His Proposal, Their Forever

No one, including Bailey Cole, was going to stop him.

McMillian Resorts would succeed. No matter what Justin had to do to make that happen, including charming the silly slippers off the mess of a woman standing in his way.

Chapter Two (#u502d6214-b9cd-5dba-8903-f59ab94d8f2b)

An hour later, Bailey eyed the dark, ominous clouds gathering over Haley’s Bay. The approaching clouds carried big fat raindrops, ones that could turn this already horrible morning into a complete catastrophe. But cracking jokes and drinking coffee seemed to be the construction crew’s priorities this morning. Unloading the artwork from the semitruck parked on the street and carrying the pieces back into the inn, not so much.

She half hopped, half hobbled to the truck’s ramp. Her left foot was swelling like the water at the mouth of the bay. But she had more things to worry about than her injury. “Hurry. We need to get the art inside before the storm hits.”

“We’re going as fast as we can, miss.” The foreman, Wyatt, used only one hand to carry Faye Rivers’s four-foot-tall sculpture composed of driftwood and colorful glass floats collected from the beach.

“Hey, that’s glass.” These bozos had no idea what they were doing. “Be careful.”

“I’ve got it.” Wyatt stepped off the ramp, snagged a cup of coffee from the hood of a pickup truck, then glanced her way. “Want some coffee?”

The scent of French roast teased. Her sapped energy level longed for a jolt of caffeine. But forget about asking for a cup. No fraternizing with the enemy.

“I’ll get one later.” After the artwork was safe.

Wyatt juggled Faye’s sculpture with one hand and his coffee with his other.

“You guys are going to pay if anything gets damaged.” Bailey sounded like a Harpy, but she would keep nagging until they finished the job. Too much was at stake to play nice.

“Nothing has been damaged, and nothing will be.” Justin came around the end of the truck. His scruff of blond stubble could be called bad-boy sexy, except his shorter hair looked too corporate. It was messy at the moment, but a sweep of a comb would have him looking a little too neat, even with whiskers. “Relax.”

“Wish I could.” Bailey was rethinking turning down the cup of coffee and not bringing a chair to take weight off her throbbing toe. “I’ll relax when the artwork is inside.”

He hopped on the ramp with the ease of an athlete and walked into the trailer. His steel-toed boots would have come in handy when she woke up this morning. Brown pants hugged muscular thighs, and the tails from his light blue button-down peeked out from beneath his tan jacket.

He leaned his right shoulder against the truck’s wall and stared down at her. The casual pose contradicted the hard look in his eyes. He definitely had that I’m-hot-and-know-it demeanor. Sexy, if you liked that type. She didn’t, but he was easy on the eyes. A good thing she was immune to men like him.

“Patience.” His tone wasn’t condescending, but she couldn’t tell if he was teasing or not. “You wouldn’t want us to drop anything.”

“Of course not.” Now he was being a jerk. This wasn’t a gallery of painted rocks. “But there’s no need to move in slow motion. Unless the crew is following orders.”

“Be careful.” His voice contained a hint of warning. “Or you might find the guys going in reverse.”

Grrrr. “I bet you’d enjoy telling your crew to do that.”

A grin exploded like a solar flare, making her forget to breathe.

“Just give me a reason, Ms. Cole. That would be the bright side to this dark day.”

“This isn’t my fault. Blame Floyd.”

She wasn’t about to let Justin McMillian’s threats get to her. The rest of the crew was on its way to the inn or already inside the building. None of them wanted to be caught outside when the rain hit. She would have to take care of this herself.

“Unload the truck faster. There may not be damage yet, but the weather—”

“Don’t lose your purple slippers over this.”

Justin’s you-know-you-want-me attitude annoyed her. Yes, the man was attractive. She appreciated the way the features of his face fit together. Rugged, yet handsome. Her fingers itched for a pencil to capture the high cheekbones, the crinkles around his eyes and his easy smile when he joked with the crew. But she wasn’t here to admire the eye candy.

She pinned him with a direct stare. “The rain will be here in five minutes. That’s my concern.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You the local rainmaker?”

“Not maker. Predictor.”

“Artist, history buff and the town’s weather expert.”

“I’m from a fishing family. We learned to read the clouds before we could count to ten. Predicting rain is a necessary skill when you’re out on a boat trying to earn a living.”

“But you’re a...”

“Girl?” Bailey finished for him with a tone she would call “ardent feminist.”

She knew his type. The last man she’d dated, a wealthy guy named Oliver Richardson from Seattle, hadn’t been a chauvinist, but was just as arrogant. He’d thought his job, condo, city and artistic tastes were better than everyone else’s, including hers. Turned out her greatest dating asset to him was her oldest brother, AJ, a billionaire computer programmer. Since then, she hadn’t felt like dating any man—rich or otherwise. Who needed that crap?

“Haley’s Bay might be small and full of old-timers with big fish tales, but working women thrive here, Mr. McMillian. One day, my younger sister Camden will be the captain of her own boat.”

“You might be a rain predictor, but you’re not a mind reader.” Justin laughed.

The sound made Bailey think of smooth, satin enamel paint, the expensive kind, no primer required. She’d used a gallon on her kitchen walls. Worth every penny and the peanut butter sandwiches she’d eaten to stay in budget.

“I was going to say ‘artist.’ That has nothing to do with your gender. I’m not a chauvinist, as you quickly and wrongly assumed.” Justin sounded more annoyed than upset. “I have two sisters. Smart, capable, hardworking women, but without the smarter-than-you attitude.”

“You think I have an attitude?” Maybe she did, but so did he. The guy was full of himself.

“I don’t think. You do.”

Standing on the trailer bed, he towered over her, but she wasn’t intimidated.

“Your attitude is entitled,” he said. “You assume you’re correct. You assume I’m an idiot. That I can’t recognize rain clouds. Hell, I live on the Oregon coast. Let me do my job, and we’ll get along fine.”

Bailey’s muscles tensed, bunching into tight spools that weren’t going to unravel any time soon. He might have a point, but she didn’t like Justin McMillian, and she wasn’t good at faking her feelings. “How we get along isn’t important.”

“You’re the head of the historical committee. We’ll be working together.”

“I sure hope not.” The words flew out faster than a bird released from captivity. “I mean... Oh, who am I kidding? That’s exactly what I meant.”

His surprised gaze raked over her. “You’re honest.”

“Blunt. Like my dad.”

“I’ll go with honest. For now.” Justin picked up a painting, one of hers.

Bailey reached up for her piece. She loved the seascape, sketched on the beach early one morning, a morning like this one with a sky full of reds, pinks and yellows bursting from the horizon and a sea of breathtaking blues. But turbulent and dark clouds were moving in, matching the mood at the inn. She longed for the return of the calm, beautiful dawn.