Page 21 of The Inn Dilemma (Give a Bookish Girl a Biker)

Chapter Fourteen

Nova

T hunk. Thunk. Thunk. Crack! Thud.

The steady rhythm wakes me from my mid-afternoon nap.

I sit up on my couch, stretch my arms over my head, and glance at the clock.

Three o’clock in the afternoon. The buffalo plaid blanket slides off me as I stand and make my way to the window.

I pull back the curtains and am very pleasantly surprised by what I find.

Holt Graves is chopping wood.

His flannel shirt is open in the front, showcasing the fit of the black T-shirt underneath that molds to his abs and broad chest. I swallow the lump in my throat, head over to the kitchen, and pull my water pitcher out of the refrigerator and fill up a glass.

As if I’m being controlled by a puppet master, I slide on my boots and head outside.

I watch in awe as Holt brings the axe down and splits each log with ease.

His sleeves are rolled up and his hat is on backward.

That surprise tattoo peeks at me from his forearm.

It’s like a scene straight out of a contemporary mountain man romance book.

Except I’m not a stranded businesswoman in need of lodging; I’m a disaster of a girl trying to piece her life together after making a huge mistake.

He’s so focused he doesn’t notice me for several more minutes.

And in those minutes, I’m pretty sure my mouth turns into the Sahara Desert.

Holt has always been good looking, but knowing a man is nice to look at and becoming attracted to him are two completely different things.

Ever since coming home from Paris, I can’t help but acknowledge the pull I have toward him after each of our interactions.

After successfully splitting the last round, Holt looks up and finally sees me. He swipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm and gives me a smile that turns my legs to jelly. I awkwardly lift the glass in greeting before walking it over to him.

He thanks me as he takes it and swallows down several large gulps. I can’t tell if it’s sweat or drips of water that slide down his neck onto his chest, but either way, it has me mentally fanning myself.

“It’s like you read my mind,” he says, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his mouth. His jaw is covered with day-old stubble, enhancing the hot mountain man vibe he’s putting off.

Boy, am I glad he can’t read my mind right now.

“Well, when I heard you chopping wood, I assumed you’d get thirsty.” I motion to his body, covered in a thick sheen of sweat. “Since you looked like you sweated out half your body weight.”

He gives me a playful smile. “It seems like you’ve paid quite a good deal of attention. How long were you watching me?”

I pretend like the burning on my cheeks is from the bright autumn sun and cross my arms over my chest. “ You can blame yourself for looking so good out here in plaid, wearing that eyepatch and backward hat. It doesn’t hurt that you’re built like a ripped lumberjack.

Lumberjacks are coming back to the romance world, you know. ”

Holt’s eye flashes. “Oh yeah? What about your world?”

My mouth drops open, and I take several steps backward. This is flirting. Am I okay flirting with my brother’s best friend? Am I okay that Holt is dishing out even more than I am?

With a boldness I didn’t expect to have, I say, “Well, my world has been taken by storm by a war hero turned lumberjack, so…” I trail off, turning my face away to hide the mortification washing over me at my brazenness.

I hear the thunk of the axe sinking into his splitting log, then the crunch of leaves beneath Holt’s boots as he comes closer.

He makes a deep humming sound in the back of his throat that has my belly flipping. Brushing a strand of hair off my shoulder, he says, “I told you I’m no war hero.”

The air crackles with unshared words, unexplored desires. Finally, I work up the courage to face him and drop my arms to my sides. “You may not claim the title, but it doesn’t make it any less true.”

He’s silent for a long moment, staring at me as if he’s weighing my words. “How do you do that?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly.

“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 do and 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 .

“Well?” Aunt Birdie asks, standing and wiping down her apron with shaky hands.

“The insurance adjuster will be out in a couple hours to assess the damage, then we’ll get to work cleaning everything up.”

The three of us head into the house and take inventory of all that needs done. It’s a lot. Even more than I originally anticipated.

“This is going to take months to clean,” I say with a wince.

Aunt Birdie’s eyes go wide. “The house is booked until the end of the year!” she exclaims.

“We’re in between guests right now though, right? So there shouldn’t be any guests or guests’ things that have been affected?” I ask.

Aunt Birdie covers her face. “I didn’t even think of that! This is the first time in two years the house has been fully vacant. At first I thought that was a bad thing, but it turned out to be a huge blessing. Praise the Lord, it’s just the inn’s things.”

“See? Things are already looking up!” I say, trying to find any silver lining I can grab hold of.

“Oh, you’re right,” Aunt Birdie agrees.

“Do you have some open cabins?” I ask. If they need my cabin to keep the business running, they are going to use my cabin.

She bites her thumbnail in her nervous tick. “Yeah, I usually try to leave those open for the hunter stragglers, though.”

I shrug. “Well, they need to plan ahead this year. If you need my cabin, I can find somewhere else to live.”

Birdie and Holt both give me a dirty look. I put my hands up in surrender. “ I’m just saying I won’t be a stumbling block for your business.”

Both of them roll their eyes.

“You could never be a stumbling block, Nova.” The sincerity in Holt’s voice sends warmth spreading through me. “We can make this work.”

And we do. Over the next several hours, Aunt Birdie and I make calls to all the upcoming guests and update them on their accommodations. Some sound disappointed, but by some miracle, none of them ask for cancellations.

After I hang up my final call, I give Aunt Birdie a high five.

“See? No big deal.”

Once I’m back in my cabin, I fire up my old laptop and do something I haven’t done since high school and never thought I’d do again—research.

I wasn’t kidding when I told Aunt Birdie this could be a blessing in disguise.

Now I just need to figure out how to turn this travesty into Ella Mae and Aunt Birdie’s shared dream.

The Storybook Inn’s architecture is unique to other buildings constructed in its time period, especially in Rocosa. Frederick Graves and his contractors—or whatever they were called back then—had imaginations ahead of their time.

Aunt Birdie has made it clear that she wants to remain true to the time period and what Frederick and Ella Mae would have wanted .

I spend the next few hours poring over websites and PDFs with blueprints and designs of the early twentieth century. As expected, the only murals talked about were in public buildings, but there were a few articles that noted wealthy families had murals painted in their homes too.

Ella Mae’s journal sits untouched by my door.

Aunt Birdie handed it to me yesterday so I could read it, but I haven’t gotten a chance to open it until now.

I leave my laptop on but close it and set it on the coffee table.

I grab the leather-bound journal from the entryway table, then tuck myself back under my blanket on the couch.

Nonfiction isn’t usually my genre of choice, but it doesn't take long for me to get sucked into the journal entries. Ella Mae has an absolutely beautiful way with words. I quickly find myself lost between the antique pages, sinking my feet into the footprints she’s left behind.

The love Ella Mae had for her husband was even more beautiful than what my favorite romances describe, and his love for her was selfless and steadfast. Frederick went above and beyond when it came to his wife.

She mentioned to him that she loved a mural she saw in an estate in London, and Frederick told her he wanted to make it a reality in their new home.

Soon her writings turned from dreams for their home to news of her pregnancy and her excitement to start their family. As I read about each kick she felt from the baby, I feel as though I’m walking through this time with her.

By the time I reach the end of the entries, my heart is overflowing.

The way this woman wove words together and poured her heart out on the page has me overwhelmed with emotion.

The last entry was only two days before she gave birth.

According to these entries, her pregnancy was hard, and by the end, she was on bed rest. But her faith remained solid, as did her belief in God’s sovereignty.

“So this is why you’re so passionate about fulfilling Ella Mae’s wishes,” I say out loud to no one. Ella Mae is someone I know I would have been friends with if I lived back then, and I’m sure Aunt Birdie also feels a kinship with the echo of Ella Mae now in her words.

By the time I lay in bed listening to the crackle of the embers in my fireplace, I have the same drive to make Ella Mae and Aunt Birdie’s joint dream come true.