by Melissa Tagg
But Harry ignored her protests, slinging his arm around her shoulder, guiding her down the hallway and toward the back door. “You’ve got no reason to be nervous, Kingsley.” He opened the door and nudged her out. “Trust me.”
The door closed.
“Right. Trust the guy who just pushed me out the back door. Who once left me stranded on the roof, ladder-less.” A spring breeze messed with her hair. No matter, the flights and drive had flattened and tangled it already. She’d fix it up at home before finding Blake.
And it’s not like the new owner would care about her appearance. “Except where are you, Mr. New Owner? Or Mrs., Ms. Whatever.”
“Talking to yourself, Red?”
Autumn spun at a voice. The voice. Blake. And oh, she could just melt into the dew-tipped grass—her and her airplane hair.
He was as good-looking as ever, even in paint-speckled jeans and T-shirt. Of course, he’d once again opted for the not-so-clean-shaven look. And of course, his grin was as much teasing smirk as anything.
Nerves dashed through her—a completely different kind than the ones heckling her as she’d thought about meeting the new owner. Oh no, these ones were all . . . warm.
He stopped in front of her. “Anyway, you’re right on time for the interview.”
“Interview?”
“I realize I’m not really dressed for it, but I’m trying to finish painting all the shutters today. Front and west sides are done. Got one more on the east side and then all the back ones. So . . . what do you think of my place?”
Clunky realization set in. Blake was the new inn owner? This was . . . somewhere between ridiculous and unbelievable. “What? Y-you bought m-my inn? I mean, your inn now, but . . . you? How? When? Why?”
“You should’ve been a reporter. I think you covered almost all the five Ws there.”
Enough with the joking. She folded her arms. “Explain yourself.”
“Bossy. Which, come to think of it, is probably a good trait for a manager to have.” He took a step closer. “Which is what I meant by interview. You totally want the job, right?”
She inched back. “It may be the jet lag, but I am so confused.”
And oh, with that annoying, dimpled smile again. And he smelled like, well, Blake . . . and paint. And . . . she couldn’t think. Stupid, knotty emotions.
“I’ll keep the jet lag in mind during the interview. But come on, say you’ll consider it.”
“How, uh, how many other people have you interviewed?”
“You’re the only one.”
“Have you advertised for the position?” Did her voice seriously just squeak?
He pulled a crinkled paper out of his pocket. “I was supposed to drop an ad at the paper by noon. But I had this meeting first thing today—with your mom and my dad, if you can believe it. There’s this grant thing, and, well, then I took The Blaze out for a quick flight.”
He’d flown? And he was working with Mom?
He chuckled now at her confusion. “You look like I felt coming home after six years.”
“Yet it was only a bit over three months.”
“Anyway, my point is, I didn’t get the ad to the newspaper. Kind of happy about that at the moment.” And for the first time, he actually appeared nervous, the tease in his eyes dissolving.
“Blake.”
Wind played with his dark hair. “All right. Yes, I bought the inn. Put my plane up as collateral, got a loan, even put together a business plan. It happened fast, but if all goes well, we might make a go of this place yet.”
Impossible to miss his we. “But your family’s hotel?”
“Nothing wrong with a little healthy competition, right?” He chuckled. “And anyway, Dad was fine with it. Funny thing is, he’s actually thinking of selling the hotel and retiring.”
“So . . . you plunked down the money, just like that, because you like the place?”
He took another step forward, and this time, she didn’t step back. “And because you love it.”
“Blake—”
“Look, I bought it because I honestly believe this old inn still has stories to tell—however sentimental that sounds—and I realized I want to be a part of telling them.” He angled toward the inn, arms sweeping as if showing it off to someone who didn’t already have its outline memorized. “I like how rooted it is. I like the challenge of fixing it up and luring tourists. I like the hundreds of ideas in the back of my head for expanding it.”
Whoa. This hadn’t been some impulsive decision. He really had a plan, and there wasn’t even a whisper of doubt in her mind he’d make a success of it.
“I bought it for all those reasons. But, too, I didn’t want you to come home for a visit, on holidays or whatever, and see it torn down. Even had the crazy thought that maybe someday you’d come home for good. I wanted it to be waiting for you.”
She let that sink in, tingles running through her. And goose bumps on her arms, despite the sunlight, despite the flush heating her neck.
“I bought it for me, yeah. But I also . . . I bought it for you, Red.”
She unfolded her arms. “I bought it for you, Red.” She could replay those words a hundred times in her head and they wouldn’t get old.
He held out the typed ad he hadn’t delivered to the newspaper office. “Here, you can keep this.”
“Um, why?”
“You told me months ago you didn’t feel like you’d lived a life worthy of a scrapbook—which I completely disagree with, by the way. But regardless . . . I can pretty much guarantee from here on out you’ll want a photo album. I think you can make digital ones now, though, so you can still get out of going to ladies’ craft night, if you want. The ad should go on the first page—a memento of your impromptu interview today.”
“Is that so?” She couldn’t stop looking at him, grinning like an idiot.
“I mean, that is, if you’re here to stay. It’s not a holiday, so that’s not why you’re here. And—”
“I’m moving home, Blake.”
His smile could have kindled a campfire. “I bought it for you, Red.” And that’s when she couldn’t hold back anymore. She lifted her arms to throw them around his neck. “Thank you. Thank you.”
His arms closed around her, and he just held her there, a cocoon she had little desire to ever leave. Oh yeah, she’d be sticking around.
“So tell me,” he said into her hair. “What are your greatest strengths as a potential employee of the Kingsley Inn?”
She tightened her hold around him. “Well, I ran the place for three years.”
“Good point. And?”
“I already have a name tag . . . if I can find it. And business cards.”
“Also good. Because after we get done hosting Dylan and Mariah’s wedding reception—”
“No way.”
“Well, I did save the guy from drowning.” His voice brushed over the tips of her ear. “You wouldn’t believe my powers of persuasion.”
Except that she would. Easily.
“So you’re going to need those business cards when a hundred other couples in need of a wedding venue come banging on our door.” He pulled back then, only far enough to meet her eyes, his hands still on her waist. “Why’d you come back, Red?”
He really had to ask?
“Because I couldn’t make myself go up to the third landing of the Eiffel Tower.”
Sunlight and confusion swirled together in his eyes. “I don’t get it.” But he didn’t wait for an explanation. Only leaned in, and everything around her stilled and faded.
But before he could kiss her, a whisper escaped. “So I’ve got the job?”
“Honey, you always had the job.” He kissed the tip of her nose.
“Best. Interview. Ever.”
“You can say that again.” Her cheek.
“Best interview ever.”
“Now stop talking so I can give you a proper welcome-home kiss.”
And while the old inn watched and the
lake and the breeze sang together, that’s exactly what he did.
Acknowledgements
One of my close friends (she knows who she is!) once made fun of my hugging. She actually called me a weak hugger. To which I said . . . challenge accepted. I’ve worked hard on my hugging skills these past couple years. Problem is, now I have all these people I want to hug who I don’t see all that often. . . .
So to everybody who helped make this story possible, please accept this written embrace and know that next time I do see you you’re totally in for the real (and recently improved) version.
Many, many thanks to:
My family: Mom and Dad, you continue to be the greatest supporters and encouragers in my life, along with simply being the best parents ever. Thank you, too, to my siblings, grandparents, and extended family. Love you all.
My agent, Amanda Luedeke, and my editor, Raela Schoenherr . . . aka a writer’s dream team. Getting to work with both of you is beyond fun. I’m grateful for all you do, for the ways you’ve helped my dream come true . . . and most of all, for your friendship.
Editor Karen Schurrer, I really can’t tell you how thankful I am for your expertise and keen eye. Thank you for giving this story such time and care.
My craft partner, Lindsay, and our other two GLAM girls, Gabrielle and Alena. (Um, I’m the M for anyone stuck on the acronym.) Man, did God ever know what he was doing when he connected the four of us. I think we should have a writing retreat every month! P.S. Notice how I’m resisting the urge to say anything about wood ticks. . . .
The My Book Therapy team: Susan May Warren, Rachel Hauck, Lisa Jordan, Beth Vogt, Edie Melson, Michelle Lim, Alena Tauriainen, Reba Hoffman, David Warren. I love the laughter and tears we share every time we see each other.
Artist Jenny Parker, who created the cover for this book. Oh, how I squealed when I first saw it. It’s so adorable . . . and I’m so grateful.
Everyone at Bethany House, including the marketing and sales teams who get books into the hands of readers. I still sometimes can’t believe I get to be a part of your publishing family.
Cara Putman, I don’t know if you realize how much that fifteen-minute mentor appointment we had at ACFW meant to me . . . or how much your encouragement impacted me. It felt like a calming inhale of fresh air during a season when I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. Thank you for the chat and the prayer.
There are so many more people I want to say “thank you” to—other writing friends, both online and local; my co-workers; girlfriends who I don’t get to see often enough; the amazing launch team for my first book; endorsers and reviewers whose words do an author’s emotions good.
And readers . . . thank you so much for taking the time to hang out with my characters. In a way it’s sort of like you’re hanging out with me—without the downsides of seeing my messy home or frizzy hair. Thank you!
But most of all, I have to say thank you to God . . . for the ways you worked in my heart during the writing of Here to Stay and for reminding me the best dream I could ever have is you.
Melissa Tagg is a former reporter and total Iowa girl. In addition to her homeless ministry day job, she is also the marketing/events coordinator for My Book Therapy, a craft-and-coaching community for writers. When she’s not writing, she can be found hanging out with the coolest family ever, watching old movies, and daydreaming about her next book. She’s passionate about humor, grace, and happy endings. Melissa blogs regularly and loves connecting with readers at www.melissatagg.com.
Books by Melissa Tagg
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Made to Last
Here to Stay
Resources: bethanyhouse.com/AnOpenBook
Website: www.bethanyhouse.com
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