One
She wasn't going to tolerate it. If he thought he was going to breeze into her inn and start throwing around his weight, insulting the place that had been her home and her life for the past twelve years, with no opposition from her, he was in for a big surprise.
Emily tapped her foot restlessly on the kitchen floor, waiting for the coffee to finish dripping. In all fairness, she had been given ample notice of his arrival. But that didn't mean she was going to roll over and take it.
The inn should have been hers.
The coffee machine beeped and she filled a big yellow mug, which was actually a soup dish with a handle, grabbed her stack of fliers listing all of the autumnal events, and walked out toward the reception desk.
It didn't matter that her best friend and her husband had been the ones to buy it. It didn't even matter that they swore they wanted to keep the small town integrity of Stars Landing Inn. It wasn't even all the long overdue redecorating plans. It was the usurping of power. It was bringing in someone over her head to oversee the renovations. Someone who could wave off any of her objections. Someone who would take her manager position she had worked her ass off to get, and roll his eyes at it.
She moved behind the reception desk, sloshing coffee down her hand and cursing. She shouldered the employee standing there, straightening the papers on the desk, moving the new fliers into the small wire basket.
Devon leaned back against the shelf of quaint cubbyholes on the wall behind him, watching her move around, all auburn hair and anxious energy. “You're in a mood,” he said.
Emily turned to him, brown hair and eyes, horn-rimmed glasses. Dressed in obnoxiously tight skinny jeans and a slim fit blue and white plaid button-up. She rolled her eyes. “How are you so calm about this?”
“It helps that I have a horrible work ethic,” Devon winked. “I'm just here for the paycheck.”
Emily laughed. Devon was rich. Everyone knew it. Why he worked at all was completely beyond her comprehension.
“You know... I've done some research on this James Michaels guy,” Devon said, shrugging. “He's a real ladies man.”
“I don't care if he's banged every skirt on the east coast,” Emily said, rolling her light blue eyes.
“Hey, maybe you can charm him with your... feminine wiles,” Devon said, smirking.
Emily moved out from behind the desk, reaching for an eraser shaped like a pumpkin, and threw it at him. “Can you at least pretend to do work today? Shuffle papers, look up when the door opens... that kinda thing.”
She moved into the room across the hall, a sitting room. The walls had blue and yellow striped wallpaper with far too many framed pictures of Victorian scenes. Bookshelves lined either side of the giant fireplace, overflowing with an assortment of books. Emily collected newspapers off the light blue chaise lounge, shuffling them together and placing them on the coffee table.
She couldn't sit still. She never could. She always needed to be one the move, doing something, getting something accomplished. There was always work to be done.
Emily moved back into the hallway, past the staircase that led to the rooms, past the dining room, the kitchen. The keys on her hips jingled as she walked, quick, long-legged. She let herself down the staff hallway, and moved into a small room that used to be used to store six Christmas trees, one for each guest room. Until Emily convinced the owner that that was a bit of overkill.
It became her room pretty soon after she showed up in Stars Landing at sixteen. Homeless and willing to do anything to keep her from having to go back to her parent's house. And Marion, the inn owner, old then, pushing sixty-five with a shocking amount of long gray hair and sharp, dark eyes, had taken mercy on her. Giving her a job cleaning rooms, mucking out the horse stalls. Giving her a purpose and a place to sleep. The inn become her home, her passion, her everything.
The room was tiny. Barely big enough for her full-sized bed and dresser. But it was hers. It was the only thing in the world she had. The walls had been a violent red when she was a teenager, angsty, artsy. Defiant. Wanting a reaction. But Marion had just cackled, slapping her on the shoulder and telling her it was going to be a bitch to paint over when she grew up. She was right. She was always right. It had taken her two coats of primer and two coats of the cappuccino color she had chosen to make her adolescence disappear.
Emily walked over to her dresser, opening the drawer and looking for something to wear. Normally it was just jeans and whatever shirt she pulled out first. But the arrival of some big city businessman was making her feel a little insecure about her normal work attire. It wasn't like her to be insecure, to second guess herself. And she hated him even more for bringing that out.
She eventually settled on a pair of tight black skinny jeans and a thin gray lightweight sweater. She grabbed her long auburn-colored hair and pulled it back into a long ponytail. She looked in the mirror, taking in her pale skin, the light spattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. She wasn't going to put any effort into makeup. What was the point?
Emily walked through the dining room, setting tables, pushing chairs in, trying not to think. Because if she let herself think, she was only going to get more angry. She was only going to get herself all worked up and probably jump down the man's throat the second he arrived. Whenever that was. Because he hadn't actually given them a time. Or even a day. No, that would just be too considerate. He had made a reservation for the entire month.
So she got to run around every morning making sure everything was perfect, changing into professional clothes, looking over her shoulder whenever she heard a male voice.
There were only two days left in the month. He would have to arrive soon.
And her patience was absolutely shot.
Emily made her way back into the hall, hearing the bell on the front door, making her heart jump into her throat. She took a steadying breath and moved quickly up toward reception.
“Oh,” she said, drawing her brows together. “Maude. What are you doing here?”
Maude was somewhere in middle age with flawless mahogany skin and a generous frame. She pulled her black hair into a single braid that fell half way down her back. She was wearing a bright red dress with an assortment of multi-colored beaded necklaces that fell in different lengths from her collarbone to her waist, bouncing as she walked.
Maude was the town psychic. Emily spent half her time laughing at the idea and the other half trying to pick her jaw off the floor when she turned out to be correct in her predictions.
Lately, for whatever reason... maybe middle age making her soft, she had been sticking her nose into everyone's love life. Helping to set up three couples in the past few years. Annabelle and Sam, farmers, neighbors. Perfectly happy with a little squishy pink baby to love up on. Lena the town baker and Eric the former ladies man mechanic. Happy. Obnoxiously so. Known for sneaking off into the woods and having sex. Emily had accidentally happened across them more than once. And then there was the sheriff, handsome with his slowly-turning to salt-and-pepper hair and Viv, Anna the farmer's high maintenance mother, the unlikeliest couple of all time. But damn if that man didn't come running when Viv called his name.
“Oh,” Maude said, smiling in a sly way that had Emily squinting her eyes at her. Maude pulled a book out of her purse, a sordid romance novel with an embarrassingly typical cover: heaving bosoms, shirtless man, fancy calligraphy writing. “I'm just... looking for a nice place to enjoy my smut,” she smiled, moving into the sitting room.
There was a scratching sound, and Emily peeked in to see Maude moving one of the captain's chairs close to the doorway, giving her a perfect view into the reception area.
Emily turned to
Devon who quickly jumped, putting his hands on the computer keys, fake typing. “What is that all about?” she asked, turning to watch Maude, looking as innocent as could be, opening her book.
“What?” Devon asked, looking up, pushing his glasses up his nose, giving her a blank stare. “Oh, I was busy... working. I didn't see anything. No suspicious characters moving around furniture and looking entirely too excited to just spend her day reading literary porn. Just standing here, minding my business, typing away.”
“Funny,” Emily said, smiling. “because that computer is off.”
“What?” Devon exploded, eyes comically wide. “You mean all that work is lost?” he asked, laughing. He watched Emily for a moment, shuffling papers she had already shuffled. “So...” he said, sounding nonchalant. “think I am going to get fired?”
“What? Worried you cant find somewhere else to stand around all day and play on your phone?” she asked, laughing. She shook her head. “No. I wont let him fire you. I think he's mostly here to plan our upgrades. Maybe force us to put something in that the tourists would like. A pool. Tennis courts. Stuff like that. I don't think he will be too much involved with how we run the place.”
Devon nodded, looking around. “I miss Marion,” he said sadly, a fresh wound still.
“I know,” Emily said, looking around. Everything there reminded them of her. The awful wallpaper choices, the bland paintings. It wasn't that she had bad taste exactly, it was just her steadfast determination to make the whole place feel Victorian. Emily had always been rather surprised that she didn't insist all the employees dress in period clothing.
Personally, Emily hated the décor. She hated the busyness of the floral wallpaper and bed coverings. She preferred things neat. All clean lines. But everything in the inn, since Marion's death, felt like being enveloped in a warm hug. It was all they had left.
And despite disliking pretty much everything, she knew she was going to fight this city guy tooth and nail on any small change he wanted to make. Partly out of respect for Marion's memory, partly to show him that she wasn't going to be pushed around. No one pushed her around.
“You've met Elliott Michael's, right?” Devon asked, pulling her out of her thoughts. “the brother of this guy?”
“Yeah,” Emily said, smiling a little at his memory. Tall, dark, handsome. Powerful. Insufferable.
“What's he like?”
“Well I've only seen him a few times. Most of the time when Hannah comes to visit, he stays at work. But I don't know. He's kind of standoffish. Very collected. Cold.”
“Think his brother is like him?”
Emily shrugged, moving behind the desk and rearranging things inside the cubbyholes. “I hope so. He might not be someone I want to share a beer with, but he seems rational and intelligent.”
“Hannah hasn't told you anything about the other Mr. Michaels?”
There were stories. About when Hannah and Elliott were still just employee-employer. About her thinking for a short time that she had a slight crush on James. Who was more sociable. Open. But then she had fallen for Elliott and there wasn't any more talk about her brother-in-law.
“I've gotten bits and pieces. Mostly before they decided to buy this place. She's been unusually tight-lipped about him since. Which is weird.”
“He's really educated,” Devon supplied, thinking back over his internet search. “He went to school for like... seven years or something like that.”
“While his brother slaved away building a company?” Emily asked, putting paper into the fax machine. “How nice for him.”
Devon laughed. “You're determined to think badly of him, huh?”
Was she? Maybe. But it wasn't personal. He was probably very educated. Very good at his job. But, damn it, she was really good at hers. And she didn't need someone coming in and telling her all the things that she already knew. Trying to demean her position. She had always planned on making necessary changes. When Marion got well enough to discuss business again. But then Marion died. And there had been grief like nothing she had ever experienced before. Like losing a parent too young. That was exactly what it was. Marion had been her only mother figure.
And then when she could finally work through the grief, she had waited for the will to be read. Certain the inn would fall into her hands. She had notebooks full of plans. New décor. New menu. New everything. Up to date. How to market to reach more people. Draw them in.
But then there had been no will.
Emily remembered the horror when the lawyer told her, shaking his head with a sorry set to his mouth. Then he told her that the inn would fall to Marion's closest living relative. Some couple that Emily had never even heard of. People who had never even come to visit Marion when she was in the hospital.
She had felt the anger then. And the guilt at being angry at someone who was dead. But how could she? How could she not see her own mortality and plan for it? How could she not realize that Emily would lose everything?
Maude made a strange, stifled laughing noise, bringing her back to the present. She reached under the desk to grab a piece of paper she had lost. “I'm not determined to hate him. I just think he sounds like a pompous, arrogant, spoiled, richy rich...”
There was a cough, making Emily's back straighten. Because it wasn't Devon, who was looking down at her with a finger to his lips.
“Hi,” Devon said facing forward, a hospitality smile in place. Charming and fake. “What can I do for you today?”
Emily threw the paper into the garbage and stood up.
And there was a man.
Two
He was good looking. Way, way too unnecessarily good looking. And tall. She always gauged men's attractiveness based, firstly, on their height. She was about five-foot-nine herself and she needed to be able to wear heels and not tower over her date. This man looked well over six feet with light brown hair and deep blue eyes. There were laughter lines beside his lips, suggesting they were perpetually turned upward.
He had a nice face. Sharp cheekbones. A really strong jaw.
But it was the clothes. Emily was a sucker for a man who had his own sense of style. And there he was in all his masculine glory, wearing blue jeans and a black leather jacket on top a white t-shirt with a black suit vest over it, completely unbuttoned, and a tie. A tie. Over a t-shirt.
She wanted to laugh. And he was smiling. At her.
“Do you have a reservation?” Devon asked, sounding professional as he turned on the computer. There were three reservations at the inn for that week. One for their new boss. One for a woman named September. And one for a couple. Maybe this was Mr. Smith of the honeymooning couple.
“Oh,” he said, smiling at Devon then turning to face Emily while he spoke. “Yes.”
“Can I have your name?” Devon asked, looking between the two of them, noticing Maude had already put her book down and was leaning forward, watching.
“Sure,” he said, smiling an odd smile. “Mr. Pompous Arrogant Spoiled Richy Rich... the third,” he said, watching as Emily's mouth fall slightly open, a rush of panic in her light eyes. “Or,” he said, turning back to Devon. “it might be under James Michaels.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Emily mumbled to herself. Of course. Of course he would show up while she was in the middle of ranting and raving about him. That was just her luck. Emily looked past James to where Maude was sitting forward in her seat, smiling. “You could have warned me, you charlatan,” she said, and Maude laughed.
“Welcome to Stars Landing Inn, Mr. Michaels,” Devon said, sounding too cheerful. Like he needed to make up for Emily's blunder.
James smiled at Devon. “Thanks...”
“Devon,” Dev supplied quickly.
“Devon,” James repeated. Like only business people do. To commit the name to memory. “And you are?” he asked, knowing. Of course he knew.
She was a lot better looking than his brother had let on. But, then again, Elliott o
nly had eyes for Hannah. This woman was all edges. She had a sharp, cat-like face with a thin, straight nose and slightly pointed chin. Her lips were small and her light eyes were almost a see-through shade of blue. Her deep auburn hair was pulled into an impossibly neat ponytail and it matched her eyebrows and eyelashes exactly. A natural redhead. Was there anything hotter than that?
And he hadn't missed the freckles. The freckles might have been the best part.
From what he heard, she had a tongue as sharp as her features. He was looking forward to hearing more out of that pretty mouth of hers.
Emily smiled, the same forced kind of smile Devon had on. Professionally friendly. She slid behind Devon and moved out from behind the desk, extending her hand. Cursing herself for beginning on such an awful first impression. “Emily. Emily Brennan. I'm the manager.”
She was tall, he realized with a growing sense of attraction. She had the kind of bodies you saw on glossy print ads. Thin, waifish, almost boyish with just the tiniest hint of breast or hip.
“Nice to meet you, Emily,” he said, oozing entirely too much charm for a business interaction. “I see you've heard all about me.”
She wasn't going to apologize. No way in hell. “Well,” Emily said, offering him a half smile. “your reputation proceeds you, Mr. Michaels.”
“James,” he corrected.
“James,” she said, “Would you like Devon to show you up to your room?”
“No,” James said, looking over at Devon. He could practically see his sigh of relief. He didn't want to be the one to screw up. “No,” he said, looking back at Emily. “I would like you to show me to my room, Miss. Brennan.”
Of course he did. And he could just take that good-boy smile and shove it because it wasn't going to work on her. “Of course,” she said, scurrying behind the desk to get a room key off the wall. Happy for any excuse to get away from him for a second. “Do you need any help with your luggage?”
She was angry at him, James realized with a smile. Was it because she felt that bringing him to his room was beneath her position? Or was she just resentful for his presence in general? “No, I'll get my bags later.”
What The Heart Knows Page 1
