The Puppy Proposal

“Look wherever you like, son. I’ll just sit here and finish my wine.” She took another healthy swig. “You let me know if you find anything.”

Curiosity getting the better of him, Nic decided to start at the front of the house. Murphy, who’d been lying happily at his feet, jumped up, eager to follow wherever he led. The front door offered no clues, and the windows appeared secure. No loose locks or broken panes. The bedroom windows were the same. Murphy, thinking there was some game afoot, pranced and barked as he searched.

When they got to the kitchen, the dog ran ahead and jumped up onto the kitchen door. Wondering, Nic stopped, and watched. Sure enough, Murphy jumped again, this time his paws hitting the lever door handle. If the dead bolt hadn’t been in place, the door would have popped right open. “Mrs. Rosenberg, was the kitchen door dead bolted when you were away?”

“The kitchen door? No, the key for that lock got lost a long time ago. But I did push the button in, on the doorknob. That locks it from the inside, and it opens with the same key as the front door.” She paused, eyes wide, “You don’t think someone broke in, do you?”

“No, not a break-in,” he assured her. “Just a break-out. See these scratches on the door? I think Murphy was jumping at the door to follow you, and his paws landed on the handle. That lock opens automatically from the inside as soon as you turn the handle. He just let himself right out. Then I imagine the storm blew it shut again. If you’re going to keep him in, you’re going have replace that lever-style handle with a good old-fashioned doorknob.”

“Oh, my goodness. What a smart boy! Opening doors!” Mrs. Rosenberg beamed at her black-and-white escape artist. “But I see what you mean. We can’t have him gallivanting around town. I’ll have to ask around about a handyman—I’m afraid tools and such just aren’t my area of expertise.”

“I could do it,” Nic said before he could stop himself.

“Would you? Oh, that would be such a load off my mind. I worry so about poor Murphy. I know this isn’t the best home for him, but I’d be sick if anything happened to him.” Before Nic could think of a way to extricate himself, she pressed a wad of cash into his hands. “Palm Hardware is just around the corner. You must have passed it on the way here. Just pick out whatever you think is best.”

Thirty minutes later, Nic was tightening the last screw with, of all things, a pink screwdriver. Murphy had been banished to the bedroom after getting in the way a few too many times, and Mrs. Rosenberg was thrilled. Straightening, he couldn’t help but grin as he packed up the pastel tool kit. Project Dog-Proof was a success, and despite his initial reluctance to get involved, it felt good to know he’d been able to help. Getting his own hands dirty was a lot more satisfying than just signing a work order.

“I have to say, I’m so glad Jillian had that meeting today, and you came instead. Not that I don’t love Jillian,” she clarified hastily. “Murphy adores her and I do, too. But I wouldn’t have felt right asking her to change a doorknob. I’m a bit too old-fashioned for that.”

He grinned. Of all the ways he might describe Mrs. Rosenberg, “old-fashioned” wasn’t one of them. “What sort of meeting she was going to?” He told himself he was only interested as part of his research on the island. He certainly wasn’t prying into the pretty vet tech’s life. Not very much, anyway.

“The Island Preservation Society. Jillian is one of the founding members,” Mrs. Rosenberg said proudly. “I don’t attend the meetings—meetings give me heartburn—but I donate when they have their annual rummage sale, and attend the dinner dance they do in the spring.”

His shoulders tensed. “What exactly does this society do?”

“They mostly work to preserve the historic buildings, protect the coastal habitat, anything that has to do with maintaining the way of life Paradise is known for.” Her eyes shined with pride. “Our little town isn’t as fancy or popular as Daytona or Miami or those other beach places, and that’s just fine with us. We like things the way they are, if you know what I mean.”

Nic was afraid he did know. From what she was saying, he was going to have a fight on his hands, and Jillian was playing for the other side.

* * *

Jillian walked quickly across the hot asphalt parking lot, sticky with sweat and humidity. Ahead, the air-conditioned coolness of the Palmetto County Library beckoned like a mirage, a refuge from the last gasp of summer. Stepping inside, she took a deep breath, embracing the smell of old books that permeated the air. Fortified, she climbed the single staircase to the crowded conference room where Cassie and Mollie were waiting for her.

“We saved you a seat.” Mollie waved, her pixie-like face lighting up at the sight of her friend. “I was afraid you wouldn’t show, and you know I only come to these things because of you.” Formal meetings of any sort were definitely not Mollie’s thing. Grateful, Jillian hugged the petite woman in appreciation.

“I appreciate you making the sacrifice. These meetings really are important, especially now. Rumor is that the Sandpiper’s new owner wants to sell.”

“Sell the Sandpiper Inn? That place is an institution! I can remember Dad taking me there as a kid for the annual fish fry and the Christmas tree lighting ceremony. And just a few years ago, he and mom had their twenty-fifth anniversary party there.” Cassie’s eyebrows furrowed. “It’s bad enough that they don’t do the community events anymore, but sell it? To who?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “They haven’t even officially put it on the market yet. I think that happens Monday. I only know about it because another one of the Island Preservation Society members, Edward Post, told me about it when I saw him at the grocery store yesterday. He was always close with the Landry family, and had hoped when their daughter inherited the Sandpiper she would bring it back to its glory days. But she’s got her own retail shop over in Orlando, and isn’t interested in being an innkeeper. He thinks she’ll take the first good offer she gets.”

Jillian’s heart hurt just thinking of the stately inn being taken over by outsiders, or worse, torn down. A beacon on the Paradise Isle shoreline, the Sandpiper had stood for more than a century. Its spacious grounds had always served as an unofficial community center, the gregarious owners often hosting holiday events, weddings, even a prom or two. She’d fallen in love with the grand building the first time she saw it and had always imagined she’d bring her own family to events there, one day. Now it might be destroyed before she ever had that chance. It just didn’t seem fair, or right, to let it slip away without a fight.

As the meeting got under way, she found it hard to concentrate on the details of the historic post office renovation, or a proposal for a bike lane on Island Avenue. Normally she was the first volunteer for a Society project, but right now she was too on edge about the fate of the Sandpiper Inn.

And if she was honest with herself, the issue with the Sandpiper wasn’t the only thing making her palms sweat. A good number of the butterflies fluttering in her stomach were about her upcoming date. It wasn’t as if she’d never been on a date before; at twenty-seven, she’d had her share of relationships. But always with local, familiar, safe men. Nothing serious. After a few dates, they’d ended up just friends, leaving her wondering if she was even capable of more intense feelings.

But Nic, with his towering good looks and confident manner, was another kind of man altogether. One that had her squirming in her seat, unsure if she was eager for the meeting to be over or afraid of what came after it.

Finally, the last item on the agenda was addressed. Edward Post stood at the front of the room, faced the folding chairs and cleared his throat. “I know that a few of you have heard rumors about the Sandpiper Inn. I’m afraid those rumors have been confirmed. Ms. Roberta Landry, the current owner, has decided to sell the inn and return to her job in Orlando.” Shifting his weight nervously, he continued, “The board of the Island Preservation Society has spoken with Ms. Landry, and she has agreed to at least entertain the idea of the city purchasing the inn for community use.”

“Can the city afford to buy it?” someone from the crowd asked.

Edward pushed his glasses up his nose, to see who had spoken. “No, not without help. We’re preparing an application to the State Register of Historic Places. If we can get the Sandpiper listed, we may be able to get a grant toward its preservation, which would help offset the purchase price. Our chances are good, but the process can take several months. If there is another offer before that happens, Ms. Landry is within her rights to sell without waiting for the outcome of our application.”

At that point the meeting broke down, voices rising as friends and families discussed the odds of success. Everyone already knew, without being told, that with land prices finally going up, a new owner was likely to raze the inn and parcel the land up.

Heartsick, Jillian avoided the speculating citizens and quietly made her goodbyes. Descending the stairs, she vowed to contact Edward and volunteer to write the grant application herself. Tonight she’d start researching the process, figure out their best way forward. She was going to do whatever she could to increase their chances of getting that grant. This was her home, and she wasn’t giving up without a fight.

Chapter Four (#ulink_74f38f42-6c58-5deb-926f-f85ca646c4e8)

Nic waited for Jillian on the wide shaded porch of the Sandpiper, where a surprisingly efficient ceiling fan kept the air moving and the mosquitoes at bay. Palms and tropical plants he couldn’t identify crowded up against the white railing, as if ready to take over the old inn if given a chance. Farther off, he could hear a woodpecker tapping for his supper, and under all of it was the hypnotic lull of the ocean moving against the shore. He’d traveled the world, stayed at the most luxurious resorts in the most exotic locations, but he couldn’t remember ever enjoying an evening more than he was right now.

Something about the seclusion of the location, nestled as it was against the wildlife sanctuary that made up almost half the island, allowed him to let down walls that he’d spent most of his life putting up. The friendliness of the island people was a part of it, as well. He’d wandered up and down Lighthouse Avenue, the main street through town, and every person he’d seen had greeted him openly, willing to talk about the town, their businesses and their families. He’d learned that the mayor had held office for forty years, and was running again in the spring. The streetlights came on at dusk and the shops closed soon after, but the local diner opened early for the fishermen and commuters. He’d also been warned, with a wink and a nod, that alcohol sales were banned on Sundays, so if he wanted to pick up a six-pack to watch the game with, he’d better get it today. The traditional pace of life here was worlds away from the life he’d known, but right now, sitting on a porch swing waiting for a pretty girl, it definitely had its perks.

Tires crunching over gravel signaled a car pulling into the lot hidden by thick green foliage. Leaving the sheltered sanctuary of the patio, he took the steps two at a time, then followed the winding footpath to the large gravel and sand parking lot. A bright blue compact car was in the first spot, its engine still running.

As he started toward it, the door opened, long legs swinging out. Then she stood, facing him, and he was stopped in his tracks, paralyzed. He’d remembered her as pretty, but now, in the light of day, she was stunning. Gone were the shapeless scrubs. Today she wore snug-fitting jeans and a casual but fitted navy tank top that clung to her generous curves. She’d left her hair loose, a mass of ebony curls tumbling down her back. Her striking blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight, framed by dark lashes he knew his sisters would kill for. But it was her smile, innocently seductive, that nearly knocked him over.

“Hi,” she said softly, gripping the door handle. “I hope I’m not late.”

“No, right on time.” He forced himself back into motion, heading for the tiny car. “I heard you pull in, thought I’d save you the walk up.”

“Ah, okay. Well.” She started to walk toward him, then stopped. “Guess we should be going, then.”

“Right, you said it fills up fast, and I’m starving. I think it’s all the fresh air.” He opened the car door and folded himself carefully into the seat. Although roomier than it had first appeared, it was still a tight fit for his six-foot-two frame. “Is it far?”

“Nothing’s far on Paradise Isle.”

“Right, I keep forgetting.” He grinned. “Here on the beach, it seems the sand goes on forever. It’s hard to remember that the actual town is so small.”

“Most of the island is taken up by the wildlife sanctuary and public beach access. Only a small portion is actually developed.” Her tone indicated that she liked things that way, and he tried not to think about how things would change if Caruso Hotels built a resort here. Instead, he focused on the view as they wound their way down the coast along the beachfront road. Pelicans dove and rose, searching for their evening meal, disappearing and reappearing from behind grass-covered dunes. Some kind of vine also grew on the dunes, with big purple flowers soaking up the evening sun.

“I didn’t know flowers could grow in sand,” he said, pointing to the tough-looking vines.

She smiled, either at his interest or at the flowers themselves, he wasn’t sure. “That’s railroad vine. They call it that because it just keeps chugging along the dune, sometimes growing a hundred feet long. The roots help hold the sand in place, protecting the dunes. Best of all, it flowers all year-round. The tall, grasslike plants around it are sea oats—not as pretty, but just as important for the dunes.”

Intrigued, he had her point out a few other interesting species as they drove. By the time they reached the restaurant half a dozen names, like coco plum and wax myrtle, were spinning through his head. Impressed, he told her so.

“It’s my home. To protect it, I had to learn about it,” she said simply.

Another stab of guilt knifed through his stomach. At this rate, he’d be too knotted up to eat a thing. Changing the subject, he focused on the rustic, almost tumbledown appearance of Pete’s Crab Shack and Burger Bar—serving the “coldest beer in town,” if the worn sign above the door could be believed.

He could see what looked like a small dining area inside, but most of the patrons were sitting on the spacious, covered deck, enjoying the ocean view along with their baskets of food. Jillian led him to one of the few empty tables and passed him a plastic menu. Scanning the offerings, he quickly decided on the grilled snapper BLT, fries and a sweet tea.

“A man that knows what he wants,” Jillian commented, raising her head from behind her own menu.

He met her eyes and sparks flew, hotter than the heat lightning flashing in the clouds behind her.