What had she done? And what was she going to do now?

Justin McMillian had kissed her again, unexpectedly and thoroughly, as if she were his to command with a touch of his lips. Worse, she had been willing, eager, hungry. She’d wanted to gobble him up. A part of her still did.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

For all Bailey knew, her reaction was exactly the response he wanted. Nothing good would come from spending time with Justin. Conflict of interest. Uh, yeah. Kissing was not exactly professional behavior. The inn’s staff and their families were counting on her to win.

She needed to keep her distance from him. He could be playing her. Why wouldn’t he? A charming hotelier and construction hottie who oozed sex appeal must be good at that kind of game.

Her gaze narrowed on Justin heading down the stairs. He looked like a fashion model, handsome in his worn jeans, Henley shirt and flannel jacket. His boots were durable enough to withstand the weeds and rocks below. Handsome, check. Capable, check. Under control, check.

The opposite of her.

* * *

The Coles Of Haley’s Bay:

For this family, love is a shore thing…

His Proposal, Their Forever

Melissa McClone

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MELISSA McCLONE has published over thirty novels. She has also been nominated for a Romance Writers of America RI TA® Award. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, three school-age children, two spoiled Norwegian elkhounds and cats who think they rule the house. They do! Visit her at www.melissamcclone.com.

MILLS & BOON

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To Margie Lawson and the Wonderblue Wordsmiths: Allie Burton, Linda Dindzans, Amy Mckenna Rae, Megan Menard, Laura Navarre and Sarah Tipton

Special thanks to Amy Mckenna Rae, Lisa Hayden, Terri Reed and Kimberly Field

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

The hourly chime of tower bells rang through the Piazza del Duomo. Bailey Cole raised her face to let the Florence sunshine kiss her cheeks.

Glong. Glong. D-ding-a-ting-glong.

Not bells from the famous tower, her cell phone ring tone.

Bailey opened her eyes. Not Italy. Home.

Her home. Haley’s Bay, Washington.

She rubbed her face, trying to wake up.

The phone kept ringing.

A glance at the digital clock made her blink: 5:45 a.m. Too early for a social call. Something must be...

Flynn. Bailey’s heart slammed against her chest. Air whooshed from her lungs. Her brother in the navy had mentioned going somewhere in his email last week.

Please let him be safe.

She reached for her phone on the nightstand, read “Grandma” and her phone number on the screen.

Bailey’s chest sank with the weight of a flag-draped coffin. She fumbled for the talk button. “Grandma? Is everything okay?”

“Your aunt Ida Mae called. Told me the craziest thing. Said there’s a construction crew set up in front of the Broughton Inn.”

Not Flynn. Bailey released a breath. “Did you say a construction crew?”

“They’ve been moving things out of the inn and loading them into a big truck since late last night.” The words flew out of Grandma’s mouth faster than her homemade molasses cookies disappeared from the jar. “Equipment is parked on the street. A bulldozer and a crane with a wrecking ball.”

Bailey sat straight, the covers falling to her waist.

“What’s Floyd Jeffries trying to pull? I just saw him two days ago. He didn’t mention any construction, and a wrecking ball sounds more like demolition. He knows owners can’t touch a historic building without approval.” She scrambled out of bed. “He practically wrote the preservation laws.”

“Maybe he forgot.”

“No way.” She turned on the lamp, waited for her eyes to adjust to the light. “I took over the historical committee from him. He knows every single rule and regulation.”

“He could be expanding the owner’s apartment now that he’s in a relationship.”

“Floyd didn’t mention his girlfriend moving here. She’s half his age and most of their relationship has been online. Something’s going on. I need to find out what. Fast.”

Bailey pulled her nightshirt over her head and took a step. Her foot twisted, then slid, jamming into the bedpost.

A sledgehammer pain sliced through her big toe. She sucked in a breath. Tears stung her eyes. The phone slipped from her hand. She swore.

“Bailey?” Her grandmother’s voice carried from wherever the phone had landed. Lilah Cole had been a widow for the past fifteen years, and her grandchildren had become her focus. “Are you okay?”

Hell, no. Bailey was naked, her mangled toe throbbing. She picked the phone off the bed. “I’m getting dressed. Trying not to panic over the twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of artwork inside the inn.”

She hit the speakerphone button and placed the cell phone on the dresser. She opened the top drawer. Panties and bras. Second drawer—pajamas. Third drawer, empty. She had been so into her new painting this week she hadn’t done laundry.

She wiggled into a pair of underwear, then put on a bra, trying not to cry out and worry Grandma. “Floyd might be struck stupid by Cupid, but he loves the inn.”

“So do you. I know you’ll straighten him out.”

“Gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

Bailey bunny-hopped on one leg to the bathroom. Clothes overflowed from the hamper. Paint-splattered white, long-sleeved coveralls hung on a hook. She gave the fabric the sniff test. The cotton smelled of paint and solvents. Oh, well, this was what she’d planned to wear today while she worked. She dressed.

Clean panties and bra. Dirty coveralls.

Could be worse, right? A glance in the mirror brought a tell-me-I’m-still-dreaming cringe. Nope. This was pretty bad.

She didn’t look sleep-rumpled sexy. More like bizarre, deranged scarecrow. Her wild hair stuck up every which way. Bet she’d freak out folks around town if she carried a broom this morning.

Okay, maybe not, but she would likely scare them, broom or not.

She combed her fingers through the tangles and twisted her hair into a messy bun. A slight improvement, but getting to the Broughton Inn was more important than looking good. So what if she ended up being tonight’s gossip at the Crow’s Nest, the local dive bar? Wouldn’t be the first time or the last. Bailey took a step.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch.” She stared at her aching foot turning blue. Her toe was swollen. Not bee-sting swollen—hot-air-balloon swollen.

Forget regular shoes. Her monster toe would never fit inside. Her oversize fuzzy slippers would have to do.

She shoved on the right slipper, then maneuvered her aching left foot inside the other. A jagged pain sliced through her toe, zigzagged up her foot.

Bailey hopped to her desk, using the wall and doorways for support. She grabbed the Broughton Inn files in case Floyd wanted to argue about what he could do to the inn, shoved them and her purse into a yellow recyclable shopping bag covered with multicolored polka dots. The colors matched the paint splatters on her coveralls. The newest trend in low fashion. Yeah, right.

Bailey hobbled to the door, walking on the heel of her bad foot. Not easy, but she had to get to the inn. Driving was her only option. She rehearsed a quick strategy.

Don’t panic.

Don’t burst in, acting as if she owned the place.

Most of all, don’t piss off Floyd.

Logic and common sense, not to mention laws, would prevail. But she was prepared to do battle. No one was touching the Broughton Inn or the artwork inside.

Bailey was a Cole. Stubborn, unrelenting, ready to fight.

* * *

Early Thursday morning, Justin McMillian stood outside the Broughton Inn, McMillian Resorts’ newest acquisition. Slivers of sunlight appeared in the dawn sky like fingers poking up from the horizon, wanting a piece of the night. He wanted to take what was his today.

This past winter’s remodeling fiasco in Seaside on the Oregon coast had destroyed his parents’ confidence in Justin and his two sisters’ ability to take over the family company. The project had gone over schedule and over budget due to hidden foundation issues. His parents had blamed Justin, Paige—one of the company’s attorneys—and Rainey, an interior designer, when two different inspectors hadn’t seen the problem. That fact hadn’t stopped his parents from threatening to sell to the highest bidder and firing their three children if the next project didn’t run smoothly.

But today, Justin’s mouth watered with the taste of success. His parents would be apologizing long before the new Broughton Inn opened next year. This project would be different from the Seaside one. His parents would see how capable he and his sisters were, and McMillian Resorts would show Haley’s Bay what luxury and first-class service were about. Something his family had perfected over the years with both small and large properties.

“Loaded and ready to go, boss.” Greg, Justin’s driver, motioned to the semitruck parked on the street in front. “Never seen so much junk. Loads of outdated furniture and way too much artwork for such a small inn.”

“Floyd Jeffries didn’t have a clue how to run a boutique hotel.”

“Good thing we do.”

We. McMillian Resorts. Unless his parents followed through on their threat. That was not. Going. To. Happen. “Text me when you reach the warehouse.”

“Should take me three hours or so to reach Lincoln City, depending on traffic.”

“Drive carefully. I don’t want the artwork broken. We can sell the better stuff to local galleries.”

Greg adjusted the brim of his Seattle Mariners cap. “Raw eggs could be loose in the cab and wouldn’t break when I’m driving.”

“Let’s not test that theory.”

Greg stared at the old inn. “Quaint place. Suz and I honeymooned here.”

“Cozy, maybe, but a dinosaur. With those million-dollar views, the new inn will be the crown jewel in our hotel portfolio.”

“Hope so.” Greg took a picture of the inn with his cell phone. “Better hit the road.”

Greg glanced at the inn again, then he headed to his truck.

Interesting. Justin had never known the driver to be sentimental.

Wyatt, the site foreman, walked up, adjusted his gloves. “We’re ready. Say the word and we’ll fire up the engines.”

“It’s time.” Nothing beat the first morning on a new job, except the last day. Justin rubbed his hands together. “Tear her down, boys.”

With whoops and hollers, his crew jogged to their equipment. Engines revved, filling the early morning air with noise. The crane hopped the curb and headed for the inn. Next came the bulldozer.

Finally. Over the past year, Justin had spent every free moment developing plans for a new Broughton Inn, even though he’d been unsure whether Paige could pull off the deal with Floyd Jeffries. They’d approached him last year with an offer that Floyd turned down. But Paige had achieved the impossible by not giving up and closing the deal.

This project would prove he and his sisters could run the company as well as his parents. Better. The three of them had grown up living in hotels. They knew the business inside and out.

A dog barked.

Huh? Justin shouldn’t be able to hear a dog. Except the equipment had stopped moving. Engines had been cut off.

“What the hell is going on?” he yelled.

Wyatt pointed to the inn’s porch where someone stood by the front door, hands on hips and a pissed-off frown on her face. “That woman.”

Was that a woman with a yellow shopping bag hanging from her shoulder or an escapee from the circus? She wore painter’s coveralls, but the color splatters made her look as if she’d been caught in a paintball battle.

“Where’d she come from?” Justin asked.

“No idea.”

“The woman must be some sort of nut job. A disturbed bag lady or a history fanatic. I’ll see if she has demands.”

“Demands?” Wyatt asked.

“A woman doesn’t step in front of a wrecking ball unless she has a death wish, or wants something. Given the crazy way she’s dressed, my money’s on the latter. Call the police in case I’m wrong and she’d rather meet the Grim Reaper.”

Justin walked toward the porch. He didn’t want his crew near the woman.

“Stop. Don’t come any closer.” Her voice sounded more normal than he’d expected. “You can’t tear down the inn.”

Her hands moved from her hips to out in front of her, palms facing Justin, as if she could push him away using The Force.

Demands. Justin knew a few things about women, though his ex-wife might disagree. He kept walking. Given the crazy lady’s appearance, he knew how to handle her. He flashed his most charming smile, the one that got him what he wanted most every time, whether for business or pleasure.

“Hello there.” In two steps, Justin stood on the porch. He softened his voice. “Can I help you?”

A jade-green gaze locked on his. Wow. Talk about a gorgeous color. Her warm, expressive eyes made him think of springtime.

“I’m looking for Floyd.” Her voice rose at the end; her words weren’t a question but had a hint of uncertainty.

Hell. She must not know about Floyd selling out. Not Justin’s problem. Eyes aside, he didn’t know why he kept looking at her. Clothes, hair, demeanor. Not his type didn’t begin to describe what was wrong with the woman.

A brown dog barked and ran figure-eight patterns around the bulldozer and crane. Where had the animal come from?

“Oh, no. That poor dog is so skinny.” Her compassion surprised Justin. “Catch him. He looks like he’s starving.”

Oh, man. The guys still ribbed him for the time he shut down a demo for a missing ferret. Stupid thing took five and a half hours to find.

“Please,” she said, her eyes clouding.

Demands and a plea. Tropical-storm-strength pressure built behind his forehead. Easy jobs must be handed to worthier men. “Have you seen the dog before?”

“No.” Her gaze remained on the animal. The dog ran around and barked. “But I don’t see a collar. Could be a stray. Or lost.”

Justin wasn’t about to chase the dog on open ground, but he couldn’t have the thing running around the site inside the safety fencing. That would be too dangerous.

He glanced at Wyatt, who stood on the grass between the porch and the equipment. “Give the dog a leftover donut.”

“No chocolate.” The words exploded from her mouth like a cannonball. Worry reflected in her eyes. “That’s bad for dogs.”

Justin didn’t know that. He’d never had a dog or any kind of pet. His parents allowed guests to bring dogs and cats to the hotels, but had never let their children have an animal, not even a goldfish.

“Fine. Nothing chocolate. A sandwich, maybe,” he said to Wyatt. Justin wanted to get back to work. These stupid delays were killing him. “Then get the dog out of here.”

While he got rid of the woman. A McMillian team effort. That was the way things got done at their company. Each person did his or her part. The effort led to success. But when one didn’t do what was expected, like his ex-wife, the result was failure.

He faced the woman. “Where were we?”

“Floyd Jeffries. Do you know where I can find him?”

“Belize.”

Her nose crinkled. “Floyd never mentioned a vacation.”

“Floyd might not share his personal life with customers.”

“I’m not a customer.” She raised her chin. “I’m his partner in the gallery.”

Gallery. Justin’s headache ramped into a cyclone. That explained the artwork on its way to Oregon, the splattered coveralls and Green Eyes’ odd smells. “You’re an artist.”

“Painter.” She gave him a strange look. “If Floyd’s away, what are you doing here?”

“I’m the inn’s new owner.”

She flinched as if his words punched her. No clown makeup was needed to make her eyes look bigger. Any larger and they would be twins to her gaping mouth. The caricature was complete. All she needed was a dialogue bubble over her head to star in her own comic strip.

She took half a step back. “Floyd sold the inn?”

“We recently closed on the deal.”

“Where’s the artwork?” Her words shot out as if catapulted. “The textiles, paintings, sculptures?”

“Gone.”

Her face morphed into a look of horror, a worst-news-ever-face. “Where?”

The raw emotion in the one word drew him forward. She looked desperate. Of course she was. Junk or not, the art pieces he’d seen must have taken hundreds of hours to make. If someone made off with a set of his blueprints that took half that long, he’d go ballistic. Ridiculing the woman no longer seemed cool. If anything, he wanted to give her a hug.

He forced himself not to step closer. He...couldn’t. She was a stranger, a nuisance. “The inn’s contents were part of the purchase agreement.”

She bit her lip. Trying to decide what to say, or buy time? For what, he didn’t know. She blinked, then wiped her eyes.

She’d better not, not, not cry. His sisters always pulled that stunt. His ex-wife, too. Taryn had blamed him for their marriage failing, saying he loved his work more than her. She hadn’t understood that his job paid for everything, including their house, her shopping sprees and the numerous trips she took to Portland and Seattle while he was away at a site.

His sympathy well was drained. Not a drop of compassion remained. No way would he let this woman manipulate him. Time to send overwrought clown lady on her way. He handed her his business card.

“Talk to Floyd. Call my office for his contact information.” Justin’s voice sounded distant, unemotional, as intended. “You need to leave now so we can get back to work.”

She grabbed the porch rail, gave him a this-isn’t-over look, then sat. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Of course not.

Justin should have known she wouldn’t make this easy, but a one-person sit-in? “We have a schedule to keep. It’s time for you to go.”

“You can rephrase your request over and over again, but my answer will be the same. I’m not letting you touch the inn, let alone destroy the second-oldest building in Haley’s Bay.”

Attitude poured from the woman as easy as milk from a carton. Too bad hers was sour. “I’ve called the police.”

Neither her gaze nor her facial expression wavered. If he wasn’t on the receiving end of her stare, he might have been impressed by her backbone.

“Good.” That attitude of hers wasn’t letting up. “Because you’re stealing.”

Justin laughed. The woman had nerve. He had to give her that. “I have a contract.”

“So do I. You may have bought the inn, but not the rest.”

“Okay, I’ll bite.”

“The artwork doesn’t belong to Floyd or the inn. He sold the pieces on consignment for local artists like me.”

“The inn’s contents belong to us per the deal—”

“The artists had contracts. Nontransferrable contracts.”

She talked faster as if her nerves were getting to her, and her words were making him wonder what the hell was going on here.

“I see the Oregon plates on your equipment. I hope whatever truck you were loading earlier isn’t headed across the bridge toward Astoria.” She leveled him with a stare. “Given the value of the artwork, the theft qualifies as a class-B felony. But I’m sure the police can place blame where it’s due and make the necessary arrests.”

The woman could be telling the truth or she might be delusional. Could this be nothing more than a ruse to stop the demolition? “Floyd never mentioned the art didn’t belong to the inn.”

“Due diligence, Mr....?”

“Justin McMillian.” Her vocabulary told him she knew something about business. Her know-it-all manner annoyed him like the sound of nails on concrete, but her point made his hope sink. Had Paige cut corners in a rush to get the deal closed? Their parents had put so much pressure on them it was...possible. He held out his arm to shake hands. “McMillian Resorts. And you are?”

The woman pursed her lips, making her look haughty and naughty, a dangerous combination. This one was trouble.

After leaving him hanging a moment too long, she shook his hand. “Bailey Cole.”

Warm, rough skin. Not unexpected, given that she worked with chemicals. Up close, she was kind of pretty with her pink cheeks and full lips. She might look halfway decent cleaned up.

Bailey removed the bag from her shoulder. “I’m happy to provide copies of the contracts to prove rightful ownership of the art. I have the information right here.”

Paperwork? Crap. So much for her being delusional. The foundation mess in Seaside wasn’t looking so bad now. At least they’d finally completed that project and had a viable hotel in a desirable market. But if what she said was true, he and his sisters were in trouble. His parents would never let them run the company. Hell, his mom and dad would probably refuse to pay bail.

Time to regroup. Get Greg back with the truck. Call Paige to find out if this Cole woman’s story checked out. Justin glanced around but didn’t see any of the crew. He texted Wyatt.

“I’ll call the artists to pick up—”

Justin cut Bailey off. “The artwork will be back shortly.”

Her jaw jutted forward, hard as granite. “You do know that transporting stolen property across state lines carries additional charges.”

She might be an artist and the poster child for What Not to Wear, but this woman was no delicate flower swaying in the wind. She was a tree, solid and unmoving, firmly rooted in the earth, a sequoia. A good thing they had chain saws in the truck.

“The artwork is in Washington.” He hoped.

Sirens sounded. Blue and red lights flashed.

Good. The police would get her off the property—no chain saws needed—and his team could get back on schedule.

A young, tall uniformed officer got out of his police car and straightened his hat. He took long, purposeful strides toward them.

Justin smiled at the guy who would save his day.

The officer stopped on the walkway in front of the porch. His attention, including a narrowed gaze, focused solely on Bailey Cole. The woman must be a known troublemaker in town to receive such scrutiny from a cop.

“What the hell are you doing, Bailey? And what’s wrong with your foot?”

Justin noticed her knee was bent so her foot didn’t touch the porch. No wonder she’d wanted him to go after the dog.

“You’re not here to give me a hard time.” She stood. A grimace flashed across her face. “I’m not the one who called you. This guy did, even though he stole the artwork from the inn.”

The officer looked at Justin. “Is this true?”

Justin’s smile hardened at the edges. He should’ve known she’d try to pin this on him, but he needed to keep his voice respectful. “My company, McMillian Resorts, bought the inn from Floyd Jeffries. The contents of the inn were included in the property’s purchase. She’s trespassing.”

“What part of consignment don’t you understand?” Bailey’s hands returned to her hips, elbows pointed out. “The artists retain ownership and Floyd only received a commission if a piece sold. The artwork wasn’t his, so it couldn’t be included in the sale. Thus, it’s been stolen.”

The pursed lips returned, distracting Justin from her accusation. He needed to focus. She hadn’t called him a thief exactly, but she was walking the line. She was still on his property. Her violation was clear. They needed to move this along.

He glanced at the officer whose face looked skeptical. Strange, but the guy had similar coloring to Bailey. Dark hair and green eyes.

On the lawn, Justin’s crew gathered within listening distance. No sign of the dog. The donut or sandwich must have worked. Progress. Time for more.

“We can discuss the return of the art—if necessary—once she’s escorted off my property.” Justin might not know the whole story behind the gallery, but he trusted his sister to have negotiated a legally binding contract on the building and its contents.

“Not yet,” Bailey said. “I’m here to protect my property and the inn, Grady. His construction permit did not go through the historical society’s approval process.”

She knew this how? Justin looked from Bailey to the cop, noticed the “Cole” name tag on the officer’s chest.

“I’m Grady Cole. Bailey’s my sister. She knows more about the approval process than anybody in town except Floyd Jeffries.”

Siblings. This was not Justin’s day. No matter. This project was not going to hell on his watch.

The crew moved closer, cutting the distance in half from where they’d stood before. He couldn’t show any weakness or worry. Not in front of his guys.

“No problem.” Justin removed the paperwork from his back pocket. “I have a permit.”

“We’ll see.” Grady flipped through the forms, not once, but twice before frowning. “This permit is from Long Beach. The approvals, too.”

“Yes, that’s where I was told to go.” Justin’s headache throbbed. Holding back sarcasm was becoming harder. How long was this going to freaking take?

Bailey’s smile widened. If she’d been a cat, canary feathers would be hanging from the corners of her mouth.

A knot formed in Justin’s stomach. Crap. She knew something he didn’t. “I checked the paperwork myself. We’re good.”

“You used the Long Beach zip code, not the one for Haley’s Bay.” Grady returned the papers. “This permit isn’t valid. The town’s municipal office must be used for projects within the city limits. You’re also missing an approval stamp from the historical committee, since this property is on its registry.”

The knot wrapped around the donut Justin had eaten for breakfast. “No problem. Floyd told me to go to Long Beach to get the permit. I’ll head over to your town hall and get that and approvals right now.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not that simple,” Grady said.

Warning lights flashed. A cement roller pressed against Justin’s chest. A vise squeezed his brain.

Bailey opened her mouth as if to speak.

He raised his hand, cutting her off. He didn’t want Miss Know-It-All telling him why his must-succeed project was grounded. He wanted her gone; more than that, he wanted her to tell him this was a giant misunderstanding and they could work it out in the next two hours. And then smile.

Not gonna happen. “Once I have the permits, I’ll be free to work on my property.”

“Not exactly, Mr. McMillian.” Her gaze remained on his, unwavering. More sure of herself with every passing minute, but maybe—if he wasn’t stretching it—she was sympathetic, too. “Broughton Inn is on the Federal Register of Historic Places.”

“I know. I also know private owners are not bound by any restrictions if they want to improve the property.”

“Not bound by restrictions only if federal money—grants—haven’t been attached to their property.” The confidence in her words matched the determined set of her chin.

The knot-entangled donut in his stomach turned to stone. He had spoken to the former inn owner, taken notes, confirmed each detail about what being on the historical register meant for improvements and teardowns. The ticking-clock time frame of Floyd Jeffries wanting to close the deal was looking suspect. “We were assured—”

“Floyd lied. You got taken, Mr. McMillian.” Bailey pulled out files from her bag and handed one to Justin. “If you don’t believe me, check these papers. They’ll prove federal and state monies are attached to the Broughton Inn. Some are old, before Floyd’s time as owner.”

Justin noticed his crew creeping closer to the porch. The men had cut the distance in half twice, no doubt curious. He didn’t blame them. This was their livelihood, too. He wouldn’t let them down or allow Bailey Cole to screw up this project any more than she had.

He opened the folder, eager to prove her wrong. Except...

The first page listed the inn’s grant awards. Not one, several. Federal and state funding had been provided to the inn.

His neck stiffened, the cords of muscles tightening and coiling like electrical wire. He turned the pages, one after another. Each was a death knell to his plans for the inn, smothering his hope for success, throwing the resort company’s future ownership in doubt.

It now made sense why Floyd gave them only forty-eight hours to make a decision about purchasing the inn. The man had been trying to pull a fast one. Not trying, succeeding. Damn.

Talk about a crook. Paige, everyone at McMillian Resorts, had been duped. If Justin couldn’t fix this, his parents would sell the company and ride off into retirement without a second thought to their three children who had spent their lives living and working at the family’s hotels.

Not about to give up, Justin straightened, handed back the papers. “We were not provided this information. I would appreciate copies at your earliest convenience.”

“I’ll get those to you as soon as I can,” Bailey said.

Grady took the file out of his sister’s hands. “I’ll have copies made. You need to get off your feet.”

“I will.” She ground out the words as if clenching her back teeth. “I have to return the artwork first.”

“So, what’s the approval process so we can begin our project?” Justin asked Grady.

The officer looked at his sister. “That’s Bailey’s expertise.”

Great. She was the last person who would offer help, but too much was at stake for Justin not to ask. “Care to enlighten me on the steps?”

“Gladly.” She leaned against the railing, but her casual position didn’t match the sharp, predatory gleam in her eyes. “First the intended project plans must be presented to the Advisory Council on Historic Preservation.”

Not insurmountable. Justin released a quick breath. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“No, but that’s only the federal portion of the process.” Bailey flexed her knee with the injured foot, then straightened her leg. “After the feds check off on the plans, you need input from the State Historic Preservation Office.”

Each approval would take time. Not good. He scratched his chin. Too bad he couldn’t itch away the problems with the inn. Or her. Bailey explaining the process without prodding worried him. She might have a hidden agenda. Or maybe she liked knowing more than he did. “Is that all?”

“After state approval, you’ll need to present the plans to the Haley’s Bay Historical Committee in order to receive your city permit.”

“Seems straightforward.” Except the timing would impact the schedule, possibly change their plans completely. His parents wanted the inn to open before the busy summer season next year. He needed to talk to Paige ASAP and figure out not only damage control but also a plan B.

“My sister is head of the committee,” Grady added. That wasn’t the cherry on top that the officer’s voice seemed to imply, but a grenade with the pin pulled.

Justin’s hands curled into fists. He wasn’t into violence, but he wanted to punch Floyd Jeffries. The man had told Justin tearing down the inn would be as easy as crushing a sand castle. Going through three groups could take days, weeks, maybe even months. Who knew if they’d allow the old inn to be torn down so a new one could be built? He had a feeling Miss Bailey Cole would be readying her troops for a battle.

Bailey’s I-know-something-you-don’t smile suggested she could read Justin’s mind. “You realize if you do anything without getting approval—”

“I understand what’s at stake, Ms. Cole.” His words sounded harsh, but he’d lost patience. He couldn’t keep his cool any longer. This so-called diamond in the rough, aka the Broughton Inn, was nothing more than a piece of fool’s gold. He and his sisters looked like amateurs for not thinking the inn’s fire-sale price came with strings of steel.

Ones that might handcuff them for months, maybe years, in a web of approval procedures. Ones that might destroy their lifelong dream of running McMillian Resorts.

He gave a nod to Wyatt and the crew. “Pack it up, boys.”

For now.

Bailey Cole might be smiling, but he would show her who was in charge. His parents, too. This approval process delay wouldn’t change the inevitable. The old inn was coming down. A luxury five-star boutique hotel would be built on this spot.

No one, including Bailey Cole, was going to stop him.

McMillian Resorts would succeed. No matter what Justin had to do to make that happen, including charming the silly slippers off the mess of a woman standing in his way.

Chapter Two

An 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.

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