His Proposal, Their Forever. Melissa Mcclone
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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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