Page 10 of Bed and Breakup (Dial Delights #15)

Robin

I drag my feet up the stairs, lock myself in the Zinnia Room, and collapse onto the bed.

I’m such an asshole. How could I think Molly came up with some fake plumbing scheme just to mess with me?

Here she is making sure our shared property doesn’t fall to pieces and all I can do is complain about what an inconvenience it is to me personally. Talk about self-centered.

Maybe Molly’s right. Maybe I should just find somewhere else to lie low for a while.

But where else can I stay for free while I figure out what to do with my life next?

I’ve cashed in every available favor in L.A.

and the whole Pacific Northwest at this point.

While pouring every dollar I earned back into my restaurants, I wore out my welcome with every industry acquaintance with a guest room.

I’ve let most of my friendships from my pre-TV days wither to dust. But there must be someone who would be happy to see my face on their doorstep, right?

My parents are the obvious answer. A year ago, I’d have sooner slept in my car than move into my parents’ basement. But here I am, facing down the decision, and…well, my car doesn’t have wifi, or a refrigerator full of gourmet olives.

I heave myself up and find my dad’s number on my phone, ready for my second miserable call of the afternoon.

I give myself a pep talk with my thumb hovering over the call button.

It’s your dad. He loves you. Sure, he shows it in some pretty annoying ways, but if he knows you need help, won’t he be more than willing to give it?

I press the button. It only rings twice before I hear my dad’s voice.

“Birdie!” he says. One word and I’m already cringing.

I hate that nickname. It makes me sound like an eccentric old lady who sexually harasses servers at bingo night.

But Dad continues, unaware of the face I’m making on the other end of the line.

“Been a long time since I heard from my only daughter. Thought you might have gotten too famous for your old man. Sharon, get over here! Robin’s on. ”

“You know I could never get too famous for you, Dad,” I say, my jaw tense around the fake smile intended to make my voice sound friendlier.

“Robin, honey?” I hear my mom’s voice grow louder as she gets closer to the phone. “Is everything all right?”

“Of course everything’s all right,” I lie, wanting to ease into asking the favor. “Just wanted to see how things are going in Little Rock.”

“You know us, always busy,” my mom says. “Gabriel is mad at us for letting Annalise and Bradford watch your old VHS of The Nightmare Before Christmas while they were here last weekend. Apparently Annalise still won’t let them turn the lights off at bedtime.”

I snort, picturing my introverted younger brother lecturing my parents about which movies are appropriate for his kids.

“Four and one do seem a little young for Tim Burton,” I admit.

I’m still scarred from when we watched The Sixth Sense when I was nine and Gabe was seven.

My parents assumed it was a kids’ movie because it starred one.

“Eh, they’ll be fine,” Dad says, unbothered. “Hey, have I told you my new practice in Bryant is opening next month? It’s close to the golf club, so I’ll always make it to tee time.”

Can my parents hear me roll my eyes? “Sounds great, Dad,” I say.

“Speaking of the club, did you hear Penelope Ratcliffe got a divorce?” my mom says.

“I haven’t talked to Penelope since college, Mom. How would I know that?” I’ve gone from polite to surly in under a minute, a new record.

“I heard about the whole gay marriage getting legalized thing, but when did they pass gay divorce?” my dad says in his amateur-stand-up-comic voice.

“Ha ha.”

“Maybe you should give Penelope a call,” my mom says. “Catch up. You’re not with that hippie anymore, right? What was her name…Georgia?”

“Georgina,” I say tightly. “We broke up. And she’s not a hippie, she just lives in Portland.” I can feel a headache brewing. “Anyway, I thought y’all should know I’m in Eureka Springs for a bit.”

“Eureka! I’ve found her!” my dad says, and my mom laughs in the way only a wife can. “You filming something new up there? When can you come down to see us?”

“Not filming,” I say, massaging my forehead with one hand. “I’m using the Hummingbird Inn’s kitchen for some recipe testing.”

“Recipe testing?” my dad asks. “For that camping restaurant?”

“You know that place closed,” I say, failing to curb the annoyance in my voice.

“What was it called again? Scorcher? Burned Out?”

Hearing my dad joke about my passion project, the restaurant I poured my heart and soul into, stings. I’ve known my dad long enough to get that humor (especially bad humor) is his love language, but really ? Can’t he joke about, I don’t know, literally anything else? “It was called Kindling.”

“Up in Flames would have been a better name for it,” he says in a muffled voice, like he’s talking more to my mom than to me. “Since it, you know, went up in—”

“Oh, look at that, my manager’s on the other line,” I blurt out. “Sorry, I’ve got to run. Love y’all, I’ll try to make it down soon!”

I slam the end call button and throw my phone across the room.

Well, that was a terrible idea. If I can’t spend five minutes on the phone with my parents, there’s no way in hell I can live with them.

Molly may be a hostile roommate, but I guess I choose her over my parents’ laughing at every mistake I’ve ever made.

Or calling me too sensitive when I don’t find being the butt of the joke funny.

I look around the Zinnia Room, which no longer has any evidence of why we gave it that name in the first place.

Molly and I bought the inn from an antiquer named Miss Addy.

When we first visited, the rooms had the most horrifyingly tacky themes.

Roosters. Gone fishing. One room was decorated head to toe for Christmas all year long.

And worst of all: the porcelain doll room.

I had literal nightmares about it for years.

Even though it was my job to sell all the old decorations on eBay, I had to beg Molly to deal with the creepy dolls because I couldn’t even look at them without hyperventilating.

When Molly and I bought the inn from Miss Addy, we wanted room themes that felt simple but impactful, timeless but also relevant.

Ultimately, the hummingbird window inspired us.

For the guest rooms, we chose eight different flowers that hummingbirds love, and we decorated accordingly.

We chose zinnias, petunias, lilacs, and honeysuckles for the second floor, sunflowers, lilies, azaleas, and snapdragons for the third.

Molly’s grandma had left her a bunch of handmade quilts with floral patterns that fit pretty close.

We paid Keyana to paint murals of the flower of choice in each room, and Molly made stained-glass windows to match.

When I took charge of the gardens, I planted the same flowers so we could arrange them in vases and use them for decoration when they were in bloom.

The garden had the side benefit of drawing more real hummingbirds to the inn. Guests ate it up.

But now the Zinnia Room looks just like all the others.

Instead of Keyana’s colorful mural, there’s a light gray wall and a mass-produced painting of some footprints on a beach.

No fresh flowers on the dresser. No lovingly handmade floral quilt.

Just Molly’s stained-glass window of a bouquet of pink, orange, and yellow blossoms without context.

It may be a lifeless imitation of what this inn once was.

But for now? For free ? I guess it’ll do.

I hear the doorbell, then the sound of Molly talking to someone else echoing up the stairwell. Too nosy to ignore it, I stick my head out of the Zinnia Room door. I’m surprised to recognize the voice of an old friend.

“Jesse and Caro told me Robin was in town, but I didn’t know you were here too!” I hear the voice say to Molly.

“Clint!” I say, nearly tripping down the steps in my excitement. “You’re still in Eureka!”

“Of course I am,” Clint says, pulling me in for a hug when I reach the porch. “I’m a lifer.”

“Holy shit, dude,” I say, pulling back to examine his outfit.

His three-piece suit is a major change from the denim cutoffs and tank tops he used to wear for his dozens of part-time jobs around town.

Seems like he’s moved up in the world, but he’s still got the same scrappy charm and contagious smile. “You look great. Is that Hermès?”

“Oh, stop,” Clint says, smoothing back his already perfectly styled dark hair. “I just came from a meeting with some investors. Had to get dolled up.”

“Investors?” I say, blinking.

“I own One More Round now,” Clint says like it’s old news. And maybe it is, but not to me. One More Round was a little run-down back in the day, but still the best gay bar in Eureka. And Clint was everyone’s favorite bartender, always good for a heavy pour and a little gossip.

Molly freezes, the dirty rag she was using to wipe her hands going still. “You what ?” she says, equally shocked.

“May I come in?” Clint asks, and we both usher him through the door.

Clint hugs me, then turns to Molly, but seeing how covered in dust and drywall she is, opts for a pat on the back instead.

“Yeah, I bought out the bar a few years back. It was really struggling and the owners were desperate to get rid of it. I used all the renovation and design stuff you taught me at the inn—thanks again, Molly—and now it’s less hole-in-the-wall and more sleek, trendy club people travel from out of state to visit. ”

Molly looks as astonished as I feel when she says, “That’s incredible, Clint. I’m so happy for you. I’ll have to visit while I’m in town.”

“You must! Drinks on the house.” Clint pauses for a moment, taking in the dull gray hellscape around him. “Speaking of house…what the hell happened here?”

Molly and I muddle through an embarrassed explanation of the management company’s poor choices. It’s strange to be on the same side of an issue after how much we’ve been butting heads, but there’s no denying their redesign was a major downgrade.

Based on Clint’s overly theatrical response, I’m guessing he’d heard rumor of the makeunder from Jesse and Caro, but seeing it in person is a whole other kind of shock.

After all, he was here for the Hummingbird’s glow-up.

Miss Addy had used Clint as a handyman, and Molly kept him around to help with some of her projects when she realized how embarrassingly unhandy I was with power tools.

“That company should be run out of town for ruining this place,” Clint declares.

“It looks like if Eeyore decided to take up interior design. After going off his antidepressants. You’re planning to fix it, right? ”

My glance meets Molly’s for a moment before we both look away like eye contact is lava. “We’re here for…other reasons,” I say.

Clint points toward the plastic tarps hanging from the kitchen doorway. “But…”

“Just fixing a leak,” Molly says.

“That’s a shame,” Clint says with a sigh. “I’ve been thinking about expanding my portfolio in town. Buying a restaurant, or a spa, or, I don’t know, maybe an artfully quirky vintage bed-and-breakfast with national name recognition among queer travelers.”

If I were a cartoon character, my pupils would be dollar signs right now. “You’d think about buying the Hummingbird?” I ask.

Clint waves a hand toward the horrible exposed-bulb light fixture on the dining-room ceiling.

“Not like this. Sorry, but I saw how hard y’all worked to get it in shape last time, and I’m still burned out from renovating the bar.

I’m not looking for this much of a fixer-upper.

But if you two were to flip it again together… y’all are back together, right?”

“No,” Molly and I say in unison.

“We’re, uh, here to work some things out. Separately,” I add.

Clint looks back and forth between us. “Okay, then,” he says skeptically.

“If you decide bringing the inn back to its former glory and selling it will help you ‘work some things out’…” He pulls a business card from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and hands it to me.

“Call me. Anyway, got to run. Some luxury liquor salesmen invited me to a tasting in a cave. Seriously, come to the bar soon. Good to see y’all back in town! ”

After Clint leaves, I look down at the thick, matte, gold-embossed card in my hand— Clint Boswell, innovative entrepreneur, style icon. I turn to Molly, thrilled at the possibility of Clint’s offer, only to be met with a stony look.

“Absolutely not,” she says, then spins around and disappears through the kitchen door.

“Can’t we talk about it?” I ask, but I can’t even finish my sentence before I’m cut off by the roar of some power tool.

I guess that easy money won’t be as easy as I hoped.