Page 42 of The Inn Dilemma

“Do what?” I ask, embarrassingly breathless.

“Make me believe things I have no business believing.”

I lift a shoulder. “I think it’s less about what I can doand more about how you know you can trust me to be honest even when you may not actually want that honesty. The same as you are with me.”

“You trust me?”

“With my life.”

He sucks a breath through his teeth, then searches my eyes, lifting his hand up to cup my face. My eyes flutter closed as the rough calluses of his palm meet the smooth skin of my cheek.

“Nova, you don’t know what you?—”

“Holt! Nova! Where are you?” Aunt Birdie flies around the corner of my cabin, shouting.

Holt drops his hands to his sides.

When Aunt Birdie spots us, she adds, “It’s destroyed. Everything is ruined!”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, stopping her and resting a hand on her shoulder. Holt stands beside me.

“The kerosene heater in the basement exploded. Soot got into the ductwork, and the house is uninhabitable.” Tears stream down her face. The usual ball of sunshine has turned into a raining storm cloud.

I put my arm around her and lead her to the bench on Holt's small front porch.

“Try and relax. You have insurance, right?”

She nods, her breathing calming.

“Okay, let’s call them and get this all figured out. It will take some time, but…” I trail off, realization dawning on me. “This may be what we need to override Gladys and her reign of terror.”

Aunt Birdie chokes on a laugh. “I think that may be a bit of an exaggeration.”

I pull back and lift an eyebrow. “Is it? That woman is the human equivalent of a tapeworm.”

Aunt Birdie laughs harder this time, and I give her a few moments to gather herself as her face falls once more. “This house has been around since the founding of Rocosa. Walter would know what to do.” Her voice cracks on her late husband’s name.

“Why did you start the kerosene heater? It’s time to kick on the furnace anyway,” Holt says unhelpfully.

“I don’t know!” Aunt Birdie cries, then buries her face in her hands. “I’ve ruined everything. This house. This business. Your family’s legacy.”

Holt’s voice is calm when he places his hand on her shoulder and says, “Aunt Birdie, this place is more yours than it’s mine. And it’s not ruined. We will fix this. There is a silver lining.”

She throws her hands up in defeat. “What could that possibly be?”

Holt raises his unscarred eyebrow. “The explosion didn’t cause a fire.”

“Well, no matter what, it’s ruined!” Her shoulders shake.

“It’s not,” Holt says calmly, then pulls out his phone and makes a call.

He puts some distance between us and him as he paces the sidewalk and talks.

Aunt Birdie’s eyes are red, but as she looks at her nephew, I see a spark of hope return. “I don’t know what I’d do without that boy,” she says, motioning with her head toward Holt.

“Me neither,” I whisper in agreement. If Aunt Birdie hears me, she doesn’t give any indication.

We sit in pensive silence as Holt continues speaking to the person on the other line. After a few minutes, he hangs up, then tucks his phone back in his pocket.