The Red Door Inn (12 page)

“I don't mind helping.” He hoped he sounded sincere. But old habits died hard, and he'd been sharp with her time and again in the previous week. Maybe she thought he had something else to work on. “I've got nothing else to do tonight. Well, nothing that won't wait until tomorrow.”

“I said I'll take care of it.” She didn't even bother turning to look at him, her shoulders tense even as she bent over to add paint to her tray.

Seth stabbed his hand through his hair. If she wanted to be so stubborn, fine. She could do it all on her own. He backed out of the room but stopped at the door, the words that she'd typed flashing across his mind's eye.

She didn't really want to be alone. At least not nearly as much as she let on. And she'd wanted to go with him to get ice cream. He could finagle an invite to join her one-person
painting party. And deep in his stomach he knew he needed an invitation, her permission. Picking up a roller without her approval would just put her more on edge, so he tried for a bit of levity.

“Are you always this inviting?”

She didn't speak, but at least his question earned a glare over her shoulder.

“So what happened in here before?”

“You saw it yesterday.” Her words were abrupt, as though she was afraid her voice might crack if she spoke for longer than a moment.

He nodded slowly. But she couldn't see it, so he cleared his throat again. “I did. But I'm still not clear why—or how—it ended up that way.”

He'd seen some painting mistakes in his day. Glossy and matte finishes in the same room. Oil-based paint running down water-based. Bad textures. He'd seen lots of gaffes, but never one so glaring.

The next glance she shot his way was less defensive and much sadder. The pace of her roller slowed as she nibbled on her lip and swallowed several times. As the muscles in her throat worked, threads of dark hair clung to the porcelain skin at her neck. He clenched his fists, tearing his gaze away from the lean line of her neck and shoulders.

It would be so much easier if she was about forty years older. A sweet grandmother would be much better for him. Better yet, why couldn't she go back to wherever she'd come from? That would be safer for everyone involved.

Instead, in an undeniably youthful tone, she said, “I'm not exactly sure.”

He had to pedal back in his brain to pick up the string of
their conversation, and when he found it, he latched on like it was the only line between him and insanity. He didn't want to analyze how close to the truth that might be.

“You're not sure how the room ended up looking like it had a bad case of chicken pox?”

She shook her head, then nodded. “I mean, I have an idea.”

“Which is?”

She stared at him for a long moment, her gaze sweeping from his head to his toes and finally searching deep into his eyes, which sent shivers up and down his arms. Whatever she was looking for, he hoped she found it. Fast. Because the look in her eyes was making something deep in his chest begin to melt.

Finally, she tilted her head toward an extra roller sitting on the tarp next to her paint tray. “Might as well help if you're just going to stand around talking.”

A slow grin spread across his face, which he hid inside his shoulder as he bent to pick up the handle. They reached to load up their rollers at the same time, and she gave him a glare that he read to mean she was having distinct second thoughts about asking him to join her. Holding out his hand, he said, “Ladies first.”

Her movements were smooth and controlled as she applied an even layer over the walls, the wet paint that glistened in the light covering almost an entire wall. She'd been at work for at least an hour before he showed up, and now she continued on in silence until he prompted her.

“So are you going to tell me what you think happened?”

He surprised even himself with the sincere question. As the words popped out, he realized he really did want to know the truth. And he didn't expect her to lie about it.

“It's just a guess.” Her voice barely carried to his spot on the adjacent wall, but instead of prodding her to speak up, he leaned in her direction. “I've only seen this happen one other time.”

She just had to dangle that bit about her past out there. Like a marlin eyeing a fish at the end of a hook, he almost took the bait. He almost asked where she'd seen it before and if it had anything to do with where she'd learned interior design.

He almost got them off track.

Instead he forced his mouth to form a pertinent question. “You've seen what happen?”

“We bought a gallon and two quarts of paint for this room. We picked out the color from the swatch and asked the guy at the paint counter for what we needed. And I didn't think anything of it. It's pretty normal to need more than a gallon for a room. Anyway, we went through the big can pretty quickly, and I used the first quart to finish off that wall.” She pointed to the corner adjacent to the door and took a loud breath. “And when that ran out, I used the last quart to touch up a couple drips. On that wall.”

When she motioned toward the wall that still sported pockmarks, he understood. “The paints didn't match.”

She shook her head, pursing her lips to one side and twisting her free hand into the waist of her sweatshirt. “I should have mixed the cans together first just in case they didn't quite match.”

“You didn't notice it while you were painting?”

She sighed. “Paint never looks like it should until it dries. I just figured that the wet paint would dry to match the original gallon.”

“And you're sure that you bought the same color?”

“Uh-huh. Summer Pasture.”

“So how could they be so far off?”

She lifted a shoulder, completely abandoning her wall to meet his gaze. “It could be any number of things, I guess.”

“You said you'd seen it before.”

“Ye-es.” She dragged the word out, and when he tried to ask about that experience, she dove into an explanation, controlling the direction of their conversation. “That time there was a glob of color stuck to the bottom of the can. Even when we stirred it, it didn't mix in.”

“But that didn't happen this time?”

“The can was empty when I cleaned it out.”

“So what could have caused it?”

She broke eye contact and turned back to her canvas. “A jam in the mixing machine?”

“You mean a jam in the squirter that shoots color into the base paint? I guess that's plausible.”

Her roller stopped in midstroke. “Sure—if the gallon got the right amount and the quarts only got half of the hue they were supposed to because of a clog. Or the ratios could be off.”

“I thought you didn't believe in math and science.”

Her giggle punched him in the chest, and he wiped the front of his shirt over and over to brush the sensation away. Where had that come from? She hadn't laughed like that even for Jack. Seth didn't want to make her laugh. He wasn't responsible for keeping her happy.

But man, he wanted to tell another joke.

“I don't think there's much argument about the validity of math.” The lilt of her words mirrored the rise and fall of her arm and the gentle sway of her head.

When had he stopped watching his own painting?

He whipped his gaze back to his own wall as she continued. “It's pretty objective. And ratios aren't exactly calculus.”

“All right.” Back to business. “So maybe the paint machine miscalculated how much of the color is required to make the right shade in a gallon.”

“Or in a quart.”

This was all making far too much sense. The splotchy wall could have happened to anyone. A simple mistake. Her story made sense, and he was inclined to believe her.

“The sun could have come through the window and faded some patches of the wall,” she said.

“The sun faded the wall? But only in certain places.”

“Why not?” Her guilty smile gave her away. She was making a joke.

First laughter and then teasing. He couldn't begin to guess what had brought this on, but he wasn't going to question or complain. Sometimes God just smiled down on him.

“Or maybe the paint counter attendant thought you were cute and wanted to see you again.” The words were out before he realized they were beyond a bad idea.

She didn't say anything for a long while, so he had to focus on the blush rising up her neck and turning her cheeks into bright red apples. “Well, actually . . . the woman at the counter was closer to Jack's age.”

“Maybe
she
wanted to see
him
again.”

Her laugh returned, and with it came a swelling in his chest. “You might be right. She was awfully chatty with him.”

“And what did he say?”

“About the same as usual.”

“So . . . nothing?”

She nodded and quickly turned away, her jaw cracking on a yawn.

He glanced at his watch, the digital numbers swimming in front of his tired eyes. “You know it's late when you can't even read your own watch. Maybe we should call it a night.”

“All right. Let me just clean out this pan.” She made short work of the last bit of paint in the tray as Seth hammered the lid back onto the can. “Are we still on for the auction?”

He wasn't sure if he should be offended that she had to ask or happy that she still wanted to go with him.

“I'm looking forward to it.”

Oddly enough, he really was.

Y
ou're sure you know what you're looking for?”

Marie blew a rebellious lock of hair off her forehead and glared across the cab of the truck. Seth had asked her the same question at least four times as they headed toward the auction grounds, and her answer hadn't changed. In fact, she'd known what she was looking for two weeks before, on the original date of the auction.

“What?” He sounded offended, like her glare was more painful than his incessant questioning. “I just want to make sure we're bidding on the right things—the things we need. It's easy to get caught up in the excitement and drama of an auction and end up bidding on things that will just waste money.”

“And you know this because you've been to how many auctions in your life?”

He looked up at the ceiling. “Well, I haven't actually . . . But that doesn't mean that I don't understand human nature. When the paddles are waving, it's fun to get involved, to put yours in the game.”

She ran her hand down the leg of the new jeans that Jack had insisted on buying for her. Apparently her paint-stained pants were an embarrassment to the Red Door Inn. “I think I'll be okay.”

“Are those new?”

The sharp turn in the conversation made her fumble for an answer before she realized he was pointing to her gift from Jack. “Um . . . yes. Jack said he wouldn't let me represent the Red Door in public with stains all over my pants. He made us stop by the mall on our way out of Charlottetown last night.”

Seth grunted, his eyebrows pulling tight.

She sat up a little taller in her seat and crossed her arms over her chest. “What's that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged, his attention back on the road as trees and yellow road signs flew by them. “Nothing.”

Why was he always so touchy about spending money? Or was this about her calling him out on his lack of auction experience? She followed the urge deep in her stomach that said his sudden grumpiness was more about Jack spending money on her. “They were an advance against my next paycheck. He's not buying me things.”

His profile remained fixed in the direction of the road, but he shot her an uncertain glance out of the corner of his eye. “Except—” He slammed his mouth closed, chewing on his lips until they disappeared.

“What? What do you think he bought me?”

“Nothing. I'm not Jack's accountant.”

His nonchalant words didn't line up with the stiffness in his shoulders or the way he worked the muscle in his jaw all the way down his neck. When he swallowed, his Adam's apple
bobbed, and he rotated his shoulders, stretching the jersey fabric of his long-sleeved T-shirt. The gray fabric looked as soft as the muscles beneath it were solid.

Like a slap across her face, realization struck.

She'd just looked at him as a man. Not a person or a body, but as a man. A handsome man.

What on earth was she doing looking at any man, let alone Seth, who had made it clear that he only put up with her presence because of his uncle?

They'd had pleasant enough interactions after their late-night painting session. Their tense treaty had smoothed into a pleasant camaraderie. She offered him a smile in response to his morning nods. And he thanked her when she brought back bags from Caden's bakery.

That was fine. Simple. Safe.

Looking at him like she might have a year before. Recognizing the softness of his deep brown hair and the depth of his hazel eyes. Focusing on the breadth of his shoulders and the muscles in his arms . . .

That was anything but safe.

Especially since his jerk side had a bad habit of popping up unexpectedly.

And she'd come to PEI to be safe.

Besides, she wasn't ready for it. Wasn't ready to think about holding hands and kissing and . . . This wasn't an innocuous topic, especially where Seth was concerned. There were too many memories bubbling right below the surface.

Her stomach churned, and she leaned her forehead against the window, waiting for a panic attack to begin, waiting for her head to begin spinning and her vision to narrow until it was gone. In the truck she couldn't get to her beach, to the
security of her private view of the sunrise, to the clapping waves greeting her each morning.

The best she could do was let the window's coolness wash over her and wish that she could jump into the chilly waters of the gulf. Every now and then she'd catch a glimpse of the blue expanse as they wound their way toward Cavendish. Between pines standing sentry on the far side of a farmer's field, blue flashes captured her attention and soothed the unnameable monster that stole her very breath with each attack.

But the panic attack didn't come.

The monster stayed at bay, and the memories of that New Year's Eve night stayed with it.

Good. Because stuck in close quarters with Seth was the worst possible place to dwell on the old memories and her disturbing new realizations, so she heaved a sigh and thanked God—even if he wasn't listening—that her chest wasn't tied in a knot.

The auction was safer territory on all counts, so she pushed her mind from its track and forced the words out of her mouth. “Here's what I'm thinking about for the auction.” She held up her fingers as she ticked off her top priorities. “We have to get that cherrywood buffet.”

“How much do you plan on spending on it?”

She hadn't actually given that much thought. But three thousand dollars seemed reasonable. Jack had given them a budget five times that for the day, so she could splurge on a focal piece. “Around three.”

“Hundred?”

“Thousand.”

“Three grand?” His voice rose half an octave. “What are we going to do with a three-thousand-dollar table?”

“What do you mean? It's an antique buffet. We're going to build a room around it. We're going to find complementary pieces and put them into the room so they look pretty and your guests have a place to eat breakfast.”

“I mean, what's its purpose?” The volume of his voice increased with his conviction. “Day to day, what are we going to use it for?”

“Are you joking?”

He shook his head, taking his eyes off the road long enough to stare hard at her. “For that much cash, it should be a time machine.”

“We're going to put food on it. That's generally what a buffet is used for, right?”

He nodded slowly, his lips twitching like he couldn't decide if he was going to laugh or cry. He decided on a snicker of disbelief. “You're going to get Jack's New York chef to put his food on a buffet?”

“What chef?”

The curve of his lips flattened, the faint dimple in his cheek disappearing. “Jack hasn't told you about Jules Rousseau?”

Jack hadn't said a thing about hiring a professional chef. She pressed her hand against a growing ache that radiated from her stomach. It wasn't a big deal. He'd probably just forgotten to mention it.

They'd been so busy. Painting and then repainting. Running errands. Picking out dishes. They'd focused on colors and design. Decorations and personal touches.

She was almost certain it had simply slipped his mind.

Unless he was keeping her on the fringes. Unless he purposefully kept her out of the loop because he didn't plan to keep her on board.

That wasn't implausible. In fact, it was pretty familiar.

Her father had kept his plans to himself until the truth came out. He'd told her to wait before saying anything. Told her that she should be sure before she ruined a young man's life. And all the while he'd made plans of his own, plans to use her pain to get the thing he wanted most.

Jack would do the same to make his inn a success.

“Jack did his research, looking for chefs trained at the best culinary schools in the area. He asked for recommendations, interviewed four candidates, and finally offered Jules the position of executive chef.”

“Oh.” She wanted to ask every question rattling around her mind but couldn't say the words without revealing her own fears. Instead she said, “When does he start?”

“He's on payroll April 25.”

“And where's he going to stay?”

Seth ran a palm down his cheek. “We're still working that out. But maybe the basement apartment.”

“Right. Of course. That makes sense.” She nodded enthusiastically, smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles in her pants again and again. Pushing down the lump rising in her throat. It wasn't her room. They weren't giving away her apartment. They were just doing what they needed to in order to open the inn. After all, she wasn't a permanent fixture at the Red Door. She was a traveler. A stand-in for the feminine touch that Rose would have provided.

Pressing a hand over the ache in her heart, she welcomed the reminder. It did her good to remember that she was no more a part of Jack's family than she was her dad's favorite person.

Jack would ask her to leave. Oh, he'd be nice about it. He
didn't have a cruel bone in his body. But his priority was making Rose's dream a success. So he'd ask her to leave someday.

The only way to save herself the pain of that rejection was to leave before he could tell her to go.

Seth shot her several furtive glances, his eyes gentle as he turned his truck off the two-lane highway. “So, what else are you going to look for today?”

“Huh?”

“Other than the buffet? What are you going to bid on?”

She held up her fingers to tick off the other things on her list. “Authentic local quilts for every guest room, tables for the dining room to match the buffet—”

“Tables? As in plural? We already have one.”

“Yes.”

His eyebrows arched in an unspoken question.

“Have you ever even stayed at a bed-and-breakfast?”

He shook his head.

“Wait. You're telling me that you're refurbishing an old house to become a B and B, and you've never even stayed at one?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

She pressed her hands over her face, groaning into them. No wonder he was concerned by all the money she'd spent. He had no concept of how a B and B should feel. Like a home, only better. How the finishing touches made the experience. “I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.”

“Fair enough. But you haven't told me why we need more than one table.”

“Picture this. You're on your honeymoon, and you just want to share secret glances with your new wife. You want to hold her hand and touch her knee under the table.” She
waved her hand in front of the windshield, hoping he could imagine the scene. “You want to feed her a fresh strawberry or offer her a bite of your cinnamon roll after she begs you for just a taste.”

“Hey, if she wanted a cinnamon roll, she should have ordered her own.”

Marie fought the urge to slug his arm. “She was too embarrassed. After all, you're newly married, and she doesn't want you to think she's going to stuff her face at every opportunity.”

“All right. Say she wants my cinnamon roll . . . Did your friend make it?”

“My friend? Caden?”

“Yeah.”

Where was he going with this? She whipped her finger around in a circle. “Stay with me here.”

He nodded. “I am. Just trying to picture this scene. Did the cinnamon roll come from Caden's bakery?”

“Yes. Fine. She made it. What does it matter?”

A lopsided grin broke his focused expression, and his dimple made him look about fifteen years younger. “Oh, it matters. If it's from Caden, I'm not sharing.”

She heaved a sigh, her shoulders deflating. “Seth! Focus here for a second. We're talking about tables, not sweets.”

“Fine. But I'm just saying. I'm not going to share.” He winked at her. Great. Now he was teasing her.

“All right. So you're with your new bride, and she wants a bite of your waffle.” He opened his mouth, but she cut him off before he could pursue his thought. “There are no more cinnamon rolls in this story.”

His mouth snapped closed, his lips pursed to the side. Finally he nodded. “Go on.”

“There are little candles and vases of flowers from Jack's garden on the table. And all you really want to do is touch her face and wipe away the speck of jam stuck to the corner of her mouth. You got it?”

His head bobbed in slow succession, his features taut but eyes bright.

“Now imagine she's on the opposite side of a twenty-person table, and you're surrounded by strangers.”

His mouth dropped open. “Got it.”

“We need to have several table options. Maybe a six- or eight-seater for bigger parties or the people who want to talk with other guests. A couple four-tops and then at least one two-person table.”

“And they all have to match the cherrywood buffet.” He sat up straighter in his seat, clearly proud of himself for his flash of brilliance.

She tapped her fist into his shoulder. “Now you're getting it, Sloane.”

Her hand dropped to her lap in a flash, fire running up her fingers. She had no business touching him. She hadn't voluntarily touched a man her own age since New Year's Eve.

Her only saving grace was Seth's utter oblivion as he pulled into the gravel parking lot of the auction grounds.

“Ready to go find some tables?”

“Absolutely.”

As she slid from the truck, she squeezed a fist against the butterflies suddenly swarming in her middle. She hadn't been to an auction in more than ten years. Since her mom passed and Georgiana was not-so-cordially uninvited to the Carrington estate.

But an auction had to be like riding a bike. She hadn't
forgotten how to look for the values. She could still read people's faces, and Georgiana had taught her how to cut her losses when the bids rose too high.

She'd give Jack her best today, no matter how much longer she worked for him.

Seth led the way toward stalls of furniture spread across a green lawn. “Is this all for the auction?”