Page 5 of Inn To You

Placing my hands on my hips, I glare at him. “You still had no right to fire Manny.”

“I will not tolerate sexual inappropriateness toward my fellow co-workers.”

My head rears back. “What?”

“Manny was…ogling you. He made lewd comments, so I canned his ass.”

Lewd comments? “Canned his ass? Now who’s speaking inappropriately?”

“You don’t need him.”

“I do.”

“You can’t afford him.”

“I…” He’s right.

Shit. I hate that Noah’s right. I hate his long list of things that need to be improved and his millions of suggestions as if I haven’t thought of some of them myself. And I hate how handsome he is. And I hate how spicy and rich he smells. And I really hate how hard he was in that bathroom earlier.

Speaking of inappropriateness. I almost climbed onto his lap and took what I wanted from him. That thick wedge. That firm length. Jesus, I’m not certain he’d have fit inside me, but I was willing to try. For thirty seconds of lapsed judgment, I was willing to lay his pipe in my fitting. Place his spindle in my hub. Set his shank through my latch.

Gah! No, no, I would not do any of those things. Company policy and blah-blah-blah, there will be no fraternizing with the help or the management or whoever the hell he thinks he is.

But you want to fraternize. I want to entertain him like a sorority girl at a college party, not that I’d know anything about such scenes.

Stop it! Why was I such a hot mess around him?

Then again, who am I kidding? I’m a constant mess, at least according to others, and this was my chance to prove myself. To my uncle. To his possible investors. More like bank people who were ready to get their hands on this place and pass it on to the highest bidder.

“Brogan?” Noah snaps his fingers before my face, and I swipe away his manicured hand like shooing a pesky mosquito. “You zoned out there. You okay?”

If I was fool enough to buy the concern tinging his voice, I would believe I could win the lottery and solve all my financial problems.

“All right, Mr. Fix-It. Better change.” I eye his snazzy attire. “We have a list of who knows what to complete on your handy tablet.” My gaze drops to where he’s fisting the closed device at his side.

“Yes, boss.” He clicks his heels together and salutes me.

“That’s right, just remember who’s the boss.” I point at myself, but the slow crook of a smile from Noah warns me he’s vying for the position. He wants to be in charge.

And somehow, I wouldn’t mind if he took a little control over me.

Over things.

I meant things.

+ + +

When I was a child, my mother left. My father lost himself in managing the inn that came with almost eight acres of wooded property, including a historic home, an artist workshop, a decorative pond, and the three-story timber-framed hotel. Built in the late 1800s by my great-grandparents, the place reached its prime in the 1920s where parties, holidays, and weddings were hosted in the original ballroom, ice cream socials were held on the enclosed veranda, and excursions to the beach included a one-hundred-and-fifty step decline down the bluff to the sandy shores of Lake Michigan.

My grandparents told tales of the grandeur of this place that conjured images of Dirty Dancing in my mind. If Patrick Swayze could walk into this place, I’d be dropping my shirt like a 1950s virgin and primping myself for a full-body lift above him—clothing optional.

My father and his brother have run Bluebird Hollow Inn since my youth, and the inn’s success has ebbed and flowed like a fickle tide. Being that I was a product of the 21st century, the inn was more about nostalgia than modern comforts. We didn’t offer televisions in our guest rooms although we did provide Wi-Fi. Our philosophy was we wanted visitors to sit back, relax, and enjoy a simpler pace for a while.

If only I could live what I preached.

As I stand inside room twenty-seven of thirty, I watch the sun descend on another day. This room is one of our largest on the second floor with a partial view of the lake off in the distance. When the nearly one-hundred-year-old trees bloom for summer, the foliage will screen what once was the biggest draw to Bluebird Hollow. The inn sits on a bluff that originally boasted a spectacular panorama of the lake. A one-hundred-foot porch was built for the pleasure of viewing sunsets nightly. Tonight’s show is nothing short of spectacular.

I’ve stopped to take a break myself as another day closes, and I’m no closer to my goal. The inn is a historical landmark in the state of Michigan, protecting the property and building from destruction and zoning changes. Uncle Joe wants to sell. I want to buy. I’ve begged my uncle for another extension. No one will love this place like I do. No one can care for it like me. I just need more time.