to ten. Predicting rain is a necessary skill when you’re out on a boat trying to earn a living.”
“But you’re a...”
“Girl?” Bailey finished for him with a tone she would call “ardent feminist.”
She knew his type. The last man she’d dated, a wealthy guy named Oliver Richardson from Seattle, hadn’t been a chauvinist, but was just as arrogant. He’d thought his job, condo, city and artistic tastes were better than everyone else’s, including hers. Turned out her greatest dating asset to him was her oldest brother, AJ, a billionaire computer programmer. Since then, she hadn’t felt like dating any man—rich or otherwise. Who needed that crap?
“Haley’s Bay might be small and full of old-timers with big fish tales, but working women thrive here, Mr. McMillian. One day, my younger sister Camden will be the captain of her own boat.”
“You might be a rain predictor, but you’re not a mind reader.” Justin laughed.
The sound made Bailey think of smooth, satin enamel paint, the expensive kind, no primer required. She’d used a gallon on her kitchen walls. Worth every penny and the peanut butter sandwiches she’d eaten to stay in budget.
“I was going to say ‘artist.’ That has nothing to do with your gender. I’m not a chauvinist, as you quickly and wrongly assumed.” Justin sounded more annoyed than upset. “I have two sisters. Smart, capable, hardworking women, but without the smarter-than-you attitude.”
“You think I have an attitude?” Maybe she did, but so did he. The guy was full of himself.
“I don’t think. You do.”
Standing on the trailer bed, he towered over her, but she wasn’t intimidated.
“Your attitude is entitled,” he said. “You assume you’re correct. You assume I’m an idiot. That I can’t recognize rain clouds. Hell, I live on the Oregon coast. Let me do my job, and we’ll get along fine.”
Bailey’s muscles tensed, bunching into tight spools that weren’t going to unravel any time soon. He might have a point, but she didn’t like Justin McMillian, and she wasn’t good at faking her feelings. “How we get along isn’t important.”
“You’re the head of the historical committee. We’ll be working together.”
“I sure hope not.” The words flew out faster than a bird released from captivity. “I mean... Oh, who am I kidding? That’s exactly what I meant.”
His surprised gaze raked over her. “You’re honest.”
“Blunt. Like my dad.”
“I’ll go with honest. For now.” Justin picked up a painting, one of hers.
Bailey reached up for her piece. She loved the seascape, sketched on the beach early one morning, a morning like this one with a sky full of reds, pinks and yellows bursting from the horizon and a sea of breathtaking blues. But turbulent and dark clouds were moving in, matching the mood at the inn. She longed for the return of the calm, beautiful dawn.
“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
