Finding Her Heart (McCormick's Creek Series Book 2)

by Jen Peters

  Chapter 20

  It was hard to know what was needed in a place you’d only recently discovered, but a casual lunch with the McCormick’s Creek mayor helped Mitch feel like he had more of a handle on it. He wasn’t a town planner, though, and bringing businesses in was the mayor’s job. Besides, he remembered his grandfather’s advice not to makeover the town without their input. Right now, Mitch needed to focus on what was already here and what might be tied to the inn.

  Still, he knew they needed restaurants. They needed activities. And at least some shopping to start. Those first, and the others would come. But how could a boutique or restaurant stay in business until the others came? And why would businesses come unless there was a reason—unless there were tourists?

  Mitch was stymied. His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out, grateful to be jerked out of his thoughts. “Hi, Ree. What’s up?”

  “I just saw the ad, and it’s gorgeous,” came her excited voice.

  “In Northwest Travel? Any calls yet?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, yes, in Northwest Travel, and no, no calls. It just got delivered this morning! Nobody’s going to make reservations that fast.”

  He smiled at her excitement. “I know, I know. So you’re at the inn? Nothing to work on for your mother?”

  “Nope, did that all this morning. Did you find Mom in the greenhouse?”

  “Oh yes, we had a nice chat. Gave her some things to think about.”

  “Like what?” Ree asked.

  Childlike glee bubbled up in him, and his voice came out in a sing-song. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  “Mitch, you rat!” But she giggled. “Anyway, I’ve been working on the Welcome Hall. If you have a few minutes, can you come to the inn? I want to see what you think about something.”

  Ten minutes later, Mitch was shaking his head as Ree switched two paintings back and forth for his perusal. “I’m not the person to ask,” he said. “They’re both okay.”

  “Just okay? Neither one is great?” Her brow furrowed with concentration.

  “Actually, no. You could fill the space with either, but neither of them calls to me. Why’d Harriet pick them?”

  Ree shrugged. “I have no idea. They are sort of blah, aren’t they? But I do like the rest of what she chose.”

  Mitch looked at her. Something was off in her voice. “What’s really wrong, Ree?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Ree…”

  She sighed. “I know it’s childish, and I know I said no one would make reservations this soon, but I guess I was hoping for at least some questions about the inn. Having the Markov wedding before we even open…”

  “It’s early yet,” he reassured her. “Besides, not everyone jumps on an idea as quickly as you.” That was one of the things he liked about her—she didn’t stop to weigh all the personal ramifications of something.

  “I know, it’s just…” She put the painting down and strolled to the window. “I have this fear that no one will come. I mean, the inn is gorgeous, but why would anybody come up here? There’s nothing to do. Nothing but a podunk town where everything has stalled out.”

  “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing." He turned her to face him. “So why don’t we brainstorm a bit and see what it would take to turn this place around?”

  Her face lit up, her blue eyes sparkling. He loved the way her ivory skin warmed with the sunlight. It would have been a perfect time to give her the coffee basket if he had won it, but someone had outbid his own ridiculously high price. Still, he ought to put one together himself sometime. When his new responsibilities gave him a chance to slow down.

  Ree tugged him by the hand until they were seated in comfortable wicker chairs on the porch. Then she dashed back inside and returned with a notepad and paper.

  “A bit excited, are you?” Excited and glowing and oh-so-attractive/enchanting. It was all he could do not to reach out and run his fingers through her hair.

  “Of course, aren’t you? I don’t know what we’ll come up with, but anything has to be better than what’s here now.”

  By the time the sun went down, they had talked about staging parties at the inn, possible events in town, and what shops their guests might look for.

  “But none of that will help us now,” Ree muttered.

  Mitch grasped her hand gently. “Remember Mr. McCormick is backing this place, and it doesn’t have to turn a profit for a while. It will be fine." He knew it would be, especially since he was “Mr. McCormick” now. Mostly, he liked the feel of her hand in his.

  “I know the inn will,” she said, lacing her fingers into his. “But that doesn’t help the rest of the town." She paused. “Is it all right if I order the inn’s flowers each week from my mother?”

  “Of course, you’re the manager. And you know we want to support local businesses." Why would she worry about that? Among other things, Swanson Florists was the only flower shop around—there was no place else to order from.

  * * *

  By Friday morning, Ree was dying of boredom. Mitch was back in Portland, Robin had been working double shifts at the restaurant, and Ree had done all the course work and flower orders she could stand. It was just the sort of day to escape the sleepy town and talk to the lady at the Lane County tourist office.

  A text from Mitch chimed as she finished putting her folders back in order. Just finalized. New chef is hired, Paul LaSalle. Will come this afternoon to check out the kitchen.

  What? Mitch hired a chef and didn’t even tell her? She was supposed to have some input on it! And so much for going to Eugene.

  Ree swiped her phone to open the internet and plugged LaSalle’s name in. A Google search connected him to The Salmon Run, a seafood restaurant in Newport, and Maxwell’s, an exclusive restaurant in Portland. She wondered why he wasn’t still at one of those, but Mitch would have figured that out. She browsed the menus, from duck confit to monkfish in shrimp and caper sauce.

  It sounded impressive, maybe more high end than McCormick’s Creek would support, but they could discuss that.

  Ree was surveying the property, making notes of where the lights would be needed, how to best bring the solid flooring down to the lawn, and where to put additional seating.

  A Maserati pulled up, distracting her. A lean, dark-haired man unfolded himself from the car and pulled himself up to an extraordinary height. He walked toward her with his chest out and his chin up. “You are ze manager?” he said in a French accent. “Mademoiselle Ree Swanson? I am Chef Paul LaSalle.”

  “Chef, it’s good to meet you." Ree reached to shake his hand, stifling her frustration with Mitch for not telling her.

  Instead, Chef LaSalle raised her hand to his lips. “Enchante. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Ree blushed and recovered. It was just business. “Mr. Blake told me you’d be coming by, Chef. Would you like to see your kitchen?”

  “Bien sur. After you." He motioned her ahead and followed closely behind all the way to the back door.

  Inside, he inspected the stainless steel counters, the six-burner gas stove, the double professional oven. He opened cabinets and fingered the pots and pans, then examined the utensil drawers. “Two ovens but only one range?”

  Ree stiffened. “It’s top quality, but yes, only one. This will be a small breakfast service, with some occasional evenings.”

  He frowned and poked into cupboards. “I will make it work. Here is my order of stock. You will please to fill it?”

  “But…we haven’t talked about menus yet,” Ree stammered. She perused his list and refrained from rolling her eyes. There were staples there, yes, but also quite a few exotic ingredients.

  “I create from the freshest ingredients only, and those will determine the menu for each morning.”

  Ree suddenly realized how arrogant he was. She fought to keep her tongue in check. Why hadn’t Mitch warned her about his demanding nature? Surely he must have known.

  She look
ed past him and focused on the clock on the wall while she counted to ten.

  Finally she looked back at the tall man who was doing his own inspection of her. She straightened her shoulders. “Your commitment to quality is admirable, Chef. I’m sure you have vendors you prefer, with whom you would like to discuss what is available each day. Perhaps it would be best if you ordered your supplies directly.”

  His eyes flashed, but he nodded. “The first dinner is Thursday, in six days, yes? I will return at eight that morning. I will have staples delivered ahead in the week, and fresh ingredients de bonne heure, early on the day." With that, he turned on his heel and exited the kitchen.

  Ree didn’t relax until she heard his sports car start up. It didn’t quite peel out of the driveway, but close. What had Mitch gotten them into? She wasn’t sure she could work with this man on a daily basis.

  And she hadn’t even asked about his ideas for the dinners.

  Chapter 21

  Saturday was another long day, and Ree hadn’t heard from Mitch since the text about the chef. Restless, she flitted from TV to computer to staring out the window into the night before she finally dropped into bed.

  Sometime in the darkness, she bolted upright, covered in sweat, tangled in sheets. Her clock glowed 3:15 as she took deep breaths, trying to shake the dream. She had been dancing, her father’s face alternating with Mitch’s, with an incredibly sad overtone to it all. And then her father vanished and Mitch was cackling victoriously, predatory greed in every twisted smile.

  She threw the twisted covers off and opened the window, but even the air felt thick. Perhaps a summer thunderstorm was coming. Restless and unsettled, she turned all the lights on. It was only a dream.

  Or was it a warning? Not supernatural, but her subconscious telling her she was about to get hurt? Her thoughts tumbled around Mitch and all she knew and didn’t know about him. His kindness…his job…his laughter and the warmth of his hand…his comment about putting loopholes in contracts.

  She dozed off again with the lights still on.

  Ree dragged herself into the greenhouse the next morning, still thoroughly confused about Mitch. Sure, his grandfather had died and she was sorry for that. And sure, he had played Rhett Butler to her Scarlett, and they’d had some good laughs.

  Could that really negate everything he stood for? The satisfaction he must feel when he won for his client?

  She sighed, slipped her work apron over her t-shirt and shorts, and began to pull her mass of hair into a ponytail. With the shop closed on Sundays, it was a day to catch up, and her mother wanted help transplanting seedlings.

  “Hey, Mrs. Swanson,” Mitch’s voice rumbled from outside. “How are you today?”

  Ree froze. He didn’t know she was there, did he? Her hands dropped, her thick hair falling like a blanket around her shoulders. Idiot, she thought, of course he knew she was there. If she wasn’t at the inn, and she wasn’t at the shop, where else would she be but home?

  “Fine, Mr. Blake. And you?”

  Ree rolled her eyes. Her mom could be warm and courteous to a skunk. Was Mitch a skunk? Or was the real Mitchell Blake the warm, funny man she’d had dinner with the other night? But if he was, why did she have that dream?

  She gave her head a shake, throwing off her musings just in time to hear Mitch ask if she was around.

  “In the greenhouse. Ready to help me do some transplanting,” came her mother’s voice.

  Ree could hear the smile in Mitch’s voice. “I won’t take a moment,” he said. “Just want to ask a quick question.”

  She whipped her hair through the scrunchy and reached for a trowel. Five seconds later she was studiously tapping a young plant out of its pot, hoping it was one of the ones her mother wanted to move. Mitch leaned on her worktable, fiddling with a root knife. She tried not to notice the sparkle in his eyes as he smiled at her.

  Ree kept her face bland—no way was she cutting him any slack, not after that dream. Professional, be professional. “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  He twirled the knife in his fingers. “Oh, just wondered if you’d like to introduce me to your bowling alley tonight.”

  Her breath caught, and the plant landed in her left hand, potting soil scattering across the workbench. “Bowling? You want to go bowling?”

  “Sure,” he said. “When in Rome…”

  Mitchell Blake in a bowling alley was an image Ree wouldn’t have conjured in a million years. And he wanted to take her there on a date? Not what she had imagined for that, either. If she even agreed to go.

  “I haven’t bowled in years,” she finally said, “but … are you sure you want to wear stinky shoes that a thousand other people have had their feet in?" She set the plant down and filled a larger plastic pot halfway with new mix.

  “If it hasn’t killed all of you yet, I’m sure it won’t kill me.”

  It might kill her, though.

  “Come on, what do you say?” Mitch asked, looking intently at her.

  She broke her gaze off and shook the pot to settle it. Be professional? Right. Until it became personal. But she wouldn’t know about him if she didn’t give him a chance. “Sure,” she finally said. “What time?”

  Mitch said six o’clock and sauntered off, saying goodbye to her mother on the way out. Ree wouldn’t have said there was a glow in the greenhouse when he was there, but something vanished when he left. She sighed and got back to work.

  That evening, Ree browsed through her closet. All of her earlier imaginings for spending time with Mitch had involved dresses and high heels. What was she supposed to wear? She hadn’t been bowling since she was seventeen, for goodness sake!

  She finally settled on jeans and a pretty, fitted t-shirt, with a chunky necklace and some small gold hoop earrings. A spritz of perfume—not that he’d smell anything but sweat and pizza in the bowling alley—and she was ready, determined to just enjoy herself and watch Mitch’s personality.

  He not only opened the car door for her, but gave her a hand as she slid in. Inside, she inhaled the rich smell of leather and a hint of Mitch’s cologne. The powerful purr of the engine fit Mitch to a T, and the ride to the bowling alley was all too short.

  Inside, she wrinkled her nose as they rented shoes and tried out bowling balls. They ended up in a lane next to a family birthday party. Six kids gathered around balloons saying “You’re 8!” and “Happy Birthday!"

  On the other side of them were a couple of men taking the game way too seriously. A guy in plaid pants sent his ball powerfully down the lane, split his pins and swore a blue streak.

  Mitch frowned, tried to regain his concentration, and sent his ball down the lane. He knocked five pins down, all on the left side. Ree smiled at him while he waited for his ball to come back, but the plaid guy tried too hard to turn his split into a spare and ended up throwing an absolute gutter ball.

  He cursed even worse, words Ree had never heard before, and pounded his fist into his other hand. Mitch hadn’t picked up his ball yet, just stood there tense and watchful. The guy finally sat down while his buddy bowled, hitting a strike. Cursing filled the air again.

  Ree could see the tension in Mitch’s body, but he strolled casually over to the men. “Would you mind watching your language?” he asked politely. “It’s making it unpleasant for the lady."

  The guy thrust out his jaw. “It’s a free country.”

  “It is,” Mitch agreed. “But you’re in a family environment, and if you won’t tone it down for us, at least consider the youngsters who can hear you too." He looked pointedly at the eight year olds watching with open mouths.

  The guy muttered under his breath—more cursing, Ree guessed—and finally nodded agreement. Mitch came back and retrieved his ball, amid thank yous from the family on the other side.

  Hmm…Mitch wasn’t just smart and incredibly handsome, and he wasn’t just willing to do hokey things for a date. He was protective, too. She could almost call him a hero.

  Was this wh
o he really was? And if so, did that override his business practices?

  They spent the next two hours throwing a few strikes mixed in with some atrocious gutter balls, and having a million laughs. Ree struck various clown poses before getting serious with her attempts, and Mitch kept score in a play-by-play announcer’s voice. Each had a time when they mis-balanced and landed their butts on the floor before the ball hit the pins. By the end of the evening, their wrists were aching, and they were holding hands like the teenagers who had come in as they were finishing.

  They turned the equipment in, and Mitch put his arm around her as they walked out. She snuggled into him, finally comfortable with the type of man he was at heart.

  Mitch looked up as they reached the car. “It’s a beautiful night. Got any nice drives around here?”

  “Many,” Ree said, “but I know just the one." She guided him out of town and up a winding road to a viewpoint before the road dropped again. They cut off on a dirt road just over the hill, and she directed him to the Lookout.

  They leaned against the Porsche, looking out over the wide valley spread below. The moon was a new crescent, but a million stars filled the sky. Lights twinkled in small clusters of buildings below. “Mr. Jackson has his cattle ranch over there,” Ree said, “and Dash Ballinger trains Quarter Horses on the other side of the valley. And then there are some regular houses scattered in. Someone wanted to put a subdivision in once, but no one would sell them the land.”

  “Nice to have neighbors band together, even if somebody could have made a lot of money,” Mitch murmured.

  “Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you can boss people around,” she pointed out.

  “Of course.” He seemed distracted. She looked up only to find him looking at her, his face lightly shadowed in the night.

  She watched his lips, his firm mouth softening as he leaned forward. She inhaled, a hint of cologne and shampoo filling her senses. She leaned forward to meet him.