Page 72 of No Room in the Inn
I swallow and look at Sarah.
“Good luck,” she says. “Stay strong. But also try to be understanding,” she adds.
“Whose side are you on?” I say.
“Yours,” she says promptly. “Which is why I think you should try to be understanding. Because I can tell you really like him, Willow, and even though he’s done some dumb things, he’s a good guy.”
I just smile slightly. “All right. I’ll try.”
I leave the table, thankfully not drawing any attention to myself because people are already up and down and milling about again. I head in the direction Nixon went—I assume back to his bedroom. When I get there the door is cracked, so I knock briefly before stepping inside, closing the door behind me.
Nixon turns to look at me when I enter. He pauses in the middle of loosening his tie. It’s a strangely intimate sight, and weirdly attractive. Of course, he could probably dance around in a burlap sack and still be attractive, but whatever.
We just look at each other for a second. Despite the sounds of the party still audible from the other room, a heavy silence lingers between us. I don’t say anything. I just watch Nixon watching me. His eyes flick subtly over me, and I see appreciation in his gaze. My heart picks up speed, but I try to ignore it.
Finally, after standing there for what feels like forever, Nixon sighs and sits on the edge of his bed.
“I thought you sold the inn,” he says without preamble.
I tilt my head. “I didn’t.” I pause before going on. “But even if I did, you knew that was a possibility.”
He nods. “I did. But the last I’d heard you were considering my offer, and then out of nowhere your lawyer called and said he had paperwork for transferring ownership.” He rubs his hand absently over his hair. “I thought you sold it behind my back and didn’t bother telling me.”
I bite my lip, processing. “So you left.”
He nods again, standing once more and approaching me slowly. “So I left,” he says. He looks cautious, like I’m a wild animal that might bite.
I exhale roughly. I get it now. I get why he left.
I get it, but it’s still dumb. I step closer to him. “You fell into a Hallmark trap!” I say, jabbing him in the chest.
“Ow,” he says, rubbing the spot and frowning. He looks down at his chest. “That hurt.”
I fold my arms, trying to look formidable. “Good.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me, and the corners of his lips twitch. “You’re a little bloodthirsty tonight,” he says.
I do not dignify this with an answer.
There’s silence for a second, and then Nixon says, “And what Hallmark trap?”
I throw my hands up in exasperation. “The one where this misunderstanding could have been solved by one simple conversation. That’s it,” I say, holding up one finger. “One conversation. All you had to do was ask me. But instead you stormed off, throwing a temper tantrum—”
“I didn’t throw a temper—”
“And comeon,” I say, cutting him off. Though to be fair, he cut me off first. “That’s one of my biggest pet peeves in romance novels—when all the conflict comes from a misunderstanding that could have been solved by a two minute conversation. And yet”—I give a sweeping gesture around the room—“here we are.”
I havefeelingsabout this.
“All right, all right,” he says, holding up his hands. His voice is placating, soothing. “You’re right. You’re right.” He sighs. “It was stupid of me to leave without asking you about it.”
I give a little sniff. “Yes. It was.” I pause. “And don’t patronize me,” I add.
“I’m not patronizing you,” he says. “I’m being serious.” There’s silence for a second, and he sighs again. “Look. I’m sorry, Willow. I’m really, truly sorry.”
I swallow, trying to keep my expression neutral.Stay strong, I tell myself.Do not give in.
Except…well, he’s just obviously so sincere. I can see it in the slump of his shoulders, in the way he scrubs his hand down his face. He genuinely feels bad.And the greenhouse? He did that for me.
