His Proposal, Their Forever. Melissa McClone
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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