Melissa Mcclone - His Proposal, Their Forever

“How long until the artists pick up their stuff?” he asked.

He was calling her life’s work “stuff.” How quickly her fantasies about an intelligent man who worked Anubis into a discussion were dashed. But then again, he wanted to tear down the inn.

“While you were taking your time unloading the truck, I called and left messages. The artists have jobs and families. They’ll be here as soon as they can.”

He glanced at his cell phone, but she couldn’t tell if he was checking the time or a text. “Can you be more specific as to when?”

“Got big plans, like working on the approval process?”

“Something along those lines.”

“I’m here. You don’t have to hang around.”

“I do. I own the inn.” Justin motioned to her foot. “Besides, you’re hurt. You can’t do this on your own. You need help.”

“Resting is helping.” Not really, but she wouldn’t admit how much her foot ached. “I’ll stay off my feet. There’s no reason for you to stick around.”

“I need to lock up when you’re finished.”

“I’ve got a key.”

“Floyd gave you a key to the inn?”

Justin’s incredulous tone matched the look in his eyes. He and Oliver could be twins separated at birth.

“No, his late father, Clyde, did.” She shouldn’t feel the need to explain, but she did. “I started working here when I was sixteen.”

“Front desk?”

“Kitchen.” She glanced to the doorway on the right where she’d spent so many years. The imagined smell of grease was as strong as if the fryers were going. “I was a cook until a few years ago. Then I partnered with Floyd to open the gallery. We hold art events here. Held them, I mean.”

The gallery no longer existed. The inn, either.

The truth hit her like a sneaker wave, knocking her over on the beach and dragging her out to sea. The coast guard couldn’t rush in and save the day. No one could. The inn as she knew it was gone.

The news devastated her. This was the place where she’d figured out how to bring artist and art lovers together. Where she’d worked in the kitchen and grown up amid a staff that treated her as an equal, not a kid. Where she planned on getting married... She struggled to breathe.

Returning the art was only the first thing she had to do today. She needed to find another venue.

“What kind of events?” Justin asked.

She flexed her fingers. “Shows, exhibits, classes. I’m supposed to hold a Canvas and Chardonnay class here tomorrow.”

“Canvas and Chardonnay?”

“That’s what I call my paint night. The class appeals mostly to women, though a few men join in. People socialize, drink wine, eat appetizers, and I show them how to paint.”

“In one night?”

“Everyone paints the same subject. We go step by step. It’s fun and easy. And the inn was the perfect location for the gathering.” She leaned her head against the wall. “The results are amazing. Each person leaves with a smile and takes home a finished canvas.”

Bailey didn’t know why she was going on about her painting classes. He didn’t care what she did. She would sit for sixty more seconds, then get things done, not chitchat with her nemesis.

He glanced at his cell phone again.

“You need to go,” she said. “Work. I’m fine here by myself.”

“It’s Wyatt, seeing where things stand.” Justin typed on his phone. “I’m staying.”

His words meant only one thing. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her key ring. The ache in her heavy heart hurt worse than her toe. “Then I don’t need my key.”

A part of her wanted to hear the words keep it . Wishful thinking. He said nothing.

Bailey’s fingers fumbled. She worked to remove the key that she’d carried with her eleven, almost twelve, years. She managed to unhook the key. “Here you go.”

Her fingers brushed the skin of his palm. An electric shock made her drop the key onto his hand. She pulled her arm away. Must be static electricity in the air.

“Thanks.” He stuck the key in his pocket. “Thought you’d put up more of a fight.”

“You own the inn.”

“I do, but you act like I’ve done something wrong.”

“Architectural and historical preservation is vital, but you’ve ignored basic—”

“This architecture isn’t anything special.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “The renovations over the years have nothing to do with the original design. It’s a hodgepodge of trends over the past century.”

“Hodgepodge? Thought was put into every change.” Red-hot heat flowed through her. She should have known he’d never understand. “Did you know the materials used in the renovations have been salvaged from all over the Northwest, the United States and Europe? Each piece has a history aside from the inn. Stained glass and lead glass windows from old churches. Beams and flooring from nineteenth-century buildings.”

“Don’t romanticize being cheap.” His tone made tearing down a historic landmark sound like a public service. “The inn has lost its appeal over the years. What character remains isn’t enough to make up for everything else that is lacking. Don’t get me started on structural concerns or electrical issues. The wiring is a mess, as is the plumbing.”

She scooted away from him to put distance between them. He might be a pro at justifying his plan, but that didn’t make him right. “If you feel that way, why did you buy the inn?”

“To turn the place around. Make a profit.”

“By flattening the building with a wrecking ball?”

A muscle twitched at his neck. “Given the low sale price, if we hadn’t purchased the inn, someone else would have.”

Maybe, but something felt off here. She didn’t know if it was Floyd or Justin. “Someone else might not have torn down the inn.”

“I’m not the bad guy here.” His voice sounded sincere, but he would never convince her that he and his company had the inn’s best interest at heart. “I’m just doing my job.”

“That makes two of us.” Or she wouldn’t be sitting here hurting and looking so frightful. “As head of Haley’s Bay Historical Committee, I’ll do everything I can to make sure this inn remains in all its hodgepodge, character-lacking glory.”

* * *

Three hours later, Justin walked another lap around the inn’s dining room, ignoring the urge to check the time on his cell phone again.

Bailey leaned against the wall on the other side of the room, talking with a gray-haired artist who introduced herself as Faye. The two women had been chatting for over twenty minutes. Not that he had anything better to do than wait for them to finish.

The older woman had been the last to show up, and he was stuck until she left. He’d never spent this much time anywhere unless he was working or sleeping. Sure, he’d sent texts, made calls and done what research he could on his smartphone, but he needed Wi-Fi and his laptop. The two things Justin had achieved this morning were memorizing every inch of this room and every inch of Bailey Cole.

She laughed. The sound carried on the air and drew his gaze to her once again. Her coveralls were finally dry, no longer clinging to her body. Okay, her chest.

Yeah, he’d looked. What man wouldn’t? More than once, her shift in position gave him a better view and rendered him mute. Not his fault. He was a guy, one who’d been too busy working to date regularly.

Her feminine curves sent his body into overdrive. Looking made him think of holding her. Carrying her the short distance through the rain had felt so right. Too bad he wouldn’t be touching her again.

Bailey’s sharp glances and pursed lips suggested she wouldn’t mind punching him once or twice. The thought of her getting so worked up, the gold flecks in her eyes flashing like flames, amused him.