by Terri Osburn
“What the hell?” Sid said. “What makes her so special? How come you don’t name shit after us?”
Opal turned to Sid. “You eat a chocolate cupcake with chocolate buttercream, Sidney Ann. What exactly is unique about that?”
Sidney Ann sounded much too girlie for the dark-haired woman with the spicy tongue, who grew even prettier when she blushed. Though “pretty” wasn’t the right word. “Sultry,” maybe. And then Callie realized Sid wasn’t wearing any makeup. Those long, dark lashes were natural. Since Callie’s were practically transparent without mascara, she fought the stab of jealousy.
Then Sid stood up and charged around Beth to approach Opal. Despite the baggy T-shirt and loose-fitting cargo pants, Callie could see Sid’s body looked amazing. What the hell did they put in the water on this island?
Wait. Hadn’t Beth described Callie as a gorgeous blonde only moments ago? Maybe the water perfected their bodies while muddling their minds.
“If you loved me,” Sid was saying to Opal, “you’d name something after me.”
When had this become a competition? Opal could call the thing Sidney’s Eton Mess if it meant that much to her.
Opal slammed both hands onto her ample hips. “How about Sidney Ann’s Shit Cake?”
After several seconds of a tense stare-down, everyone burst out laughing. Everyone except Callie, who was beginning to question their sanity.
“Sorry,” Beth said, noticing Callie’s confusion. “We’re kind of a family around here.”
“We put the ‘fun’ in ‘dysfunctional,’ ” Will added, still laughing. “Opal, you have to make Sidney Ann’s Shit Cakes for Beth’s shower. And throw in some of Calliope’s Mess, too.”
“Is it as good as it looks?” Beth asked, licking her lips.
Callie pushed the bowl across the table. “It is. Try some.”
Beth slipped a bite into her mouth, then closed her eyes as her head dropped back, accompanied by a moan of ecstasy.
“That good, huh?” Will asked. “Let me try.” After doing so, Will had a reaction similar to Beth’s.
Feeling as if she’d shown them all a new invention, Callie gave herself a mental pat on the back. Though it was Opal who deserved the credit.
“You’re a wonder, Miss Opal,” she said, smiling up at the older woman, who was currently hugging Sid against her side.
“I’ve been called worse,” she responded, giving Callie a wink.
As Will and Beth took turns with the Eton Mess, Sid said, “You’re alright, Blondie.”
Assuming this to be some kind of high praise from the rough-edged woman, Callie nodded. “Thank you, Sid. I’m glad you think so.”
Regardless of the number of times Sam had told himself that he would not be the overbearing boss who checked in constantly, he arrived at the Sunset Harbor Inn early Monday morning to observe, and maybe supervise, the kickoff of the project. He told himself that Callie might need his input when dealing with the natives.
They could be an interesting group and preferred their own methods, which were often somewhat . . . unconventional.
Proven by the three men hanging from the roof as Sam pulled up.
Callie stood several feet in front of the inn, staring at the men dangling along the facade.
“What exactly are they doing?” he asked, startling her. “Sorry—I thought you heard me walk up.”
“No,” she said. “I’m too busy worrying about the possibility of a broken neck on our first day.” Turning to face him, she asked, “Isn’t there a safer way to do this?”
Nodding, Sam said, “I’m sure there is. Did you suggest they take another approach?”
Callie used her hand to block the glare of the sun off the hotel windows. “Of course I did. But Bernie says with the porch in the way, they can’t run scaffolding along the center. He says this approach is perfectly safe.” One of the danglers swung several feet to the left, and Callie let out a gasp. “I can’t watch this anymore.”
As they walked toward the entrance, two smaller crews were assembling scaffolding against each of the far ends. For the first time, Sam noticed the large number of people milling about.
“Where did you find all of these workers?”
“Bernie brought them,” Callie answered. “I had to convince him that it wasn’t necessary to start on Sunday. The last thing I wanted was the entire island resenting this project because they had to begin work on a weekend.”
Smart move on her part. Sam wasn’t sure he’d have thought of it. Knowing how quickly they needed the job completed and the intense amount of work there was to do, he likely would have taken the one-day head start.
“I suppose that makes sense,” he said, unwilling to admit his own shortsightedness.
Callie pulled her jacket tight against the chill air coming off the water. “You suppose?”
Arguing would be pointless when he knew she was right. That didn’t mean he had to concede, either.
“Where is this Bernie person?” he asked.
Callie nodded for him to follow and proceeded down the long porch. When they reached the end, she yelled over the side, “Bernie!” An older man with wiry black-and-gray hair crawled out of the base of the scaffolding.
“What do you want?” he yelled back. “I’m working here!”
Where had she found this disrespectful old coot? Sam fully expected Callie to put the man in his place and remind him that she was the boss here.
“And you’re doing a wonderful job,” Callie answered, taking Sam by surprise. “But I’d like you to meet the man who’ll be signing your paychecks. It’ll take only a minute.”
The man mumbled the entire time he crossed the grounds in their direction but looked up with a grin once he arrived. “Nice to meet you,” he said, then hitched around to return to work.
“Bernie,” Callie snapped. “Are you or are you not the expert here?”
That seemed to get the codger’s attention. “You know I am.”
“Then let me introduce you to Mr. Edwards properly so we can make sure you get the recognition you deserve.”
What game was Callie playing? Compliments and ego stroking, when she should have firmly reminded the codger exactly who was in charge here? Sam was about to show Callie exactly how to handle the situation, when the old man flashed a sincere smile and returned to the porch edge with what looked to be a blush on his cheeks.
“Thank you,” Callie said, then turned to Sam. “This is Bernie Matheson, our foreman for the exterior work on the hotel. As an Anchor native, Mr. Matheson has extensive experience with structures battered by coastal weather. He has graciously offered to help us return the Sunset Harbor Inn to pristine condition.”
Sam doubted this man had ever been gracious about anything.
“Mr. Matheson,” he said, unwilling to play a part in this charade Callie was conducting.
“And, Bernie, this is Sam Edwards, owner of the hotel.”
“I know who he is,” Bernie barked. Callie shot him a look, and the man nodded. “Right. Nice to meet you.” Pulling a wool hat from his back pocket, he returned his attention to Callie. “Now I’m going back to doing what you’re paying me to do. Is that alright with you?”
“Of course,” Callie said with a smile.
As the man stomped back to his scaffolding, Sam turned on Callie. “In the office. Now.”
CHAPTER 11
Callie didn’t like Sam’s tone. She’d been dealing with fragile male egos all morning. Adding Sam’s to the list was not on her agenda. “Sure,” she said. “No problem.”
She led the way, with Sam following close behind. Neither said a word until she’d closed the office door.
“What were you doing out there?” Sam demanded.
“What do you mean?”
Sam stepped closer, until less than a foot separate
d them. “That man was belligerent and disrespectful, and you acted as if he was in charge and you were some lowly secretary whose job it was to blow sunshine up his ass.”
Of course that was how he would see it. Callie’s jaw tightened as she struggled to control her temper.
“What I was doing was dealing with a specific employee in a manner that would get me what I wanted. Bernie Matheson is a cranky old man, set in his ways, who happens to have the skills and knowledge we need to pull off this renovation in the ridiculously short time to which you have committed us.”
So much for controlling her temper. Tired of having to crank her neck to see Sam’s face, Callie took a step backward. “I could let my pride get in the way and demand Mr. Matheson bow and scrape, which would have him quitting the project before we’ve even gotten started, or I can apply a little flattery and patience to get this renovation done. I choose the latter.”
Sam’s blue-gray eyes darkened to the shade of a menacing storm cloud. She considered he might fire her now, on the spot, but instead he took a step back.
In a deeper-than-usual voice, he said, “The man needs to know who’s in charge.”
“He knows who’s in charge,” Callie growled—the best she could do when she wanted to scream. “It seems to me you’re the one who needs the reminder. Did you or did you not make me the lead on this project?”
Callie bristled as Sam backed her up against the desk. Though he didn’t lay a hand on her, didn’t touch her in any way, she could feel the heat radiating from him. Her own temperature spiked when she caught him staring at her bottom lip.
“You might be in charge of this project,” he mumbled, his breath warm on her face, “but I’m the owner of this hotel and the one also signing your paychecks.” Her body stiffened, with anger and something much more primal. “You’d do well to remember that.”
Sam hovered above her, and all Callie could think was that she wanted him to kiss her. Hell, she’d clear the desk in one swipe if he wanted more.
Then his body heat was gone. Without another word, Sam threw open her office door and stormed out.
God, that was close. Sam hadn’t needed to fight for control that hard in more years than he could remember. Maybe ever. What the hell kind of cliché was he? An attractive woman got firing mad, and he was suddenly as hard as a schoolboy with his first dirty magazine.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, slamming his office door harder than necessary.
He should not have let her get to him. Maybe he should never have hired her in the first place. Callie brought back too many memories. Reminded him of too many weaknesses. Pushed him to want things he couldn’t have and didn’t deserve.
Sam muffled another curse when the buzzer went off on his phone. Pressing the INTERCOM button, he said, “Yes?”
“Mr. Dempsey is here to see you, sir.”
He’d completely forgotten about his meeting with Lucas Dempsey. Sam was not in the mood to discuss legal matters, but he wasn’t going to waste another man’s time either. He’d made this appointment and he’d damn well keep it.
“Give me a minute, please,” he said into the air, then released the button on the phone.
Sam prowled his office, removing his jacket and slinging it over the back of his chair. He loosened his tie, then the top button on his shirt. Mrs. Appleton had gone heavy on the starch this week, and Sam made a mental note to say something the next time he dropped off his laundry.
After pouring himself a glass of water, Sam dropped into his chair. He knew that firing Callie wasn’t remotely an option, but he would need to keep a safer distance from now on.
Giving her the full autonomy she wanted was the only way to make this work. With that conclusion drawn, Sam took a deep breath, secure that the problem had been solved.
Pressing the INTERCOM button again, Sam said, “Send Mr. Dempsey in, please.”
Within seconds, the lanky lawyer strolled through Sam’s office door. Wearing khakis and a polo shirt, Lucas looked more like a man ready for the golf course than one meeting with a client. Reminding Sam once again that he was the only person around who hadn’t caved to the laid-back island way of dressing.
Lucas Dempsey had been a man chasing a partnership at a large law firm in Richmond, Virginia, once upon a time. And he’d likely worn suits the price of a solid used car in doing so.
Sam rose from his chair as Lucas approached his desk. “Sorry for the delay,” he said, shaking the hand Lucas offered.
“No problem,” Lucas said, taking a seat. “I’m afraid you’re not going to like my news.”
Not what Sam wanted to hear. “Then you’ve had no luck?”
Lucas shook his head. “Sorry, but no. Your uncle’s will is completely sound. The requirement that you keep the hotels, running them from here on the island for no less than five years, was locked in the minute you took possession.”
Sam had taken possession only because he hadn’t been given a choice. If he’d turned down the inheritance and the terms that came with it, both hotels would have been sold to the Anchor Preservation Society at a price well below value. A price that might as well have made them a donation.
“I never thought the terms would stand.” Sam was too agitated to remain seated. Pacing, he said, “We can’t even shorten it? The Sunset will be done by Christmas, and at that point I can bring in competent managers and get off this island.”
Lucas sat back in his chair. “It isn’t such a bad place,” he said. Ironic coming from the man who’d grown up on Anchor and then hauled his ass off at the first opportunity.
“Not bad,” Sam said. “Small.”
“It is that,” Lucas agreed with a chuckle. Sobering, he straightened. “Sam, I assure you I’ve tried everything I can think of. So long as he didn’t make the terms contingent on marriage, divorce, or a change of religion on your part, the terms stand. The only other alternative is to prove him of unsound mind or under undue influence at the time the will was created.”
Dropping into his leather chair, Sam let out a long-suffering sigh. “What’s two more years, right?”
“Right,” Lucas said, sounding chipper enough to make Sam want to punch him. “And there’s a good chance that when the two years are up, the properties will have increased in value. Think of it as a two-year investment for a larger return in the end.”
Sam tried to embrace Lucas’s positive outlook, but the silver lining tarnished when he thought of all the larger hotels he could and should be running. He missed the bigger game.
“I do appreciate your time,” he said. “And I’d also appreciate it if you kept digging a bit in case there’s a loophole we’ve missed.”
“I doubt I’ll find anything,” Lucas said. “Artie knew what he was doing when he drew up that will.”
Arthur Berkowitz, known as Artie around the island, had been the only lawyer in town for more than three decades, before retiring a couple years ago. The loss of his practice had required the locals to seek legal counsel off-island, until Lucas had set up shop the year before.
Artie and Morty had been best friends for many years before his uncle’s death, and Artie had made it clear to Sam whose interests he represented. In this scenario, that person had not been Sam.
“There is one colleague I could ask,” Lucas continued, pulling Sam back to the discussion. “An associate who specializes in this sort of thing in my former firm, and who spent years practicing in Raleigh before moving to Richmond. If there’s something we haven’t thought of, he’d know about it.”
With the glimmer of renewed hope, Sam joined Lucas on the other side of the desk. “I’ll take any chance I can get.”
“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” Lucas said. “The chances are slim.”
The glimmer fading, Sam nodded. “Understood.”
“I am familiar with the drive to get off this island.” Scr
atching the back of his neck, Lucas offered an understanding smile. “But this place can grow on you. If you let it.”
Like an itchy rash, Sam thought, but he kept the sentiment to himself. It also helped that Lucas had fallen for a woman deeply entrenched in the island.
“I’ll be leaving in two years,” he said. “If not before.”
Lucas gave a knowing smile. “Don’t be surprised if you change your mind.”
By lunchtime, Callie still wasn’t sure what exactly had happened with Sam. They clearly had two different management styles—of that there was no doubt. As a man used to being in charge, Sam hadn’t taken well to Callie’s brash and, now that she’d had some distance and time to cool off, totally inappropriate challenge to his authority.
But the encounter hadn’t been all business, not by a long shot.
After spending her morning tracking down flooring matches for the hardwood already in the hallways, and having Jack and his friend Lot move the salvageable pieces of furniture into the dining room, Callie was ready to discuss the plan with Olaf.
Glancing at the clock, she knew exactly where to find him.
“Who’s winning?” she asked, as she joined the men on the porch.
“Who do you think?” asked Olaf with glee, his fishing cap pushed back far enough on his head to reveal four red strands lying against his scalp. So he wasn’t completely bald after all.
“Stick a sock in it, you old coot.” Bernie carried his usual scowl. “You don’t win all the time.”
Olaf proceeded to take Bernie’s last black checker and said, “Just most of the time.”
Bernie growled as Olaf celebrated. Callie shook her head, wondering why two men who bickered like an old married couple would choose to spend so much time together.
“If you have a minute, Olaf,” she said, “we’ve moved all of the furniture that needs your attention into the dining room. We need to see if there are any pieces you won’t be able to save.”
Olaf turned serious, and it was Bernie’s turn to chuckle. “What makes you think there’ll be anything I can’t save?” Olaf asked, looking as if she’d somehow insulted his manhood.