Falling for Mr. Right: Still the One ; His Proposal, Their Forever

by Michelle Major

  “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 o
pen 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.