Page 33 of Snowed Inn

“Helpful.”

Charlotte narrows her eyes. “Define helpful.”

“I mean . . . I’m yours for the day. What do you need?”

She blinks. “You’re offering to do hospitality?”

I bite my lip and give her a helpless little shrug. “I know. I’m kinda scared too.”

Charlotte snorts but gives me a big smile. “Okay, let’s start small. You can help me deliver guest amenities to each floor.”

Thirty minutes later, I am hauling a basket of replacement towels and artisan lavender bath salts up the stairs like I was born to do this.

Okay, not born, but at least not actively complaining. Which is a start.

We knock on doors. We answer questions. I help a woman find her lost mitten (it was in the hood of her coat). I carry a tea tray to room 3B without spilling anything. I even figure out how to print the day’s reservation list from the front-desk terminal—which is not unlike using a POS system—and I feel wildly proud.

Charlotte watches me warily like I’ve been body snatched.

“You’re good at this,” she says, handing me a clipboard of room checks for the day.

I shrug. “Turns out I like solving problems that don’t involve influencers and meltdowns about lemon pound cake.”

Charlotte pauses. “Was that a Monica dig?”

“Only if you recognized it.”

We laugh.

And for the first time in . . . I don’t know how long, I feel good.

Not performance good. Not “this will look great on my résumé” good.

Just . . . peaceful. Dare I say . . . happy?

But working the front desk is no joke. The poor guests are as trapped in a blizzard as we are, and there are only so many walks in the snow and complimentary mugs of cider we can offer. I’m setting up a board game for two disgruntled children when the phone in my pocket buzzes. Instinctively, I reach for it.

Then I stop. I take a breath. I don’t check it. I leave it there. And keep working.

Because maybe—just maybe—Jesse was right. The world won’t end if I let a few notifications go unanswered.

Chapter 12

It’s six p.m. when I step into the attic apartment, and the first thing I notice is . . . the water on the floor. Oh, great. A small lake has formed in front of the kitchen sink and made its way to the door.

I’ve spent the whole day sprinting up and down stairs delivering things and playing activities director for a snowed-in mob. All I want is a long, hot bath and roughly twelve hours of unconsciousness.

Instead, I’m standing in the apartment kitchen, staring at a slowly growing puddle. After a tiny bit of investigation, I deduce a pipe under the sink has decided to spring a leak.

In Manhattan, this would be simple. Call the super, wait for maintenance, possibly tip a little if it speeds things along. Done.

But the inn is short-staffed, it’s after hours, and I feel guilty dragging anyone away from more important tasks just to fix my dripping pipe.

I grab my phone and call the front desk anyway. Maybe Donny can help?

“Front desk, this is Charlotte.”

“Hey, it’s Maria. Quick question—who handles maintenance issues after hours?”