His Proposal, Their Forever. Melissa Mcclone

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      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 open 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 СКАЧАТЬ