a petition. She’s circulating a petition to all my neighbors, trying to get them to side with her, to keep me from opening.” How could she have forgotten—
He looked down at his notes. “I believe you did mention it. We won’t be able to stop her petition, but we should be able to come up with a strategy to counteract it. A petition isn’t legally binding, you know. It’s a tool for persuasion. But there are others.”
She took another deep breath. She was verging on the hysterical again. Determined not to ruin her performance of a calm woman, however pathetic it had been, Molly stood. “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to repeat myself.” She extended her hand, trying to be professional. However, as she realized she’d removed her gloves at some point in their conversation, she also noted the brown stains on her fingers.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, snatching her hands behind her back. “I’m sorry. I’m staining some furniture and—”
“That’s quite all right,” he assured her soothingly.
Except it didn’t soothe her. She whirled toward the door, anxious to escape the most humiliating experience she’d ever suffered through.
“Your coat, Mrs. Blake?”
It was getting worse. Not only had she taken off her gloves, she’d apparently shrugged out of the old navy pea jacket she’d found in one of the closets and fallen in love with. The pea jacket that covered the stains on her sweats.
After all, she’d intended to make two stops that would take five minutes, tops, and then be back at work. It seemed silly to even think about changing.
Wrong.
“I—I’m sorry. I know I look a mess. I’m staining a table—”
“Yes, I believe you did say that. Don’t concern yourself, Mrs. Blake. This isn’t New York. We don’t have a dress code for our clients.”
Gracious answer. So why did it make her want to scream? Maybe because he was standing before her in a very expensive navy pinstripe suit and leather wing tips that would probably cover her food budget for half a year. His light brown hair, with just a touch of blond to suggest days spent in the tropics, had been expertly cut. Businesslike, of course, but with a touch of freedom, giving him a sophisticated air of self-determination. The perfect jet-setter cut.
Christopher would’ve loved it.
She shrugged on her coat without responding.
Then, sticking her hands into her coat pockets, she nodded to the man with impeccable clothes. Impeccable manners. Impeccable everything.
“I appreciate your time, Mr. Spencer. Your secretary has my address for billing. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
As an exit line, it wasn’t bad. Until she neared the door and almost tripped over a table holding an expensive vase.
She grabbed the vase and stepped back. Then, after taking a deep breath, she steadied it back in its place.
Without turning around, offering another apology or trying for a better exit line, she walked out of the office.
And prayed Amanda would get back to town at once.
Chapter Two
“Good afternoon, ladies,” Quinn said, his best smile in place. “Are you keeping warm?”
The quilting circle of older women smiled back at him, as welcoming as ever. Each lifted her cheek for the kiss he always bestowed on them, patting his arm as if he were a little boy.
Maybe that was the charm that frequently brought him to Worthington House. To the rest of the world, he was a playboy. To the ladies here in this sun-drenched room that looked out on a cold world, he was Quinn, a young lad with a good heart.
Or maybe, he reluctantly admitted to himself, these ladies were his surrogate mothers, making up for his mother walking out on her family so many years ago. His friends would laugh at the thought that Quinn Spencer longed for his mother. Or any woman.
He’d been only seven years old when his mother, Violet, had left them. They’d been in Tyler only six months, his father having relocated from New York where he left behind his lucrative career on the stock exchange for a quieter, gentler life in the small town. Elias had hoped his high-strung wife would learn to relax once she was out of the bustle of the city, but Violet couldn’t—or wouldn’t—change. She’d run off with Ray Benedict, her lover from New York, much to the shock of their social circle in the city and the residents of Tyler. Not to mention her husband and three sons.
“We didn’t expect you today, Quinn dear,” said Martha Bauer, one of the older members, calling Quinn back from his memories. She patted an empty chair next to her. “Sit down.”
“I’d love to as long as you share your M&M’s,” he teased. Martha had a sweet tooth and he kept her supply of candy well stocked.
Tillie Phelps nodded her head. “We even have cookies today. Bea made a fresh batch this morning.”
Bea Ferguson, at sixty-seven, was one of the younger members. She blushed but nudged a plate toward Quinn.
“Don’t mind if I do, Bea. These look terrific.” And they were. He enjoyed them more than any expensive hors d’oeuvres he’d ever been served.
As he munched, he watched the ladies set tiny stitches in the colorful quilt they were making. Each quilt was either given to charity or sold and the money used to help the community. The women had become legendary both for their incredible artistry and their hearts of gold.
“Where is this one going?” he asked, while he considered how to bring the conversation around to the reason for his visit.
Merry Linton, another newcomer to the group, smoothed a loving hand across the patchwork quilt. “It’s lovely, isn’t it? It’s called Bachelor’s Puzzle.”
He nodded, still tangling with his own puzzle.
Bea answered his question. “That lovely young woman with the new bed-and-breakfast has purchased it.”
He choked on a cookie crumb. Clearing his throat, he asked cautiously, “Do you mean Molly Blake?”
Martha and Tillie exchanged a look he couldn’t interpret, but it put him on his toes. Something was up.
Martha smiled. “Why, yes, dear, have you met Molly? Isn’t she wonderful?”
Quinn frowned. He could agree that Molly was attractive. Wonderful? The distraught, angry woman he’d faced in his office that morning was hard to fit into the simple word wonderful.
Complex, challenging, sexy. He shook his head. No, not sexy—
“You haven’t met her?” Tillie asked, obviously interpreting his shake of head as a no.
“Yes, yes, I have. This morning, in fact. So, you like the idea of a new bed-and-breakfast?”
“Oh, yes,” Emma Finklebaum said with a sigh. “Such a lovely idea. A romantic
