Love

Beth

No, there’s no one.

I wasn’t sure where I’d end up today, but this sure as hell wasn’t it.

“Great. Just freaking great,” I mutter as steam pours out from under the hood of my ten-year-old green Subaru. My car smells awful, like something burning or melting.

I pull off to the side of the road and park, a sitting duck in my no-longer-trustworthy SUV,hoping I’m not going to be turned into roadkill by a big semi coming down the highway.

I reach across the seat and pull my phone over to me by the charging cord. Thankfully,it’s fully charged.

“Where the hell am I?” I cringe as I open a navigation app.

Freedom Valley, New Hampshire.

I cup my face with my hands. My chest tightens as I begin to cry. I’m running out of money and time, and it’s starting to get dark out. Hot tears streak my cheeks.

I just want to go home, but I don’t have a home anymore; I haven’t for the past six years. Nowadays, home is this nomadic lifestyle I’ve chosen for myself.

I hear a light tapping on the window and look up to see a tall, dark-haired man with the most gorgeous light green eyes peering down at me.

Great. Now this is the part where I get murdered on a highway all alone.

I roll the window down a little and the man leans in, looking concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I just pulled over for a rest,” I say, forcing a smile and wiping my eyes, quickly trying to look away and not stare too long. His hair topples over his forehead as he inches closer. He has a full, dark beard that makes me weak in the knees.

Are beards out? Because if they are, they should definitely be back in. This guy makes it work. I’ve never seen a more gorgeous man, and this beard makes him dark, scary, and handsome all at the same time.

“Are you sure? I think something is wrong with your car. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s the radiator. Do you want me to take a look?”

He cringes as he turns his head away from the awful, acrid smell of the smoke continuing to barrel out of the hood.

It occurs to me that I could possibly be his next intended victim on this lonely New Hampshire two-lane highway, where no one would ever hear me scream.

He doesn’t look like a murderer, but I’m basically an expert in Dateline and forensics and murder shows on Netflix, so here we are. Where it all probably ends.

He holds up his hands and says with a smile, “I’m Evan.”

“Hi,” I say quietly.

“Hi,” he replies softly, his eyes taking in my face with curiosity. “Can I help you? I can’t just leave you here. My mom would kill me.”

Great. A family of murderers. Hey, I’ve seen that movie Wrong Turn.

“Okay, but can I stay in the car?” I ask. I’m nervous. I am all alone out here and I don’t know this guy.

“Yep, just pop the hood,” he says, then walks to his old retro truck parked in front of me with its hazards blinking.

I take him in. He’s even nice-looking from the back, as well. Maybe even more so. Why am I admiring this stranger’s backside? This isn’t good.

He’s tall, wearing form-fitting jeans and brown boots. He’s not wearing the flannel.

It’s wearing him. Damn. He’s a walking lumberjack snack. He pulls a pair of gloves from his truck and strolls back to my car, using his gloves to lift the hot hood that seems to have finally stopped steaming.

From the safety of my car, I hear him messing around with some things before he shuts the hood and taps on my window.I roll it down again, still unsure of this guy.

“It’s your radiator, so I wouldn’t drive it anymore. It needs to be towed into town to Sam’s to get looked at. I can give you a ride to wherever you’re going,” he says as he tucks his gloves into his back pocket.

I nod, my chest tightening up again. “Okay, but I don’t know where to go. I was staying in my car and dry camping,” I admit, looking out the window. I realize I shouldn’t have told him I have nowhere to go, but what other options do I have?

A car zips past us, making me jump. When I glance back at him, I notice he’s still staring at me, looking a little bit in shock.

“Staying in your car? Is that safe?” he asks, his eyes narrowing like he wants to give me a dad lecture.

“I have nowhere to go or stay now,” I say motioning to my car. “This was my plan.”

He strokes his chin, looking frustrated. “Grab whatever you need for tonight and I’ll take you to the inn up the road. I know the owner. You can stay there until you figure out your car.”

“Why would you do that?” I ask nervously, crossing my arms, starting to shiver.

“Because if my mom and sister knew that I left you out here on the side of the road and didn’t help you, they’d be really angry. And trust me, you do not want to see those two angry or

disappointed. It’s the worst. Come on, get your stuff, we don’t have all night. I’ll give you a lift and call the tow for you. It’ll be fine.”

I finally just blurt it out. “Are you a murderer? How do I know you won’t kill me and bury me in the woods somewhere out here?”

He sizes me for a minute then bursts out laughing. “You’re funny. Come on, get your things. You’ll be fine. I only murder on the weekends.”

“It’s Friday. It is the weekend.”

“Fine, I only murder on holidays,” he deadpans with a smile, rolling his eyes and turning to look down the road.

“If you murder me, I will come back as a ghost and haunt you for the rest of your life.”

“Fair enough,” he says as he shrugs his shoulders, looking like he’s trying to hide another smile.

I take a deep breath and gather up my phone, charger, and purse.

“Is that all you’ll need for a few nights? It might be a few days before Sam can fix this.”

I get out and open the trunk, pulling out my overnight bag. Before I can sling it over my shoulder, Evan gently takes it from me and steps back.

“Anything else?” he asks.

I lift my laptop backpack out of the car, then lock up and walk toward Evan’s truck. He tucks my bag into the back and opens the passenger door for me. He has this nice, warm,

small-town vibe, and it works for him. I still hope he’s not a murderer, though, because what a waste of a good-looking guy that would be.

“I like your truck,” I say, glancing around at it. It has an old, worn but colorful blanket on the bench, probably to conceal decades of wear and tear.

“Thanks. It was my grandfather’s and then my father’s. It makes me feel close to them when I drive it.”

Wow, that is heartwarming. I couldn’t imagine having anything of my mothers, let alone my grandmother’s.

“Where are you coming from?” he asks as he pulls back onto the road.

I debate over how much is too much to tell him, but I’ve already jumped in his truck with him, so what’s the point of holding back now?

He seems like a nice guy, and he’s definitely attractive. I watch his profile as he drives, his green eyes striking against his dark beard and his big hands... Okay, focus, Beth. Geez.

“Boston,” I say, glancing out the window as the scenery changes to beautiful fall foliage along the road to the inn.

He’s playing eighties music—which I love—on the radio. He turns it down to ask, “So, what brings you to Freedom Valley?”

“I’m a writer and I travel around for work. I was looking for a place to stay for a few weeks to finish a project and see New England in the fall. What about you? What do you do?”

“You’re looking for work?” he replies, ignoring my question.

He’s misunderstood what I do for a living, but to be honest, the writing has not been going well lately. I’ve been doing various admin jobs and some bartending between writing projects, and I could use the extra cash again now, so I nod.

“I think the inn might be looking to hire a front desk manager. Would you be interested if it’s still available?”

“Yes.”

He turns onto a winding road that leads up to a big white inn with a beautiful white sign that reads The Golden Gable Inn in gold script.

There’s a large main building with a lot of small cottages around it. Hunter green shutters grace the front, making it feel more like a home than a hotel.

The large front porch stretches across the front of the main house and has white rocking chairs and potted mums of various fall colors bunched around the chairs and pumpkins stacked on both sides of the doors.

It is one of the most comforting places I’ve ever seen. It feels like coming home. To a real home. I thought places like this only existed in Hallmark movies.

My heart pulls as I remember my small front porch in Texas that I decorated similarly with a fall wreath, pumpkins, and mums every year. Autumn has always been my favorite season and my heart feels sad to think I no longer have a home to decorate.

I start to panic because there’s no way I can afford to stay here for a night, let alone a few nights, and I definitely don’t want to owe this guy any favors.

I’m still not sure why he’s helping me. I want to trust people, but history has taught me not to trust anyone, including random strangers who are eager to help.

There’s a good reason I keep to myself and don’t talk to very many people while traveling. I’ve come across a few creeps.

“Evan, I don’t think I can afford this. I’m sorr?—”

“Relax. I know the owners. I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to set you up for a few days.” He smiles at me reassuringly.

Evan parks and grabs my bag from the back. As we walk up the steps, I run my hand over the railing and glance around at the fall leaves, breathing in the autumn air. It’s getting dark and I’m relieved to not be stuck on the highway anymore.

“It’s a pretty special place,” he says as we walk through the entrance. “Been in the same family for three generations now. You’ll love it here.”

We head up to the desk and I set my backpack down. I freeze when Evan walks behind the desk and begins typing on the keyboard.

“What are you doing?” I ask, confused.

He smiles sheepishly at me. “Told you I knew the owner.”

“Evan, honey, is that you?” a voice calls from the back as a short, round woman with a cropped, white-blonde bob and bright green eyes approaches.

She kisses Evan on the cheek before turning to me and smiling warmly. “Who do we have here? Checking in? I’m Margie, welcome to The Golden Gable Inn.”

I turn to Evan, unsure what to say. It dawns on me that she might be his mother. Their eyes match, but other than that, they don’t look alike.

Finally, I say, “Hi, I’m Beth Markwell. I’m not sure what I’m doing just yet…”

Evan, still typing, says, “She’ll be checking in for the weekend.”

“You work here?” I ask in disbelief, looking at him while this woman curiously watches me.

“Yes, my family owns the inn,” he says. “Okay, I’ve got a queen bed available on the first floor. Will that work?”

he asks, his green eyes peering at me, his gaze lingering on my mouth as he bites his bottom lip.

Holy shit. This man melts me like butter in a pan just from looking at him. I know I just met him, but I feel this connection with him. I don’t think I’ve ever felt instant electricity with someone like this, but I can feel it radiating off him, too. It isn’t just me.

“I don’t know how I can pay you,” I reply nervously. I wish the world would swallow me up, I’m so embarrassed.

The woman tilts her head and asks, “Where are you from, honey?”

Okay, I’m from the south where people are typically overly friendly—you know, the whole southern hospitality thing. But so far, everyone is even nicer here. I’m hesitant to talk about myself, but something feels different here. I slowly feel my guard letting down, and if I’m being honest, it actually feels good.

“Originally Austin, Texas. I travel a lot now; I’m a writer. I was hoping to stay in the area for a while, if I can find a place to stay and find part-time work.”

She looks at Evan and murmurs, “No show on our interview today.”

Then she turns to me. “Well, we could use some help around here for a while. Would you be available to lend a hand? Front desk help, maybe in the dining room, too, if we need it?”

I hesitate for a moment then realize I have no other options. “Sure,” I finally say.

Thankfully, the murderer vibes aren’t here.

Evan slides a key on a vintage-white, worn motel keychain with the inn’s logo in gold script and a form across the desk for me to sign.

I sign it and slide it back, palming the key. Evan then picks up my bag and heads down the hall.

“I’m glad I found you and that you’re safe,” he says as I catch up to him.

“I can’t imagine my sister breaking down like that and not having anywhere safe to go. Is there anyone you can call?” he asks.

My shoulders sag. I miss having a person to call.

“No, there’s no one,” I say quietly.