“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. On
es 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 2
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. Bu
t 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.
Falling for Mr. Right: Still the One ; His Proposal, Their Forever Page 22
