Page 22 of Bed and Breakup (Dial Delights #15)

Molly

When did Robin become the petty one? Isn’t that my thing?

There’s no sleeping after all that. Hours later, I’m wide awake in bed in the Snapdragon Room, jumping at every noise, staring at a crack in the ceiling that I’ll have to fix before we sell this place.

I’d almost forgotten about the inn’s ghost stories, but now they’re running on a loop in my head, narrated by Dot’s cigarette-tainted voice.

It’s drizzling outside, and somehow the rain sounds eerily like the click-clack of typewriter keys.

The worst part is that I can’t even blame Robin.

She’s right. I had this coming after the doll stunt.

I want to be furious with her, yet somehow the move makes me respect her more.

I guess she has just as much right to terrify me to death as I do her.

But after agreeing to the reno, shouldn’t I get a free pass from retribution?

After endless tossing and turning, my heart racing at every tiny noise, sunlight begins to light up my room and I drag myself out of bed.

My hangover is rearing its ugly head. Everything hurts.

I pop a couple ibuprofen, chug some water, and try to sketch window design ideas for Drizzled Donuts.

I’ve got a decent vision going, but my hands are too shaky to execute it.

I need sustenance. I head downstairs to the now functional kitchen, trying to decide if I have the energy to scramble some eggs, when I hear Robin’s footsteps behind me.

I turn around and spot a mug in her hand, and I can’t ignore the rich, warm scent coming from it. “Oh my god, is that coffee?”

“I moved the coffee maker to my room while the kitchen was off-limits,” Robin says, then takes a dramatic slurp and sighs contentedly. “Want a cup?”

“God, yes. I slept like shit because someone decided to turn our house into Ghost Disneyland.”

Robin has the grace to look ashamed. “Hand me a mug?”

I reach into a cabinet and pull out the first cup I touch. As I pass it to Robin, we both freeze, spotting the corny cartoon rabbit on the mug at the same moment.

“You still…” Robin’s voice fades before she finishes her sentence.

It’s the bunny mug I found in the basement, the one Robin bought at a yard sale to give me for our first Christmas together. Annoyed as I was at Robin, I couldn’t help but bring it upstairs to use. I clear my throat. “Yeah, I couldn’t get rid of it.”

After another awkward second, Robin grabs the mug and heads back upstairs. She returns a few minutes later with the promised coffee. The first sip makes me feel a little more human. “Thanks,” I grunt. “I’m still not over the ghost thing, though.”

“Fair. I’m still not over the doll thing either.” Robin turns away from me and opens the fridge. “But I’m also fucking starving. Want some breakfast tacos?”

I wish I could hold on to my bitterness enough to say no. This chummy thing we have going on feels new, and I don’t think I like it. But I start salivating at the very idea of Robin’s cooking; I can’t talk my empty stomach out of this. “Yeah,” I say as casually as I can manage. “I do.”

—

Our breakfast together lightens the mood.

There’s no big emotional heart-to-heart.

We don’t say much at all, actually. But sitting across the island from each other as we scarf down mushroom and shishito-pepper breakfast tacos makes me feel truly at home for the first time since I arrived.

Between agreeing to work together on the inn and both getting a chance to terrorize each other, it appears we’ve reached some kind of truce.

Or perhaps the surprise kiss at One More Round helped get some of the tension out, although we seem to be on the same page about acting like it never happened.

And now that my brain isn’t preoccupied with hating Robin and/or thinking about kissing her, I can actually get some work done.

I spend the day soldering together the remaining pieces of the window for Wild Card, then cleaning and polishing it and applying a copper patina to the seams. All I need to do is buff it up with wax and it’s ready for installation.

I’m so exhausted by the end of the day that I fall into a dead sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

I must be in the middle of a REM cycle when I’m awakened around one a.m. , because at first I think the tapping and creaking sounds are part of a dream.

But once I crack open my eyes and situate myself, I realize the noise is coming from the attic.

The sound pauses for a moment, long enough for me to hope I imagined it, before resuming even louder.

The tapping is too irregular to be dripping water, and the groaning floorboards suggest something’s moving around up there.

I’m trying to convince myself it’s not a ghost or serial killer when I hear a loud crash.

I jump out of bed, my heart threatening to burst out of my chest, as I realize what’s going on: Robin’s pranking me again. Just when I thought we’d found peace.

I throw a robe over my underwear and race into the hallway, ready to run to the attic, murder Robin, and add a new ghost story to the Hummingbird’s lore. But I don’t make it that far, because Robin is already halfway up the stairs to my floor.

I go in on her. “Good grief, Robin, can you not give the ghost shenanigans a re—”

But Robin’s shouting right back. “—thought we were even and now you pull this bullshit, scaring me half to…”

We freeze midway through our overlapping rants.

“Wait, that wasn’t you?” I say, taking in Robin’s wrinkled sleep shirt and the lined pillow imprints on her face.

Robin shakes her head, eyes wide. “I thought it was you. ”

“Then who…” My voice trails off as another creak emanates from the floor above us.

Robin and I look toward the ceiling, then back at each other. Too afraid of what might happen if we make another noise, we have a wordless, gesture-laden conversation about who’s going to risk her life to confront the axe murderer in our attic.

Together? I mouth when we reach an impasse.

Robin nods, then looks around, I assume for a makeshift weapon.

I tiptoe into my room, rummage through my toolbox, and return with a hammer and a crescent wrench.

They won’t do much damage to a ghost, but they might harm a more corporeal threat.

Robin grabs the hammer, then moves toward the stairs, gesturing for me to follow.

We both know how to creep up this flight to the attic without making a peep, skipping the fourth step, veering right on the eighth, left on the fifteenth.

When we reach the top, the door is slightly ajar.

Robin looks at me, her hand hovering over the doorknob, eyebrows raised in question.

I gulp, lift my wrench above my shoulder, and nod.

If we’re about to get murdered, at least it will be together.

Robin flings open the door, and my life flashes before my eyes. We race in, weapons in hand, to see Marmalade streak across the wooden floor, chasing a tiny brown mouse into a hole in the baseboard.

“Holy motherfucking shit,” Robin says with a relieved sigh.

I drop the wrench onto the kitchenette table and push my hair from my forehead, fanning away my nervous sweat.

“Christ on a cracker, Marmee, you nearly gave me a heart attack,” I say to the fat gray cat, who’s ignoring me and reaching a whole leg into the mouse’s hole.

Is this the same cat that didn’t even flinch when a mouse ran by her nose in New Orleans?

I guess returning to the home of her kittenhood really has given her some youthful energy.

Robin checks the closet and bathroom, flipping on lights to make sure we’re all clear. Once satisfied, she says, “I guess I’d rather have mice than a ghost infestation.”

“Agreed,” I say, recognizing that this will be funny one day when my heart isn’t racing.

Robin points to a chair lying on its side, toppled from when Marmee jumped from it. “That must have been the bang.”

The cat’s tail flicks, knocking the string hanging from a nearby window’s blinds into the metal radiator. “The tapping sound,” I say.

Robin nods, then rubs her eyes. “Now that’s settled, I should probably go back to bed.”

“Me too,” I say. “I’ll patch that hole tomorrow and pick up some humane traps.”

I grab Marmee, who meows in annoyance, as Robin turns off the lights and closes the door behind us. At the third floor, I drop the cat, who considers sneaking back upstairs before changing her mind and wandering toward the main level, presumably for a snack.

I pause at my doorway, tugging my robe closed. “What do you say we officially call off the pranks?” I suggest. “I don’t think my nerves can take another surprise.”

“Deal.” Robin shakes my hand, our touch lingering longer than necessary.

“You can totally say no, but…what if I slept in your bed tonight? Or you can sleep in mine. Like when we slept in the dining room after Dot told us about the ghosts in the penthouse. I’m still spooked, I don’t know if I’ll be able to sle—”

I must be making a face, because Robin backtracks immediately. “Never mind. Forget it. I’ll leave a lamp on.”

“It’s an emphatic no from me,” I say as Robin turns to head downstairs. I’m shocked that she’s chicken enough to ask, and also admittedly a little smug that I’m brave enough to not say yes. “Not just a no, but a hell no.”

“All right, you don’t have to get nasty,” Robin says without looking back. “I already said forget it.”

“I’d rather take my chances with the ghosts.”

Robin stops on the second-floor landing and puts her hands up. “Your call,” she says. “But I’m definitely a better cuddler.”

“And a bigger drooler,” I say.

“At least I don’t snore,” Robin swats back.

“Good night!” I say, slamming the door behind me.

I crawl back into bed and try to forget the whole incident.

But my brain plays dirty. I’ve never felt so wide awake.

And every time I get anywhere close to relaxing, I hear some normal old house noise that freaks me out all over again.

I can’t go through another day without a good night’s rest. My to-do list is way too long.

I put on a T-shirt and reluctantly head to the Zinnia Room. Sharing a bed with my ex is objectively a bad idea. But I used to sleep like a rock with Robin beside me, and after two nights of interruptions, I would give my left foot for some rest. I tap lightly on Robin’s door.

“Change of heart?” I hear her say, clearly wide awake.

I find Robin tucked under the fluffy white comforter.

A rerun of Grey’s Anatomy, which we used to watch together, is playing on the TV above the dresser, volume turned down to barely a whisper.

Robin looks up at me from the bed with a smirk, at least three times smugger than I was when she first asked. But it’s too late to turn back now.

I cross my arms and say, “No touching. I’ll stay on my side, you’ll stay on yours. Agreed?”

Robin considers my proposal, then says, “Fine.” She flips back the edge of the blanket nearest to me. “But no putting your cold toes on my legs.”

I climb in, pull the sheets up to my chin, and say, “No promises.”