the big dining-room windows, looking full and content. Four of the seven guest suites were occupied on this Thursday morning and all but one of the rooms were booked for the weekend, counting the one the travel writer had reserved. The Sossaman wedding would take place Saturday afternoon and the bride and groom had agreed to allow the writer to include photos from the ceremony in his article. The weather prediction was for a nice, clear day. Forsythia, irises, tulips, creeping phlox and early-blooming roses had thrived in the nice temperatures of the past couple of weeks in May, adding splashes of vivid color to the bright green leaves on the trees surrounding the wedding gazebo in the back garden.
Everything was perfect, she assured herself, refilling her coffee cup and taking a bracing sip. Or at least as perfect as she and her siblings could make it appear to be in front of their guests—one travel writer, in particular.
Lost in her fantasy of a glowing write-up followed by a flood of bookings and accolades, she jumped dramatically when a loud, jarring crash came from the front of the inn. A couple of guests gasped, and one gave a startled little screech. Hot coffee splashed over the rim of Kinley’s cup. She hissed a curse, quickly setting down the cup and shaking her stinging hand. She was running toward the front of the inn before the sound of the crash fully faded away.
Grimacing, she threw open the front door and viewed the scene outside as Bonnie groaned behind her in despair.
An old pickup truck had slammed into the front post of the portico that jutted out from the front of the inn to provide cover for unloading cars at the front door. The post had splintered in half and now that whole corner of the shingled portico sagged dangerously downward. The top half of the post, along with some small debris, had landed on the now badly dented pickup.
Rhoda climbed out of the driver’s seat of the truck, shoving a broken piece of gingerbread trim out of the way. Her curly salt-and-pepper hair was wildly disheveled around her plain face, but she looked uninjured, to Kinley’s relief.
“I’m so sorry,” Rhoda called out the minute she was clear of her wrecked truck. “I overslept and I’d forgotten to charge my phone so I couldn’t call you. I stupidly glanced at my watch just as I started to drive under the portico and I misjudged the turn. I’m okay, but I’m so sorry. I have insurance. It will cover the damage, of course.”
Reaching the older woman first, Kinley caught her nervously flailing hands in a calming grip. “You’re sure you’re all right? Should we take you to be checked out? I can drive or we can call an ambulance.”
Rhoda shook her head vehemently. “No, I’m fine. Really. I was wearing my seat belt and I wasn’t going very fast. The truck’s too old for an air bag, so at least I didn’t get hit in the face with one of those. Just got a fright when it hit, that’s all.”
“You’re lucky the whole portico didn’t come down on you.”
“I know.”
“Hey! Everyone get back.” Logan came running around one corner of the inn, waving an arm to punctuate his order to the gawkers now gathered in the open doorway. “No one should stand under the portico until I make sure it’s fully supported again. Bonnie, lock the front door and have your guests use the side entrance for now.”
“I’m so sorry, Logan.” Rhoda pulled her hands from Kinley’s comforting grasp and began to twist them in front of her. “I’ll move my truck.”
“No.” Stopping nearby, Logan pushed a hand through his slightly shaggy brown hair as he surveyed the damage with a frown. “Let me handle it.”
Having obligingly moved out from under the portico, Kinley turned to look again, wincing at the sight. It could have been much worse, she assured herself. At least only one post was broken, so the whole portico hadn’t come down. But still, it looked sad sagging that way, some of the delicate gingerbread trim dangling precariously.
“We have a wedding Saturday,” she reminded her brother. “Rehearsal is tomorrow evening.”
He nodded. “I’ll put in a call to Hank Charles. I’m pretty sure he made an extra post when we commissioned him to craft these, just so he’d have the pattern if he needed it again. If he still has it, we’ll get it delivered and installed as quickly as possible.”
Kinley put a hand to her head with a sudden groan. “That travel writer is due tomorrow morning. He’s going to be taking photographs of the inn. I don’t suppose there’s any way...?”
“Oh, hon, I’m so sorry,” Rhoda moaned again.
His unshaven jaw clenching, Logan nodded shortly. “I’ll do what I can.”
A black car came up the drive and stopped in the guest parking area. Wondering who would be arriving this early on a Thursday, Kinley glanced that way. A tall, dark-haired man who appeared to be in his early thirties—and in excellent physical condition, she couldn’t help noting—climbed out of the driver’s seat and paused to study the commotion around the front of the inn. She didn’t recognize him. He was dressed casually in somewhat rumpled khakis and a dark green cotton shirt with the cuffs rolled back at the wrists. He didn’t look like a salesman, nor a traveler looking for a room. After a moment, he moved toward them.
As harried as she was by Rhoda’s accident and the resulting mess, Kinley was startled by the instant jolt of pulse-tripping physical awareness that shot through her when the newcomer smiled at her. She’d have thought she’d be too distracted to be dumbfounded by a sexy grin, but apparently her recently dormant feminine instincts were still alive and healthy. Shoving those ill-timed responses to the back of her mind, she pasted on as professional an expression as possible under the circumstances and greeted him. “May I help you?”
He met her eyes, and she noted that his were very blue, intriguingly so in contrast with his longish dark hair and tanned skin. Wow. She had to force herself to resist automatically checking his ring finger. When he spoke, it was in a pleasantly deep voice that only strengthened her immediate attraction to him. “Are you Kinley Carmichael?”
Even the way he said her name gave her a little thrill. How odd. “Yes, I am. What can I do for you?”
Something about his sweeping glance before he answered made her self-conscious—but not in a bad way. The hint of reciprocated approval in this great-looking guy’s expression was a nice little boost to her ego.
His smile deepened, pushing a slash of delicious dimples into his tanned cheeks. “I’m Dan Phelan. I know you didn’t expect me until tomorrow, but I found myself ahead of schedule. I—ah—hope I didn’t arrive at an inconvenient time.”
Kinley felt her heart sink abruptly. The quick flush of pleasure changed abruptly to dismay. The travel writer hadn’t been scheduled to arrive until tomorrow. She had wanted everything to be so perfect when he arrived. Why had he shown up at just this inopportune moment?
It was only nine o’clock, she thought in silent despair. What more could possibly go wrong today?
* * *
Though she immediately schooled her expression, it was apparent to Dan that Kinley Carmichael had recognized his name, and that she hadn’t been happy to hear it. Considering he’d obviously shown up in the middle of a crisis, he couldn’t blame her, but he had to admit it piqued his pride to have an attractive woman appear so distressed by meeting him.
He wouldn’t have labeled Kinley a classic beauty, but he liked the look of her oval face framed by an angular, gold-streaked brown
