by Terri Osburn
Callie blinked. “Some of the pieces are really old. If they can’t be made new again, I need to know so I can order replacements.”
Olaf stood up, his fishing cap bobbing under Callie’s nose. Looking down into narrowed green eyes, she felt yet another confrontation coming on.
“There ain’t nothing I can’t fix. You hear me?”
She did not have the strength for this.
“Mr. Hogenschmidt, I care about one thing and one thing only—completing this renovation to Mr. Edwards’s specifications before the deadline. I appreciate your willingness to aid in that endeavor, and the last thing I would ever do is insult your capabilities.”
Olaf blinked.
“Now, can we please proceed inside to assess these pieces?”
The man saved Callie the trouble of having to drag him by the ear.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Lead the way.”
With relief, Callie escorted him inside the hotel. She’d made the mistake of not checking the room before she’d gone out to get Olaf. She should have known better. It was in shambles. Furniture stacked this way and that, some upside down or turned on its side.
As she was about to apologize to Olaf for the chaos, he moved farther into the mess. “This is going to keep me busy for weeks,” he said. Callie thought she heard joy in his voice. “You’ll need to pick the finish you want right away so I can order enough varnish.”
“I have the samples in my office,” she said, watching Olaf run a hand across the arm of a large parlor chair. “I apologize for how things are thrown in here. I’ll get Jack and his friend to put them in order.”
Olaf turned in her direction. “Nothing wrong in here. Looks like my workshop, except there’s more pieces here.”
If this was how Olaf liked to work, maybe he wasn’t the person for this job. They did have a tight deadline and Sam had high expectations, as did she.
“This isn’t too much for you, is it?”
“Course not,” he said, testing the strength of a table leg. “Nothing’s too much for me.”
“Good,” Callie said, feeling less confident than she sounded. “Then we need to find you a work space. We can recruit some men from the crew to help you bring over what you need.”
“Eh,” he said, spinning a loose spindle in the back of a chair. “Bernie and me loaded up the truck yesterday.” Olaf pointed to a back corner of the room. “Plenty of room back there, and we can use those double doors to go in and out.”
Callie hadn’t thought of using the dining room as an actual work space, especially since it would need a lot of attention, removing wallpaper and applying new paint, as well as a good buff on the floor.
Speaking of the floors: “Won’t the work be messy?” she asked, hoping Olaf wouldn’t take this as another insult to his skills. “I mean, we can’t have stains on the floor.”
“Cardboard,” the older man said.
The look on Callie’s face must have revealed her confusion.
“We’ll cover the floor with large pieces of cardboard, same as I do in the shop.” Olaf raised his bushy brows. “If I get started right away, the room will be cleared in plenty of time for whatever you have planned in here. Nothing to worry about.”
He sounded so certain, Callie couldn’t help but believe him. “Thank you,” she said. “I doubt I’d be able to get this project done without you. Or Bernie.” The irony of this fact was not lost on Callie. If someone had told her two old and weathered islanders would be her saviors . . .
“We’re doing it for Morty.” Olaf said the words with a shrug, as if this was something Callie should have known.
“I’m sorry,” Callie said. “Who is Morty?”
Green eyes met hers. “The owner of this place. You know, Morty.”
Callie tapped her chin as she pondered this statement. Maybe Olaf was senile.
“Sam Edwards owns this hotel.” She said the words slowly, emphasizing each word as if speaking to a person hard of hearing.
“Only ’cause Morty let him have it.”
A throbbing pain pulsed in Callie’s right temple. Mondays were known to be trying, but three cranky, overbearing, and now senile men before lunch was too much.
“Could you explain to me what that means?” she asked Olaf. There was clearly a piece to the puzzle Callie didn’t have. “Who is Morty?”
Olaf dropped into a chair and wiggled, as if testing its sturdiness. “Morty was Sam Edwards’s uncle. Left him the hotels in his will. Whole island thought the nephew would sell ’em and be done with it, but he came and he stuck.”
Sam had inherited the hotels? Somehow Callie had missed that in her research. That explained how the man who’d always been looking for the next big challenge had ended up on this almost-unheard-of island. But why had he kept them, instead of selling them off, as, according to Olaf, the islanders had expected him to do?
Sentimentality was the first thing that came to mind, but Sam wasn’t the sentimental type.
Olaf hopped out of the chair. “Better get started,” he said. “I’ll back my truck up to the door and load in.”
“Good,” Callie said, still focused on the mystery of Sam and these hotels. “Olaf?” She waited for the older man to give her his attention. “If you’re doing this for Morty, I’m assuming he was well liked on the island?”
“Everybody loved Morty.” A toothless grin split Olaf’s face. “He was family around here. Can’t say his nephew has the same way about him, but Morty loved this place. So we’ll fix it up for him.”
No, Sam didn’t have the same way about him. From what Callie could tell, he didn’t even know most of his neighbors. He didn’t like the picnics in the park. Didn’t know the tradesmen from the village. Maybe the hotels were too lucrative to give up. She had yet to see the island in the full swing of the season, so it was possible.
But even if the hotels did exceedingly well financially, this little tourist destination couldn’t come close to what Sam could do at a hotel in a larger city.
So why Anchor? She didn’t have the answer. Maybe Callie knew as little about the real Sam Edwards as the folks of Anchor Island did.
CHAPTER 12
Two weeks into the renovation of the Sunset Harbor Inn, and Callie was ready for a vacation. Or maybe a really long nap. Like, a month long. In her previous experience, Callie had been part of a team. A group of planners and runners with each person carrying part of the load.
Not this time. At least she had Yvonne. Or, as Callie had begun to think of her, the miracle worker.
Callie spent her days picking out linens and rugs, upholstery and curtains, artwork and accent pillows. Once she finished sufficiently debating with herself about whether she’d made the right decision, Callie emailed the final info to Yvonne, who then placed the orders, tracked the dollars spent, and reported the current budget status every few days.
When this ordeal was over, Callie would be campaigning hard to make sure Yvonne received a much-deserved raise in salary.
Until then, she’d learned Yvonne was a sucker for Opal’s raspberry tarts, and took the necessary steps to make sure the woman had a solid supply in her fridge at all times.
Contact with Sam had been slim over those same two weeks. Callie hadn’t even gotten the chance to apologize for losing her temper that day in her office. Yes, he’d pushed the wrong button, but that was no excuse. She’d crossed a line, and Sam deserved an apology.
As she was scheduled to appear in his office the following morning, Callie fully intended to deal with the issue so they could move on. Well, so she could move on. Every time she thought about the encounter, about Sam so close and his eyes so fierce and his body so hard and hot . . .
Yes. Well. A little closure on the whole thing would put her back on solid ground. It was a disagreement and nothing more. Or so she deluded herself.
&
nbsp; Due to the shortened time frame in which they had to finish the project, the workers accepted a six-day workweek, with Sundays off. As today was Sunday, Callie took the opportunity to walk around the hotel to gauge their progress without the crew in the way. Not that she disliked the workers. Some of them were quite interesting.
And nearly all of them enjoyed sharing stories about Sam’s Uncle Morty. From what Callie had heard, the man had been quite a character, always ready with a smile and a helping hand. He’d chaired entertainment committees, done magic tricks for the kids in the park, and was beloved by all who knew him.
In other words, the complete opposite of his nephew. And the islanders were not bashful about saying so. Callie doubted Sam would disagree with their assessment, but she still experienced a sliver of guilt over not defending him.
Then again, Sam could take care of himself, and with Morty as their motivation, Callie was getting a great deal of dedication from Bernie’s crew. Which was exactly what she needed to pull this miracle off.
Now, if only she could line up a similarly dedicated group for the inside.
Staring at the back side of the inn, Callie marveled at how much Bernie and his men had accomplished in such a short time. They would be ready to apply the new paint soon, which was good, since November was coming fast and they needed the exterior painted before the temperatures dropped even lower.
Feeling good about where they stood, Callie turned to face the harbor behind her. Sun glistened off the water, forcing her to squint against the glare. She could see the marina on the other side but only faintly, the white sails bobbing up and down with the waves. Breathing deeply, Callie let the wind whip her hair around her face.
Anchor Island was truly the most peaceful place she’d ever been. Though she’d yet to visit much of the planet, Callie doubted many sites would top Anchor for tranquility and calm. Especially on a clear fall day like this one. She thought longingly of spring and how glorious it must be, with its warm gusts buffeting the coast.
Then she remembered she might not be here in the spring. Callie was reluctant to broach the subject with Sam, wanting to wait until she’d made enough progress to really show what she could do. And, in all honesty, she had never run a hotel in her life. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to, since her real love was designing. Did she want to give that up?
Callie dismissed the questions. No sense in worrying over something that would likely never be offered.
“Beautiful day,” said a deep voice behind her, sending Callie whirling through the air. She lost her balance, and her arms flailed like dueling propellers as she careened forward and back.
As gravity looked to be the victor in this comedy sketch, Sam caught Callie around the waist, righting her to a standing position and pulling her close against his chest. The wind whipped a lock of dark hair across his forehead as his blue-gray eyes stared into hers, looking surprised but not wholly unhappy to have her so close.
“Thank you,” Callie said, the words barely a whisper. She shook her head to get the hair out of her eyes, but the wind blew it back again.
Releasing one hand from her hip, Sam tucked the errant lock behind her ear. Heat danced along her skin where his fingers brushed her temple.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Sam said, still holding her close. One brief glance down to her lips, and then he stepped back. “Sorry about that.”
Callie shook her head but had to force the words to come. “No,” she said. “I mean, no apology necessary. I didn’t expect anyone else to be out here.”
He smiled, drawing attention to his stubble-covered chin. “I could say the same. I wanted to take a look around while the place was empty.”
So they’d had the same idea. But then Callie remembered she was scheduled to give him an update the next day. Was he there to assess the situation for himself, not trusting what she might tell him?
“I was doing the same,” she said, her voice firmer now. “To make sure my report would be thorough and accurate.”
Sam chuckled as if she’d said something funny.
“I’m sorry,” Callie said. “Did I make a joke?”
Sliding his hands into the pockets of his brown suede coat, Sam met her eyes. “You can stand down, Callie. I have complete faith that your report will tell me everything I need to know.” With a one-shoulder shrug, he cut his gaze to the building. “The inn landed in this condition because of my neglect. I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.”
If that was supposed to make her feel better, he’d missed the mark by a nautical mile.
“I see that didn’t appease you either.” Sam took Callie by the elbow, turning her toward the end of the building. “Show me around. We can do the visual now, and then deal with the financials tomorrow.”
Callie opted to remain silent as they trudged across the uneven grass to the front of the building. Withdrawing the key from her pocket, she pulled her arm out of Sam’s grip and preceded him up the stairs. It would do no good to throw another temper tantrum when she had yet to apologize for the last one.
But Sam Edwards was quickly turning into the most infuriating boss she’d ever had. And Callie had worked for some real doozies.
Determined to say what needed to be said, she closed the door once Sam followed her into the lobby, then spun to face him. “I’m sorry that I lost my temper a couple of weeks ago. Your comments on my management style hit a nerve, and I lashed out. It was unprofessional and uncalled for, and I apologize.”
“Already forgotten,” he said. That was it. Nothing else. No apology for having insulted her or for his boorish, pig-headed behavior.
Pressing her teeth together so hard she feared one might chip, Callie counted to five. She loosened her jaw enough to say, “I appreciate that.”
“I told you,” Sam said, “I don’t like to dwell in the past.”
Six years into the past was much different than two weeks, but Callie managed not to say so. Barely.
“Fine,” she gritted. “Then let’s get started.”
Sam knew he was being an ass, but sticking with the demanding-boss act was the only way to keep his bearings where Callie was concerned. Not that he wasn’t a demanding boss, but he’d been as much at fault for their encounter that day in her office as she’d been. Him more so, if he were being honest.
But being honest with himself and admitting the truth to Callie were two different things. Theirs wasn’t only a complicated history; they were dealing with a complicated present filled with the demands of an employer-employee relationship that happened to be laced with an attraction Sam was barely able to control.
Signified by the way he’d once again nearly crossed the line outside. He would never have let her fall, especially when he had been the one to startle her, but Sam shouldn’t have held her so close. Or for so long. What had likely been only seconds had felt like hours, and the pull she had on him had revealed a weakness Sam didn’t like to think about.
Following her through the inn, watching her blonde hair dance over the back of her neck, and listening to her rattle off the small bits of progress they’d made, explaining in clipped tones what steps would come next, highlighted his weakness all the more.
If she had any idea what he was thinking, what he’d like to do to her on that antique chaise awaiting its turn for new upholstery, she’d . . . What would she do?
“So that’s what we’ve accomplished so far,” Callie said as they stepped out of the dining room, now a makeshift woodworking shop, and into the lobby, where they’d started. “I’ll have full financial reports tomorrow showing what we’ve spent and where we’ve managed to generate savings.”
“Sounds enlightening,” he said, struggling to pull his mind away from the images of what they could do on that chaise.
Callie’s nostrils flared. “I’ll try to make my report as enlightening as possible.”
As Callie locked the door, Sam waited for her on the top step, fighting the urge to apologize in some way. When she joined him, he said, “I’m impressed with what you’ve done here and have complete faith in your ability to see this project through.”
He sounded like an idiot.
Callie’s jaw stopped ticking for the first time since he’d asked her for the tour. “Thank you.” Her next words proved she was still perturbed. “I’m happy we could impress you.”
“You,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“You impressed me.” Sam nodded toward the inn. “I know this isn’t an easy project. You’re running this almost single-handedly and deserve credit for doing so.”
She softened. Finally. “Yvonne has been a huge help. I might have switched from tea to tequila by now if I didn’t have her support.”
“Good to hear we haven’t driven you to drink.”
“Yet,” she said. Callie gave him a half smile, her eyes on his for only a second before they shifted to the cottage in the distance. “Speaking of tea, do you want to come over for a drink? I can make coffee, if that’s what you prefer.”
He followed her gaze, considering taking her up on the offer. Which was a very bad idea. “I don’t know.”
“Sam,” Callie said, “the work stuff is over. It’s Sunday. We can be friends today.”
Friends. Why had he agreed to that, again?
“Besides, I want you to meet Cecil under better circumstances.” Callie hopped down the steps, turning at the bottom and walking backward. “I promise I won’t let him attack you.” The smile on her face was a challenge, as if he might be afraid of a little bird.
There was no way his ego could let her believe that, even in jest. Stupid ego.
“I could use some coffee,” he said, stomping down the steps, then using his long stride to catch up to her. He slowed as he drew even. “Do you have plans for the linens and other items we won’t be needing anymore?”