Читать книгу His Proposal, Their Forever - Melissa Mcclone - Страница 9
ОглавлениеAn hour later, Bailey eyed the dark, ominous clouds gathering over Haley’s Bay. The approaching clouds carried big fat raindrops, ones that could turn this already horrible morning into a complete catastrophe. But cracking jokes and drinking coffee seemed to be the construction crew’s priorities this morning. Unloading the artwork from the semitruck parked on the street and carrying the pieces back into the inn, not so much.
She half hopped, half hobbled to the truck’s ramp. Her left foot was swelling like the water at the mouth of the bay. But she had more things to worry about than her injury. “Hurry. We need to get the art inside before the storm hits.”
“We’re going as fast as we can, miss.” The foreman, Wyatt, used only one hand to carry Faye Rivers’s four-foot-tall sculpture composed of driftwood and colorful glass floats collected from the beach.
“Hey, that’s glass.” These bozos had no idea what they were doing. “Be careful.”
“I’ve got it.” Wyatt stepped off the ramp, snagged a cup of coffee from the hood of a pickup truck, then glanced her way. “Want some coffee?”
The scent of French roast teased. Her sapped energy level longed for a jolt of caffeine. But forget about asking for a cup. No fraternizing with the enemy.
“I’ll get one later.” After the artwork was safe.
Wyatt juggled Faye’s sculpture with one hand and his coffee with his other.
“You guys are going to pay if anything gets damaged.” Bailey sounded like a Harpy, but she would keep nagging until they finished the job. Too much was at stake to play nice.
“Nothing has been damaged, and nothing will be.” Justin came around the end of the truck. His scruff of blond stubble could be called bad-boy sexy, except his shorter hair looked too corporate. It was messy at the moment, but a sweep of a comb would have him looking a little too neat, even with whiskers. “Relax.”
“Wish I could.” Bailey was rethinking turning down the cup of coffee and not bringing a chair to take weight off her throbbing toe. “I’ll relax when the artwork is inside.”
He hopped on the ramp with the ease of an athlete and walked into the trailer. His steel-toed boots would have come in handy when she woke up this morning. Brown pants hugged muscular thighs, and the tails from his light blue button-down peeked out from beneath his tan jacket.
He leaned his right shoulder against the truck’s wall and stared down at her. The casual pose contradicted the hard look in his eyes. He definitely had that I’m-hot-and-know-it demeanor. Sexy, if you liked that type. She didn’t, but he was easy on the eyes. A good thing she was immune to men like him.
“Patience.” His tone wasn’t condescending, but she couldn’t tell if he was teasing or not. “You wouldn’t want us to drop anything.”
“Of course not.” Now he was being a jerk. This wasn’t a gallery of painted rocks. “But there’s no need to move in slow motion. Unless the crew is following orders.”
“Be careful.” His voice contained a hint of warning. “Or you might find the guys going in reverse.”
Grrrr. “I bet you’d enjoy telling your crew to do that.”
A grin exploded like a solar flare, making her forget to breathe.
“Just give me a reason, Ms. Cole. That would be the bright side to this dark day.”
“This isn’t my fault. Blame Floyd.”
She wasn’t about to let Justin McMillian’s threats get to her. The rest of the crew was on its way to the inn or already inside the building. None of them wanted to be caught outside when the rain hit. She would have to take care of this herself.
“Unload the truck faster. There may not be damage yet, but the weather—”
“Don’t lose your purple slippers over this.”
Justin’s you-know-you-want-me attitude annoyed her. Yes, the man was attractive. She appreciated the way the features of his face fit together. Rugged, yet handsome. Her fingers itched for a pencil to capture the high cheekbones, the crinkles around his eyes and his easy smile when he joked with the crew. But she wasn’t here to admire the eye candy.
She pinned him with a direct stare. “The rain will be here in five minutes. That’s my concern.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You the local rainmaker?”
“Not maker. Predictor.”
“Artist, history buff and the town’s weather expert.”
“I’m from a fishing family. We learned to read the clouds before we could count to ten. Predicting rain is a necessary skill when you’re out on a boat trying to earn a living.”
“But you’re a...”
“Girl?” Bailey finished for him with a tone she would call “ardent feminist.”
She knew his type. The last man she’d dated, a wealthy guy named Oliver Richardson from Seattle, hadn’t been a chauvinist, but was just as arrogant. He’d thought his job, condo, city and artistic tastes were better than everyone else’s, including hers. Turned out her greatest dating asset to him was her oldest brother, AJ, a billionaire computer programmer. Since then, she hadn’t felt like dating any man—rich or otherwise. Who needed that crap?
“Haley’s Bay might be small and full of old-timers with big fish tales, but working women thrive here, Mr. McMillian. One day, my younger sister Camden will be the captain of her own boat.”
“You might be a rain predictor, but you’re not a mind reader.” Justin laughed.
The sound made Bailey think of smooth, satin enamel paint, the expensive kind, no primer required. She’d used a gallon on her kitchen walls. Worth every penny and the peanut butter sandwiches she’d eaten to stay in budget.
“I was going to say ‘artist.’ That has nothing to do with your gender. I’m not a chauvinist, as you quickly and wrongly assumed.” Justin sounded more annoyed than upset. “I have two sisters. Smart, capable, hardworking women, but without the smarter-than-you attitude.”
“You think I have an attitude?” Maybe she did, but so did he. The guy was full of himself.
“I don’t think. You do.”
Standing on the trailer bed, he towered over her, but she wasn’t intimidated.
“Your attitude is entitled,” he said. “You assume you’re correct. You assume I’m an idiot. That I can’t recognize rain clouds. Hell, I live on the Oregon coast. Let me do my job, and we’ll get along fine.”
Bailey’s muscles tensed, bunching into tight spools that weren’t going to unravel any time soon. He might have a point, but she didn’t like Justin McMillian, and she wasn’t good at faking her feelings. “How we get along isn’t important.”
“You’re the head of the historical committee. We’ll be working together.”
“I sure hope not.” The words flew out faster than a bird released from captivity. “I mean... Oh, who am I kidding? That’s exactly what I meant.”
His surprised gaze raked over her. “You’re honest.”
“Blunt. Like my dad.”
“I’ll go with honest. For now.” Justin picked up a painting, one of hers.
Bailey reached up for her piece. She loved the seascape, sketched on the beach early one morning, a morning like this one with a sky full of reds, pinks and yellows bursting from the horizon and a sea of breathtaking blues. But turbulent and dark clouds were moving in, matching the mood at the inn. She longed for the return of the calm, beautiful dawn.
“I’ll take that one.” She trusted herself more with one leg than him with two.
He kept hold of the frame. “I’ve got it.”
“Be careful.”
“This one more special than the others?”
“They’re all one-of-a-kind.”
Bailey pressed her lips together to keep from saying more. She should stalk off into the inn and check on the artwork that had been unloaded, but something held her in place. Something—she hoped not vanity—made her want him to notice her painting, to like her painting, to compliment her painting.
His studied the work in his hands. “Not bad if you like landscapes.”
She bit her tongue to keep from uttering a smart-aleck remark. No way would she piss him off with her painting in his hands.
He looked at her. “It’s one of yours.”
“Yes.”
The colors in the painting intensified the brightness and hue of his eyes.
Bailey’s breath caught. The man was arrogant and annoying, but his Santorini-blue eyes dazzled her. She thought about the tints she’d use to mix the exact shade. Not that she would ask him to model. His ego was big enough. But she would paint those eyes from memory.
He lifted her painting slightly to keep the frame out of her reach. “This is the last one.”
“Good.” The dark clouds came closer. The scent in the air changed. She knew what that meant. “Get inside now. The rain’s going to hit.”
“How can you tell?”
“The smell.” She reached forward. “Give me the painting.”
“I’ve got it. You can barely walk in those slippers.” He carried her painting down the ramp.
“There isn’t much time.”
He walked past her. His long strides and her bum foot made keeping up with him impossible. He slanted the canvas so any falling rain would hit the back, not the painted side. Nice of him, but she wanted her piece indoors before drops fell.
Wyatt came out of the inn. “Any more?”
Justin handed over the artwork. “Last one.”
The spool of yarn in her stomach unraveled. She exhaled. Her muscles relaxed. Bailey’s painting and the others were safe. If only saving the inn would be as easy... “Thank you.”
Justin stood near the porch. She was just reaching the walkway. “Told you I’d beat the rain.”
Dumb luck, but she wasn’t about to complain.
A step sent pain shooting up her foot. She squeezed her eyes shut to keep from crying out. Darn toe. She needed ice, ibuprofen and a barista-poured fancy cup of coffee with a pretty design made in the foam. Who was she kidding? She’d settle for black sludge at this point. She needed to get the artwork back to the rightful owners first.
“Hey there,” he said. “You okay, Anubis?”
Her eyes popped open. “Anubis? The Egyptian god?”
“Protector of Egyptian tombs from raiders and destroyers. Fits, don’t you think?”
The edges of her mouth twitched upward. She managed a nod, just barely. That Anubis was half jackal didn’t seem to matter to him. A drop of water hit her cheek, followed by another.
Bailey took a step. Pain, jagged and raw, ripped up her left foot. She hopped toward the inn like a human pogo stick. Big, fat raindrops fell faster and faster.
She stumbled.
Strong arms swept her off the ground. “Hold on.”
She stared into Justin’s concerned eyes. Her heart thudded. He carried her to the inn and looked down at her as though he cared.
Maybe there was more to Justin McMillian than she realized.
She should tell him to put her down. But a part of her didn’t want to say a word.
Rain pelted her face, but she wasn’t cold. Not with his body heat warming her. The pain faded. Her insides buzzed. Something she hadn’t felt in...forever. She closed her eyes, trying to remember the last time she’d been in a man’s arms like this.
Too long ago.
“What did you do to your foot?” he asked.
Her eyes opened. This wasn’t any man carrying her onto the porch and into the foyer, but the guy who wanted to destroy the inn. “I’m not sure if it’s my foot or toe or a combo.”
“Did you hurt yourself here?”
“At home.” Water dripped from her hair. Two minutes ago, she didn’t think she could have looked any worse, but now she was a wet Medusa. “Worried I might sue you if I’d injured myself here?”
“Nope. I was wondering if you normally strut around town in fuzzy slippers.”
“They were the only shoes my foot would fit. And just so you know, I don’t strut. Sauntering or sashaying is more my style.”
“You seem like the strutting type.”
“If anyone struts, you do.”
“That’s right.” He carried her into the dining room, right off the entryway and lobby. “I wasn’t dissing you. Can you stand?”
“I’ve been standing all morning.”
“Which is why your foot is hurting. You should have stayed home and done first aid.”
He sounded like one of her five overprotective brothers, telling her what to do and who not to date. Didn’t matter that two were younger than her. “I jammed my toe. A sprain. That’s all.”
“Looks like you may have broken something.” Justin placed her feet on the floor, causing her to suck in a breath. “Hold on to me until you’re steady.”
She dug her fingers into his jacket. The padding couldn’t hide his muscular arms. His chest was solid, too. Fully dressed, he was hot. Naked, he would be a specimen worthy of a master sculptor, Michelangelo or da Vinci.
She imagined running her hands over the model to get the right curves and indentations in the clay. Her pulse skittered, and her temperature rose. His body shouldn’t impress her, not after she’d sketched and painted male models who were as good-looking, if not more classically handsome.
Uh-oh. Time to go on a date if she was getting worked up over a guy like Justin. His company’s name shared his last name. That meant he likely had money—Oliver Richardson all over again. Wealthy men wanted more money or connections, such as with her brother, and would use women to get them. No, thank you.
So what if he knew a little Egyptian mythology and carried her out of the rain without getting winded? She saved historic sites. He toppled beautiful old buildings. Someone like him would never be right for her.
She let go of his arm. Looked around. Fell over.
He grabbed her. “What?”
“Gone. Everything’s gone.”
A dozen dining tables gone. Over fifty chairs gone. Antique buffets, rugs, draperies gone.
“It’s all in the truck,” Justin said.
His words brought zero relief. Seeing the empty room hurt worse than her toe. Only the scent of lemon oil and memories remained.
Oh, Floyd. Why? Why would you sell the inn?
“For over a hundred and forty years, guests have eaten meals here.” She stared at the empty room where she’d dreamed of having her wedding reception someday. “That will never happen again.”
“Guests will be back when the new Broughton Inn opens. We’ll have a café, a bar and a restaurant with a view of the bay.”
Her lungs tightened. She took a breath, then another. “It won’t be the same.”
Bailey rubbed her tired eyes, trying to keep their stinging from turning into full-blown tears.
“Sit,” Justin ordered.
Getting off her feet sounded wonderful, but she had a job to do. “I need to inventory the artwork.”
“You look like you’re about to pass out.” He pointed to the floor. “Sit. Five minutes won’t kill you.”
She hesitated. A Cole never shirked responsibility. Even AJ, who had left town eleven years ago and moved to Seattle, had done what he could to help their family when the economy soured and they were on the verge of losing their boats.
But Justin was right. Five minutes wouldn’t change anything. Bailey slid to the floor, careful of her foot, and stretched her leg out in front of her. She leaned back against the wall.
Oh, wow. This felt better. “A couple of minutes.”
The construction crew seemed to have disappeared. Maybe they were off in another part of the inn. Maybe they’d left. She didn’t care. Fewer people around meant fewer chances of bumping and damaging the art.
Justin sat next to her. He stretched out his long legs. She waited for his thigh or shoulder to touch hers, but that didn’t happen. Thank goodness he understood the meaning of personal space. She was too tired to deal with anything more this morning.
“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.
She was driven, cared about things other than herself. The opposite of his ex-wife, Taryn. Passionate beat dismissive any day. Not that he was interested in a relationship. Marriage wasn’t for him. Too much work and compromising.
Plastic crinkled. The other woman covered her sculpture.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice.” Bailey bent her knee so her foot didn’t touch the floor. “I’ll let you know about tomorrow night’s painting class.”
Faye picked up the sculpture. “You’ll find a place.”
“Would you like help carrying that to your car?” Justin asked.
“Heavens, no. But thank you.” Faye smiled at him. “This is light compared to the driftwood I drag across the beach. Bye.” She walked out of the dining room.
Bailey slumped against the wall, her eyelids half-closed. Slowly, as if exerting effort hurt, she pulled out her cell phone. Her shoulders sagged, the worry over the inn seeming too much for her now. “Darn. The battery died.”
“You can use my phone.”
“Thanks. I want to text my family. I’m going to need help getting out of here.”
Justin nearly flinched. Why was she calling someone else when he was right here? He’d carried the painting. Hell, he’d carried her. He had this. “I’ll help you.”
“Thanks, but...” She rubbed the back of her neck.
“What?”
“It’s not getting the paintings or me to the car.” She looked down at the floor. Her energy had drained like her cell phone. “My foot. I don’t think I can drive myself home.”
He’d only spent the morning with her, but she had a backbone and strength. She had to be hurting badly to admit she couldn’t drive.
Bailey sat without being told. That worried him. She leaned her head against the wall. That concerned him more.
He walked toward her. Her face looked pale compared to earlier, her eyes sunken. “This isn’t only about your foot. You don’t feel well.”
“My fault.”
Her reply surprised him as much as her admitting she couldn’t drive herself.
“I haven’t eaten,” she added.
“Since breakfast?”
“Um...since lunch yesterday.”
“You haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. Why not?”
“When I get into a painting I lose track of time. That’s what happened yesterday. I don’t think I went to bed until two. And then my grandma called me early this morning.”
“I’ve done that myself when I’m working on a new design. I’ll drive you home in your car. One of the crew can pick me up.”
“No, you don’t have to.”
Take the out. Walk away. That was the smart thing to do. Except she looked as if she might pass out. “I’m taking you home now. You need to eat. Sleep.”
“And shower.”
Justin imagined how she would look naked with water dripping from her hair and down her skin. He tugged at his collar. Getting a little warm in here. Time to turn off the video in his mind. A full view of her strange outfit would do the trick. His gaze ran the length of her. “So this isn’t your normal style?”
Bailey framed her face with her hands. “What? You don’t like the psychotic nutcase look?”
“I’ve never been a big fan of nutcases or clowns.”
“Me, either. I’m glad there aren’t any fun-house mirrors around. I’d scare myself.”
“You don’t scare me.” He hadn’t meant to flirt with her. Maybe she didn’t notice. “I’ll help you to your car, then come back for your artwork.”
Her wary look changed to resignation. “I can carry a painting.”
“It would be easier if I carry you.”
Bailey might be on the fashion police’s Most Wanted List, but if he got to carry her out of the inn, this day would rank up there with a Seattle Seahawks’ Super Bowl win.
“What do you say?” he asked.
