His Proposal, Their Forever

“I’ll take that one.” She trusted herself more with one leg than him with two.

He kept hold of the frame. “I’ve got it.”

“Be careful.”

“This one more special than the others?”

“They’re all one-of-a-kind.”

Bailey pressed her lips together to keep from saying more. She should stalk off into the inn and check on the artwork that had been unloaded, but something held her in place. Something—she hoped not vanity—made her want him to notice her painting, to like her painting, to compliment her painting.

His studied the work in his hands. “Not bad if you like landscapes.”

She bit her tongue to keep from uttering a smart-aleck remark. No way would she piss him off with her painting in his hands.

He looked at her. “It’s one of yours.”

“Yes.”

The colors in the painting intensified the brightness and hue of his eyes.

Bailey’s breath caught. The man was arrogant and annoying, but his Santorini-blue eyes dazzled her. She thought about the tints she’d use to mix the exact shade. Not that she would ask him to model. His ego was big enough. But she would paint those eyes from memory.

He lifted her painting slightly to keep the frame out of her reach. “This is the last one.”

“Good.” The dark clouds came closer. The scent in the air changed. She knew what that meant. “Get inside now. The rain’s going to hit.”

“How can you tell?”

“The smell.” She reached forward. “Give me the painting.”

“I’ve got it. You can barely walk in those slippers.” He carried her painting down the ramp.

“There isn’t much time.”

He walked past her. His long strides and her bum foot made keeping up with him impossible. He slanted the canvas so any falling rain would hit the back, not the painted side. Nice of him, but she wanted her piece indoors before drops fell.

Wyatt came out of the inn. “Any more?”

Justin handed over the artwork. “Last one.”

The spool of yarn in her stomach unraveled. She exhaled. Her muscles relaxed. Bailey’s painting and the others were safe. If only saving the inn would be as easy... “Thank you.”

Justin 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.”