The Complete Legacy Inn Collection: Four Sweet YA Romances

by Sara Jane Woodley

  After a few more minutes, I decide that I need to get out of bed. I might as well try and find the breaker thing. Plus, pitch darkness gives me the heebie-jeebies.

  I tiptoe across the floor and look down the dark staircase. The hair on the back of my neck stands. Scenes from scary movies and thrillers flash before my eyes. I always shout at the stupid girl on the TV screen about to enter the dark staircase — Don’t do it!

  And now, here I am, doing it.

  I take one step down and the world swims before my eyes.

  Two steps down.

  The darkness reaches its claws out to grab me, pull me under.

  No, don’t be silly Bree. This isn’t a movie.

  I tiptoe down the rest of the stairs, letting out the smallest shriek. I plead with all of the gods not to send a monster to eat me. I make it to the bottom of the stairs unscathed and jiggle the door handle desperately.

  My hands shaking, the door finally bursts open. I’m about to walk into the event room when I become aware of a dark form just ahead of me. The form has a rectangle head and long arms.

  Delia?

  No, too tall to be Delia. Fernando?

  No, too slim to be Fernando. What is that thing?

  My mind is flooded with possibilities — An alien? A vampire? A werewolf?

  No. It must be human. But if it’s human, what’s with the square head? Unless… it’s a ghost.

  My heart stops. I might collapse from fear. I’m frozen on the spot, begging my legs to run back upstairs where it’s safe. But before I can flee, the thing — whatever it is — sees me.

  It reaches out and I feel a cold, dead weight on my arm.

  This is it. It’s taking me.

  My survival instinct kicks in and I scream.

  33

  Noah

  I close the fridge door just as a boom of thunder shakes the building. Strange, I would’ve expected Bree to come knocking if there was a storm tonight. Maybe she’s got something else going on.

  A flash of lightning slices the sky and the power goes out. I’m left in the blackness of the kitchen.

  Good timing. I just finished stocking up the vegetables in the fridge — my last chore of the evening.

  I head over to the lone window and gaze at the dark world outside. The aggressive tap of raindrops on the windowpane is almost deafening. Another flash of lightning and the world comes alive. Trees sway in the wind, puddles form in the parking lot, and thunder rumbles from the heart of the sky.

  It would be a great night to be storm watching. I wonder if Bree is enjoying it.

  I take off my apron but keep my hat — I’ll use it going back to the cabin. I’d love to chase storms with Bree tonight but returning to my notebook is a nice consolation prize. I’ve been writing consistently since I first told Bree that scary story. It’s like the floodgates have opened.

  With a smile, I pop my hand in the fridge to be sure it’s running on backup generators, and then head out into the event room. It’s cloaked in darkness and I stand for a moment to let my eyes adjust.

  Behind me, I hear a creaking noise. My heart speeds up. Could it be one of the guests? Carrie? Fernando, maybe?

  I turn to face whoever it is that’s behind me. I open my mouth to say hi when a flash reveals that it’s just Bree.

  Then, I put my hand on her arm.

  She screams. The sound rips through the air, disturbing the silence and piercing my eardrums.

  “Bree, woah!” I whisper-shout, shaking her arm. “It’s just me!”

  “You?” Her voice is strangled.

  “Noah!”

  Now that my eyes have adjusted, I can see her blink in the darkness. She’s white as a sheet. I remove my chef’s hat and hold it in front of me.

  “What’s wrong with your hand?” She squeezes my hand, feeling for my fingers. It’s like she’s inspecting me to make sure I’m human.

  The tension flows out of me and I laugh. “I had it in the fridge a second ago. Sorry if it’s cold.”

  “Frozen, you ghoul!”

  I laugh again and finally take in what she’s wearing — a big shirt that says “Bee Kind” and short shorts underneath. I snap my head up to look at her face. She does have nice legs, though.

  “Anyway,” I say awkwardly, running my fingers through my hair. I was not checking her out, I wouldn’t. “Big storm, hey? I’m going to head to the cabin. The rain sounds so nice on the roof. But I guess the rain sounds nice wherever you are...”

  I’m blabbering, willing myself to stop talking. Now that I can see her, I can’t get over how cute she looks. Her hair is tied up in a bun, her face looks like an angel’s, and she’s got the most perplexed expression. I just want to put my arms around her.

  What? Noah, no.

  “So yeah,” I finish awkwardly. “See you tomorrow.”

  I salute her, turn on my heel and head towards the exit of the event room. I trip on a chair almost immediately.

  Wow, fantastic exit. Not awkward at all.

  “Noah?” Bree’s voice is small. She hasn’t moved from her position at the bottom of the stairs. Her hands are clasped together in front of her.

  “This sounds stupid. But, I was watching a scary movie alone in the loft and the stairs freak me out and the power’s out and it’s just…” She takes a deep breath. “I’m scared.”

  I cock my head to the side. When we were kids, she used to get scared at night. Her parents wouldn’t let her have a night light, so I asked my mom for one, then gave it to Bree to use in the loft.

  She takes another breath and releases her hands. It looks like she’s trying to take a casual, confident stance. “Would you mind sleeping in the loft with me? There’s space on the floor so we wouldn’t share a bed or anything. And of course you can say no! It’s just that the movie is about a ghost in an attic and it’s just me up there and I’m kinda freaked out.”

  She hiccups a laugh. “And I almost just got beheaded by a ghoul with frozen hands.”

  I chuckle, unsure what to say.

  In my silence, her face falls for a fraction of a second.

  Bree always tried to play the brave and strong one, the girl who protected her sister. Even though it’s been years since we spent any real time together, I know who she is. I can tell by the small wrinkle in her brow, by the slight turn of her smile — she’s scared. I can’t leave her alone.

  “Okay,” I say tentatively and her face lights up. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  “I might have a pillow or two you can borrow. But...”

  “But?”

  “Fair warning — there’s rumors of a raccoon in the loft.”

  I snort. “I’ll take my chances.”

  Our footsteps rumble up the staircase, frightening away any ghosts that might find themselves in the loft.

  34

  Bree

  I arrive at the top of the staircase and bound over to the bed.

  Noah follows, stripping off his hoodie and tossing it to the floor.

  Maybe it’s weird that Noah and I are sharing the loft, but we used to sleep here all the time as kids — even sharing the same bed. Things might be different now, but one thing hasn’t changed: I still need protection from ghosts.

  I throw him a pillow and smile shyly. When was the last time I had a sleepover? And when was the last time I had a sleepover with a guy? It was probably Noah, years ago, in this very loft. It shouldn’t be weird, though — we’ve done this a million times.

  So why is my heart racing, even now as my breath returns from darting up the stairs?

  “Want another?” I ask.

  “Nah, the floor is more comfortable than expected.”

  I laugh, staring at the ceiling. Flashes of lightning streak through the window. Now, without the threat of ghosts, the sound of rain on the roof is soothing.

  Minutes go by and my heart rate slows to a regular pace. I feel safe here. I’m at home in a way that I haven’t felt in a long time. It’s the way I wanted to feel
— hoped to feel — with my parents if we managed to work things out in Europe.

  Family, warmth, safety, home. These are luxuries I never felt I had.

  Lying in the darkness with Noah, it feels like we’re in a dream of summers past. “My parents hated that I would come to them when I was scared at night. Remember the—”

  “Nightlight?”

  “Yes! The cartoon lion.” I smile. That lion got me through so many spooky nights. “Leonardo.”

  Noah is quiet for a long time, and I wonder whether he’s fallen asleep. Maybe it’s better if he has.

  I pull my blanket up to my neck. “I remember dealing with everything alone — my fear, my anger, my anxieties. It was hard. As Isla got older, I knew I needed to be the safe space for her. I needed to be home for her.” I take a deep breath. Once again, I’m saying too much, but Noah does this to me. I’ve never let myself acknowledge or vocalize these thoughts.

  “It’s been my priority for as long as I can remember — be there for her because that’s what I wanted the most.” I take a shaky breath. Noah’s probably sleeping. Who cares to hear the truth if the truth isn’t important? “But the only reason I knew how to be there for her is because of you and your family. You were home to me. Whether you were keeping me safe from ghosts or giving me a night light for when you weren’t around.”

  You are home to me. The realization leaves me breathless because I haven’t let myself feel it. I clamp my mouth shut before I can utter the words. I can’t burst into his world and jeopardize his promising life. I’m a sinking ship and I won’t take him down with me.

  The rain falls on the roof like classical music and my heart thumps to the beat. Only one thing could have allowed for this. Right here, I’m home.

  35

  Noah

  Bree’s words echo through my mind as the rain patters on the roof. When I’m with Bree, I could believe that we aren’t on Earth anymore. We’re in a dream, some magical place made for the two of us.

  Her confession about her family breaks my heart but doesn’t surprise me. It’s comforting to know that my family was home to her. My parents were poor, but never poor in love.

  “When you made me shout into the storm, I thought you were crazy,” I say, breaking the quiet. “When you made me tell you a scary story with thunder all around, I thought you were clinically insane.”

  “We still haven’t proved I’m not,” Bree says, a hint of laughter in her voice.

  “Or maybe you’re the normal one,” I say. “Since spending time with you, I can write again. You were my childhood and because of you, I can write about what it was like, and what Mom was like. I can remember her, and everything feels… okay. Because of you, the memories feel bright and wonderful. I can’t thank you enough for that.”

  Silence stretches between us and I look up towards the bed, wishing I could see her face.

  Bree shifts on her bed, the springs groaning beneath her. “You know what I don’t understand? How do you have time for it all? You balance school, work, taking care of your family, and now, writing a book. How do you do it?”

  “Caffeine.”

  “I’ve literally never seen you drink coffee.”

  I laugh. Then, a sobering reality hits me and I take a deep breath. “My top priority is always to help others, to support everyone. Anything for me comes second.”

  Bree is quiet. Speaking honestly like this is refreshing — like drinking lemonade on a blistering hot day.

  “After Mom died, Dad’s carpentry business was struggling. Even at thirteen, I knew that we couldn’t survive on one income and Mom’s hospital stays and treatments ate up most of our savings. So, I started asking for jobs. It was never a question for me. Now, it’s up to me and Dad to support our family. The things I do for me have to come second.” I feel the grief of lost time, lost opportunity. So much is lost when the world only sees you one way. Writing could never be a priority for me and I used to feel incredible guilt doing it. But Bree makes me want to try, to dream big for the first time in years.

  “My parents say love is overrated.” Bree’s voice is cold. “Love is for the people that advance you to the next step of success.”

  I want to take her hand. I can’t imagine growing up in an environment that doesn’t believe in love.

  “The truth is, I’ve lost my belief in love. Not for others, of course, but for myself. My house doesn’t feel like home and my friends in Edendale are temporary. I don’t belong anywhere.”

  I keep my lips pressed together to stop from saying the one thing I want to say: you belong with me. But the truth is I have nothing to offer her. And she knows it. There’s a reason we stopped being friends three years ago.

  “Date after date they’ve forced me into,” she says, exasperated. “And now, they’ve set me up with this Andrew Stewart guy. Apparently, he’ll help me run the Inn one day.” Her voice is robotic, a cold, distant front. The words aren’t her own. “Merging together Legacy Inn and Stewart Aviation is the best way to grow our business.”

  36

  Bree

  I’m thankful for the sound of the rain on the roof as, otherwise, you could hear a pin drop. In the silence, the blandness of my life hangs like a white cotton sheet. There’s my future. Graduate high school, go to an Ivy League university, run the Inn, marry Andrew Stewart, have 2.5 babies and die of functional alcoholism at the reasonable age of eighty-two.

  Boring.

  Unable to stop it this time, my mind swirls into a mess of emotions. Rage for the strict rules my parents have given me, desperation to be anything but what they say, and then an aching desire for something resembling love.

  Through the chaos in my mind, I barely hear Noah’s next words. “You don’t have to let them define you.”

  Everything stops. Goes quiet. I’m listening now.

  “Whether you’re rebelling against or following their rules,” he says, “you’re still making a decision based on them. But you don’t have to let their wishes choose for you.”

  The meaning behind his words hits home, and a sob threatens to escape my throat. He’s right. I’ve been letting my parents choose for me, guide me, define me. For every choice I make, every decision I consider, my parents are at the forefront of my mind. Will they like this or dislike it? What will they say? Will they finally pay attention?

  The chaos disappears and I’m left with a profound feeling of sadness. More than ever, I wish Noah and I were laying on the bed together, just like when we were kids.

  “What happened to us?” I whisper, my voice raw.

  Back then, I had a reason. My mom didn’t want me rubbing off on the responsible Noah Sawyer. The “great kid.” I knew the downfall that awaited him if he spent too much time with me. My mom drilled it into me. But why did he let me go?

  I rack my brain to remember something, anything.

  When Noah speaks, his voice is forcibly light. “Three years ago, I asked you on a date.”

  What?

  “I asked you to the meadow, the one we always used to go to, and I wanted to tell you that I felt something more for you.”

  My heart has officially stopped in my chest and I dare not breathe.

  “I hoped that you knew that it was a date. When I showed up to your house, I was wearing a suit and I brought you flowers, like Mom told me to.” He cracks his knuckles.

  I hear the smile in his voice. I don’t remember any of this.

  “I got to the front door and I was about to ring the bell when I heard your voice. You were talking to your mom. I heard her say that I was a great kid, responsible, all that. And then, your response. That we were ‘just friends and would never be anything more than that.’”

  My stomach drops. I did say that. I was hurt because of the “great kid” comment and I wanted her to stop speaking.

  Noah chuckles awkwardly. “I suspected that you staged the exchange on purpose to let me down easily. I took the hint and started pulling away. When I didn’t hear from you aga
in, I assumed that you didn’t even want to be friends anymore. And then, Mom died and everything fell apart.”

  My throat is dry but my stomach is flip-flopping. No. How can I tell him that I never would’ve done such a thing?

  “I completely understand why.” His words are rushed.

  I’m frozen, a statue. I can’t even blink.

  He shifts and the floorboards creak beneath him. “I never meant to push past our friendship or anything. And, you know, that was all in the past. Those feelings have disappeared, I want to assure you of that.”

  My heart cracks, just a little. Back then, I tried so, so hard to push my feelings down and keep my hopes at bay. But, of course, I hoped it was a date. I was crazy about him.

  Was?

  My heart beats loudly and I finally let myself acknowledge my feelings for Noah — feelings that are more than friendship. Have I always had these feelings for him? He’s my be-all, end-all — the first person I think about in the morning and the last person I think of before bed. Since we met, not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought about him.

  But, I can’t bring him down with me. I’ll only ever bring him trouble and pain. Sadness threatens to consume me and tear me in half. Now that I know what I feel for him, I want to scream it from the rooftops, or whisper it in the dark. I want nothing more than to believe I can be with him.

  With a sigh, I turn on my side and see his face. He’s laying on his back and his eyes are closed, looking like the perfect still portrait. Never in my life have I felt so vulnerable. I want to reach out and grab his hand.

  I want to believe in love… with him.

  37

  Noah

  My heart races. It’s tough to breathe.

  There it is, the reason that we stopped being friends — all because of my embarrassing gesture. The amount of times I wanted to call her or pull her aside to talk to her, but I couldn’t do it. And then, Mom died and my mind was preoccupied, even though I wanted to turn to her the most.