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Beau’s thick shoulders heave a little with his breathing. He’s mad about something, but he’s also quiet, which unnerves me. His jaw flexes for a second, and he growls, “That’s a good point.”
Not what I expected to hear. “Thanks.”
He clenches his jaw again, before admitting, “I have been going over this property in my mind every day for over a year. I should have thought of that.” He’s not mad at me. He’s mad at himself.
Crap. I feel bad for the guy. “It’s my job to think of the things my client doesn’t. Every property I work on, I do my best to help them maximize their project’s potential, so I have a lot of practice at this.” I shrug. I know guys hate consolation, so I don’t tell him not to feel bad for not thinking of it. He’ll likely just get frustrated if I do that. “The pro shop can go wherever you want it, Beau. I just wanted to offer my professional opinion.”
He thinks for a beat. “Do you play golf?”
“Not well,” I say with a chuckle. “I can never seem to get it in the clown’s mouth.”
He laughs, and the tension in his face fades. “I get stuck in the lighthouse.”
I smile. “And you’ve been playing since you were a kid? Shame!”
He grins, and it’s got that movie star thing, where it’s a little crooked, which makes it even more attractive. “Father always speaks of disowning me when we’re on the green. My game is tennis.”
Father? How formal.“I’m more of a bocce girl myself.”
He laughs again. “A Willie Nelson fan and a bocce player in the same person? Will wonders never cease?”
“Predictability is overrated.”
His gaze penetrates me. “Couldn’t agree more.”
Is he flirting? This feels like flirting. I clear the thought away and pull out my tablet to show him some concepts. “So, as far as the overall structure goes, to distinguish the resort from most of Somerset Harbor, I was thinking of something like this. With the wooden decks, the off-center angles, and open, but roofed walkways, it’ll give the resort a contemporary vibe while providing a gorgeous view all around. They—"
“Wait, let me stop you right there, Elsie. That is way too modern for what we have in mind.”
Here we go. “So, you want something more traditional than this?”
“Of course. We cannot get approval from the city with something like that. They’ll never accept a boxy, modernist vision in this town.”
“And you’re not willing to push them on it, because it’s not what you want, right?”
He pauses for a moment. “It’s not going to sit well with anyone who lives here.”
Why won’t he admit it?“Just say it, Beau. It’s not what you’re looking for—"
“Fine. It’s not. It’s too bold, too futuristic. We won’t stop anyone from going to say, The Sagamore, by looking like we should be catering to The Jetsons.”
“The Sagamore is a fine establishment. I can understand why you’d want to mimic them. I did a paper on them in grad school. Classic for a reason.”
He gives a curt nod. “So then you understand—"
“That you want to follow in the footsteps of a resort built in 1883? Sure.”
He huffs. “I only meant some of the styling. The white exterior, the gabled roofs—"
“The horse-drawn carriages.”
Oh, if looks could kill, I’d be dead.Except his glare is on my lips. If I didn’t know any better, I would think he was about to kiss me. But angry men don’t go for kissing. Do they?
He snaps, “There goes that smart mouth of yours again.”
“Look, the design you’re talking about would fit in with the old money places around here. I did some driving around, and if you want to match the only actual competition you have in town, then have at it. But I didn’t think you’d want to blend in with the Somerset Harbor Yacht Club and Spa—"
“We don’t,” he says, clipped. His eyes narrow on me.
