His Proposal, Their Forever. Melissa Mcclone
determined set of her chin.
The knot-entangled donut in his stomach turned to stone. He had spoken to the former inn owner, taken notes, confirmed each detail about what being on the historical register meant for improvements and teardowns. The ticking-clock time frame of Floyd Jeffries wanting to close the deal was looking suspect. “We were assured—”
“Floyd lied. You got taken, Mr. McMillian.” Bailey pulled out files from her bag and handed one to Justin. “If you don’t believe me, check these papers. They’ll prove federal and state monies are attached to the Broughton Inn. Some are old, before Floyd’s time as owner.”
Justin noticed his crew creeping closer to the porch. The men had cut the distance in half twice, no doubt curious. He didn’t blame them. This was their livelihood, too. He wouldn’t let them down or allow Bailey Cole to screw up this project any more than she had.
He opened the folder, eager to prove her wrong. Except...
The first page listed the inn’s grant awards. Not one, several. Federal and state funding had been provided to the inn.
His neck stiffened, the cords of muscles tightening and coiling like electrical wire. He turned the pages, one after another. Each was a death knell to his plans for the inn, smothering his hope for success, throwing the resort company’s future ownership in doubt.
It now made sense why Floyd gave them only forty-eight hours to make a decision about purchasing the inn. The man had been trying to pull a fast one. Not trying, succeeding. Damn.
Talk about a crook. Paige, everyone at McMillian Resorts, had been duped. If Justin couldn’t fix this, his parents would sell the company and ride off into retirement without a second thought to their three children who had spent their lives living and working at the family’s hotels.
Not about to give up, Justin straightened, handed back the papers. “We were not provided this information. I would appreciate copies at your earliest convenience.”
“I’ll get those to you as soon as I can,” Bailey said.
Grady took the file out of his sister’s hands. “I’ll have copies made. You need to get off your feet.”
“I will.” She ground out the words as if clenching her back teeth. “I have to return the artwork first.”
“So, what’s the approval process so we can begin our project?” Justin asked Grady.
The officer looked at his sister. “That’s Bailey’s expertise.”
Great. She was the last person who would offer help, but too much was at stake for Justin not to ask. “Care to enlighten me on the steps?”
“Gladly.” She leaned against the railing, but her casual position didn’t match the sharp, predatory gleam in her eyes. “First the intended project plans must be presented to the Advisory Council on Historic Preservation.”
Not insurmountable. Justin released a quick breath. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“No, but that’s only the federal portion of the process.” Bailey flexed her knee with the injured foot, then straightened her leg. “After the feds check off on the plans, you need input from the State Historic Preservation Office.”
Each approval would take time. Not good. He scratched his chin. Too bad he couldn’t itch away the problems with the inn. Or her. Bailey explaining the process without prodding worried him. She might have a hidden agenda. Or maybe she liked knowing more than he did. “Is that all?”
“After state approval, you’ll need to present the plans to the Haley’s Bay Historical Committee in order to receive your city permit.”
“Seems straightforward.” Except the timing would impact the schedule, possibly change their plans completely. His parents wanted the inn to open before the busy summer season next year. He needed to talk to Paige ASAP and figure out not only damage control but also a plan B.
“My sister is head of the committee,” Grady added. That wasn’t the cherry on top that the officer’s voice seemed to imply, but a grenade with the pin pulled.
Justin’s hands curled into fists. He wasn’t into violence, but he wanted to punch Floyd Jeffries. The man had told Justin tearing down the inn would be as easy as crushing a sand castle. Going through three groups could take days, weeks, maybe even months. Who knew if they’d allow the old inn to be torn down so a new one could be built? He had a feeling Miss Bailey Cole would be readying her troops for a battle.
Bailey’s I-know-something-you-don’t smile suggested she could read Justin’s mind. “You realize if you do anything without getting approval—”
“I understand what’s at stake, Ms. Cole.” His words sounded harsh, but he’d lost patience. He couldn’t keep his cool any longer. This so-called diamond in the rough, aka the Broughton Inn, was nothing more than a piece of fool’s gold. He and his sisters looked like amateurs for not thinking the inn’s fire-sale price came with strings of steel.
Ones that might handcuff them for months, maybe years, in a web of approval procedures. Ones that might destroy their lifelong dream of running McMillian Resorts.
He gave a nod to Wyatt and the crew. “Pack it up, boys.”
For now.
Bailey Cole might be smiling, but he would show her who was in charge. His parents, too. This approval process delay wouldn’t change the inevitable. The old inn was coming down. A luxury five-star boutique hotel would be built on this spot.
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.
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