LITMIR.BIZ

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stood near the porch. She was just reaching the walkway. “Told you I’d beat the rain.”

      Dumb luck, but she wasn’t about to complain.

      A step sent pain shooting up her foot. She squeezed her eyes shut to keep from crying out. Darn toe. She needed ice, ibuprofen and a barista-poured fancy cup of coffee with a pretty design made in the foam. Who was she kidding? She’d settle for black sludge at this point. She needed to get the artwork back to the rightful owners first.

      “Hey there,” he said. “You okay, Anubis?”

      Her eyes popped open. “Anubis? The Egyptian god?”

      “Protector of Egyptian tombs from raiders and destroyers. Fits, don’t you think?”

      The edges of her mouth twitched upward. She managed a nod, just barely. That Anubis was half jackal didn’t seem to matter to him. A drop of water hit her cheek, followed by another.

      Bailey took a step. Pain, jagged and raw, ripped up her left foot. She hopped toward the inn like a human pogo stick. Big, fat raindrops fell faster and faster.

      She stumbled.

      Strong arms swept her off the ground. “Hold on.”

      She stared into Justin’s concerned eyes. Her heart thudded. He carried her to the inn and looked down at her as though he cared.

      Maybe there was more to Justin McMillian than she realized.

      She should tell him to put her down. But a part of her didn’t want to say a word.

      Rain pelted her face, but she wasn’t cold. Not with his body heat warming her. The pain faded. Her insides buzzed. Something she hadn’t felt in...forever. She closed her eyes, trying to remember the last time she’d been in a man’s arms like this.

       Too long ago.

      “What did you do to your foot?” he asked.

      Her eyes opened. This wasn’t any man carrying her onto the porch and into the foyer, but the guy who wanted to destroy the inn. “I’m not sure if it’s my foot or toe or a combo.”

      “Did you hurt yourself here?”

      “At home.” Water dripped from her hair. Two minutes ago, she didn’t think she could have looked any worse, but now she was a wet Medusa. “Worried I might sue you if I’d injured myself here?”

      “Nope. I was wondering if you normally strut around town in fuzzy slippers.”

      “They were the only shoes my foot would fit. And just so you know, I don’t strut. Sauntering or sashaying is more my style.”

      “You seem like the strutting type.”

      “If anyone struts, you do.”

      “That’s right.” He carried her into the dining room, right off the entryway and lobby. “I wasn’t dissing you. Can you stand?”

      “I’ve been standing all morning.”

      “Which is why your foot is hurting. You should have stayed home and done first aid.”

      He sounded like one of her five overprotective brothers, telling her what to do and who not to date. Didn’t matter that two were younger than her. “I jammed my toe. A sprain. That’s all.”

      “Looks like you may have broken something.” Justin placed her feet on the floor, causing her to suck in a breath. “Hold on to me until you’re steady.”

      She dug her fingers into his jacket. The padding couldn’t hide his muscular arms. His chest was solid, too. Fully dressed, he was hot. Naked, he would be a specimen worthy of a master sculptor, Michelangelo or da Vinci.

      She imagined running her hands over the model to get the right curves and indentations in the clay. Her pulse skittered, and her temperature rose. His body shouldn’t impress her, not after she’d sketched and painted male models who were as good-looking, if not more classically handsome.

      Uh-oh. Time to go on a date if she was getting worked up over a guy like Justin. His company’s name shared his last name. That meant he likely had money—Oliver Richardson all over again. Wealthy men wanted more money or connections, such as with her brother, and would use women to get them. No, thank you.

      So what if he knew a little Egyptian mythology and carried her out of the rain without getting winded? She saved historic sites. He toppled beautiful old buildings. Someone like him would never be right for her.

      She let go of his arm. Looked around. Fell over.

      He grabbed her. “What?”

      “Gone. Everything’s gone.”

      A dozen dining tables gone. Over fifty chairs gone. Antique buffets, rugs, draperies gone.

      “It’s all in the truck,” Justin said.

      His words brought zero relief. Seeing the empty room hurt worse than her toe. Only the scent of lemon oil and memories remained.

       Oh, Floyd. Why? Why would you sell the inn?

      “For over a hundred and forty years, guests have eaten meals here.” She stared at the empty room where she’d dreamed of having her wedding reception someday. “That will never happen again.”

      “Guests will be back when the new Broughton Inn opens. We’ll have a café, a bar and a restaurant with a view of the bay.”

      Her lungs tightened. She took a breath, then another. “It won’t be the same.”

      Bailey rubbed her tired eyes, trying to keep their stinging from turning into full-blown tears.

      “Sit,” Justin ordered.

      Getting off her feet sounded wonderful, but she had a job to do. “I need to inventory the artwork.”

      “You look like you’re about to pass out.” He pointed to the floor. “Sit. Five minutes won’t kill you.”

      She hesitated. A Cole never shirked responsibility. Even AJ, who had left town eleven years ago and moved to Seattle, had done what he could to help their family when the economy soured and they were on the verge of losing their boats.

      But Justin was right. Five minutes wouldn’t change anything. Bailey slid to the floor, careful of her foot, and stretched her leg out in front of her. She leaned back against the wall.

      Oh, wow. This felt better. “A couple of minutes.”

      The construction crew seemed to have disappeared. Maybe they were off in another part of the inn. Maybe they’d left. She didn’t care. Fewer people around meant fewer chances of bumping and damaging the art.

      Justin sat next to her. He stretched out his long legs. She waited for his thigh or shoulder to touch hers, but that didn’t happen. Thank goodness he understood the meaning of personal space. She was too tired to deal with anything more this morning.

      “How long until the artists pick up their stuff?” he asked.

      He was calling her life’s work “stuff.” How quickly her fantasies about an intelligent man who worked Anubis into a discussion were dashed. But then again, he wanted to tear down the inn.

      “While you were taking your time unloading the truck, I called and left messages. The artists have jobs and families. They’ll be here as soon as they can.”

      He glanced at his cell phone, but she couldn’t tell if he was checking the time or a text. “Can you be more specific as to when?”

      “Got big plans, like working on the approval process?”

      “Something along those lines.”

      “I’m here. You don’t have to hang around.”

      “I do. I own the inn.” Justin motioned to her foot. “Besides, you’re hurt. You

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