leafy canopy of oaks, she kept an eye out for the turnoff she needed. Around a bend, she located the weathered sign dangling from one rusty hook: Barrett’s Sawmill, est. 1866.
She drove slowly down the pitted track, avoiding the largest ruts and hoping the pinging gravel didn’t take too much paint off her darling convertible. At the other end, she pulled up alongside a beat-up red pickup with the sawmill’s faded logo stenciled on the driver’s door. It was so old she wouldn’t be surprised to discover it had rolled off the assembly line when Henry Ford was still in charge.
Seeing it here was odd, she thought as she stepped from her car. While reading through the loan application file, she’d gotten the impression the property had been abandoned since the Barretts closed down their bankrupt company ten years ago. She surveyed the place with a glance but didn’t notice anyone. What she did see was the millhouse, stubbornly clinging to the bank of the creek that once powered its waterwheel and looking every minute of its considerable age.
Deciding it was best to get this over with quickly, she shouted, “Hello? Is anyone here?”
Her greeting unleashed an unmistakable baying, and a huge red bloodhound came bounding from a nearby grove of trees, ears flapping as he made a beeline for Chelsea.
He wasn’t snarling or showing his teeth, but she’d rather not find out the hard way that he wasn’t friendly. Keeping her eyes fixed on him, she retreated to her car and fumbled behind her for the door handle.
Unable to locate it, she scrambled onto the hood. “Hello? A little help out here!”
No one appeared, but a commanding voice boomed from inside. “Boyd, that’s enough!”
Instantly, he dropped to a sitting position, wagging his tail on the ground while his tongue lolled from his mouth in a sloppy welcome. Reassured, Chelsea eased herself to the ground and looked up to find the dog’s owner strolling down the rickety porch steps toward the driveway. No, she groaned inwardly. She hadn’t seen him in ages, but she instantly recognized that cocky walk, those long, powerful legs and impossibly broad shoulders.
Paul Barrett. Valedictorian, captain of any team he played on, dream date of every cheerleader at Barrett’s Mill High School. In other words, the bane of her teenage existence.
What on earth was he doing here? Last she knew, he was in Kansas somewhere, doing whatever appealed to him at the time. It had never occurred to her that when her father had said his bank was doing a favor for the Barretts, Paul would be involved. Arrogant and unpredictable as a summer storm, here he was, smiling at her as though they were old friends. Which, of course, they weren’t.
But standing here in front of the rustic building, surrounded by acres of trees, she grudgingly admitted he’d gotten better looking over the years. When he smiled, that opinion only deepened. Then he started talking.
“Chelsea Lynn Barnes,” he drawled, his dark eyes crinkling as he squinted into the sun. “What’s a classy girl like you doin’ out here in the sticks?”
Just like that, her earlier annoyance returned, and she had to bite her tongue to keep back a sharp response. The fact that she’d been wondering the exact same thing had nothing whatsoever to do with her reaction. While her father had framed this trip as a personal favor to him, she couldn’t quite shake the suspicion that she’d drawn this assignment for no reason other than that she was the only one on his staff who knew how to get to this map-dot town buried in Virginia’s Blue Ridge mountains. Taking a calming breath, she reminded herself this was business and she had to maintain a professional demeanor. Even if it killed her.
Sliding a business card from the outside pocket of her slim briefcase, she replied, “I’m a commercial loan officer for Shenandoah Bank and Trust in Roanoke. I’m doing the property appraisal for the loan you requested.”
Next time, she vowed silently, she’d read a prospective client’s file more carefully. If she’d done that this morning, she could’ve braced herself to see Paul instead of getting blindsided like this.
He took the card and eyed her skeptically, then grinned. “What’s the punch line?”
People frequently did this to her, assuming she was too young to handle so much responsibility. With anyone else, she’d have taken the slight in stride. But Paul had rubbed her the wrong way from the day they’d been tossed into the same kindergarten class, seeming to delight in pushing her buttons.
She pulled herself up to her full height and gave him her coolest look. “I assure you, I’m well qualified to make financial recommendations to the bank.”
“Daddy’s bank.” Plunging grease-stained hands into the front pockets of jeans that had seen better days, he rocked back on the heels of his battered work boots. “How do you like working for him?”
No one had ever asked her that, probably because they assumed her current position was a cakewalk. Having known Theo Barnes all her life, she was better acquainted with his impossibly high standards than anyone. There were days when she wondered if she’d ever meet them, as either his daughter or his employee.
Shunting that grim thought aside, she said simply, “It’s going well.” Of course, her answer depended on which day you asked her. Today, for instance, she wasn’t all that crazy about it, but there was no way she was sharing that with Paul.
He gave her a long, assessing look that told her absolutely nothing about what was going through his mind. Not that she cared on a personal level, of course. It would just be nice to know so she could plan her next move and keep ahead of him. That was the mistake she’d made all through high school, she’d realized over the years. She’d never had the upper hand, and he’d beaten her out of more awards—twelve, to be precise—than he should have.
While they stared at each other, the wind ruffled his unruly brown hair, and she couldn’t help noticing the lighter streaks running through it. Judging by his tanned face, he still spent a lot of time outside, and he probably felt totally at home in these untamed acres of woods surrounding the mill. While she preferred well-groomed men with a sense of style, she couldn’t deny that Paul had his own raw appeal.
For other women, she amended quickly, yanking her errant thoughts back from where they had no business going. “Are you the new owner of the property?”
“Yup.”
He offered nothing more, and she decided that in the interest of preserving her sanity, it would be best to move things along. “Shall we get started outside?”
Humor twinkled in his eyes, joined by an aggravating smirk. “Yes, we shall.”
She picked up on his mocking tone and did her best to ignore the dig as he motioned her ahead of him. An hour, tops, and she was out of here. Then she’d stamp his loan request denied in bright red ink. Maybe she’d do it more than once, just to make a point.
Her father’s distinctive ringtone sounded in her bag, and she bit back a sigh before answering. “Hi, Dad. No, I didn’t get lost. In fact, I’m standing in front of the mill now.” She felt uncertainty beginning to creep in. She was twenty-seven, but having him check up on her this way made her feel ten again. “Of course. He’s right here.”
Something aggravatingly close to sympathy softened Paul’s rugged features as he took the phone from her. “Good morning, Theo. What can I do for you?” He listened, then replied, “This arrangement works fine for me. I’ve got no doubt Chelsea can handle whatever needs doing.”
