A Place with Briar. Amber Leigh Williams

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      “Oh, the color will change, anyway,” Roxie explained, waving a hand. “I’m thinking pink. With vintage white mirrored accessories. Typical, maybe. But I advertise my gowns on a red-based pink backdrop and it really makes the designs pop.”

      “I’m sure you’ll make the space look fabulous.” She shook Roxie’s hand. “Welcome to the building.”

      Roxie beamed, her commercial-straight teeth as perfect as her Victoria Beckham coif and cornflower-blue eyes. “You’ve just made me the happiest woman this side of the Mississippi. Opening my own shop has been a dream for so long, I can hardly believe I’m finally doing it.”

      Dreams, Briar thought. It had been so long since she’d contemplated her own, she could hardly remember them. They had slipped through her fingers so quickly, she was no longer sure what she wanted. “When will you get started?”

      “I’m hoping to open before July, just in time for the big holiday rush. So as soon as possible.”

      “Well, if you need any assistance at all the other girls and I will be more than happy to help you settle in,” Briar said. “Shall we sign and make it official?”

      As they stepped out, Briar locked the dead bolt while Roxie stood back, eyeing the shop face. “I had a bit of a brainstorm last night. I never sleep when I’m excited. Drives my fiancé, Richard, to insanity, me pacing up and down the halls at all hours. If you’re up for it, I think we could come up with a package deal.”

      Briar leaned against the rail overlooking the small parking lot. “How so?”

      “On top of designing, I’m a licensed wedding coordinator. I plan ceremonies, receptions, book caterers, photographers, venues, florists, etc. What I was thinking is we each shave a percentage off our prices for my couples—offer them my services and attire along with your honeymoon suite at a discounted rate.”

      “Have you thought about adding Flora to the package? Adrian’s done weddings, and her bridal arrangements are divine.”

      Roxie held up a discerning finger. “And don’t forget the Tavern. I love that wide veranda on the back. It’s just big enough for a reception space. With the right lighting, trimmings and that amazing natural backdrop of the bay, it’d be breathtaking.”

      “I like it,” Briar admitted. Something buzzed beneath her skin. Something that felt an awful lot like possibilities. Could this be what the inn needed to stay afloat? “You should discuss it with the others.”

      “We’ll all have to sit down for drinks sometime this week,” Roxie said as she descended the steps to her waiting Lexus. “Who knows? This could be a lucrative venture for all of us.”

      The wild roar of an engine snagged their attention. Briar’s stomach fluttered as Cole Savitt zoomed in on his motorcycle, coming to an abrupt halt under the magnolia.

      As he cut the engine and pulled off his helmet, Roxie raised a brow. “One of your guests?”

      “Ah, yes.”

      “Mmm.” She slid Briar a teasing grin. “I might have to pop by sometime while he’s here.”

      Briar laughed as Roxie got into her car. She waved her off then smoothed nervous hands over her skirt. A lucrative venture. The words echoed in her head as she stood alone on the gravel drive. The inn and her mother’s lifetime of work were slipping away slowly but surely. She had to find more investors before it was yanked from her hands and the state put it up for sale or foreclosure.

      She owed her mother at least that much.

      Loosening a sigh, she began the walk back to the inn. Her eyes fell on the lone vehicle in the drive, Cole Savitt’s Harley-Davidson. Where had it taken him? What all had he seen straddling its black leather seat?

      Dreams. She pondered them as she passed through the garden her mother—and now she—so lovingly tended. Once upon a time, her dreams had led her to Paris where she had escaped the obligation her father had been trying to press upon her. Back then she hadn’t wanted to leave Hanna’s—a long time ago, her dream had been to run the inn alongside her mother.

      Her father’s wishes, however, had carried her off to law school. Her path had been laid before her. All she’d had to do was walk within it.

      Instead, she’d taken a detour from law school in the States to Europe with friends and, to her father’s consternation, had wound up settling in Paris for a semester. There she had rediscovered her love of cooking and had enrolled in culinary school. And that had become her dream.

      But soon after beginning her studies in culinary arts, she fell into some bad luck. Or, more accurately, she had run headlong into it, eyes wide-open. Since then, her dreams had gone down a rocky path and hadn’t returned.

      She gazed up at the face of the bed-and-breakfast she had once wanted so much to be a part of. Was it still what she wanted?

      Guilt swamped her, as it always did when she let her thoughts wander back to Paris, her culinary dreams and the niggling sense of uncertainty she kept locked up inside her. What did it matter what she wanted? What she needed was to keep her mother’s dream alive—to make sure Hanna’s Inn survived the test of time.

      Though judging by the dismal financial outlook in the inn’s books and its empty guest calendar, it seemed as if her bad luck was back to haunt her and tear down the solid legacy it had taken decades for her mother to build.

      * * *

      COLE’S FIRST NIGHT at Hanna’s turned out to be surprisingly restful. He sank into the plush bedding with the drugging fragrance of candles and the dim flicker of firelight lulling him into complacency and easy sleep.

      He woke the next morning to the pale light of dawn and stepped into a hot shower, unable to remember the last time he’d woken so rested.

      It’d certainly been a while since he’d dreamed of a woman’s face.

      The vivid memory of the pretty innkeeper had lingered all through the night. He rubbed water over his face, trying to get the blood flowing as much as to scrub the vision of Briar Browning from the backs of his eyes.

      As he stepped out and looped a towel around his waist, he recalled the way she’d watched him in his dreams. Never saying anything—just watching him with those soft honey-brown eyes. He’d felt their touch like a skin-on-skin caress.

      Damn, the woman was making it difficult to focus.

      He rubbed another towel over his dripping hair before he wiped a spot on the mirror clear in order to shave. Before he lifted the razor to his cheek, he heard the knock on the door. He paused, and called, “It’s open!” Making sure the towel on his waist was secure, he stepped into the room as Briar opened it.

      She took one look at his bare chest, shrieked and whirled away. “I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, gripping the knob. “I’ll come back.”

      “Don’t worry about it,” he said automatically. “Nothing to see here.”

      She cast him an easy for you to say glance before her eyes veered politely downward. “You have a phone call. It seems rather urgent. And breakfast is ready.”

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