Saying Yes to the Boss. Jackie Braun

cross between gray and blue, and they definitely clashed with the green and purple welt protruding from his temple.

      “You’ll need to see a doctor today.”

      “I know. When the phone comes back on I’ll make an appointment right after I call my sisters to let them know I’m okay.”

      “You’ll probably need stitches.”

      He glanced at his bandaged hand. “Possibly.”

      “And maybe even a tetanus shot.”

      His lips twisted into a grimace. “Yeah, that’s a possibly, too.”

      “Do you think they’ll recover your boat?”

      “I don’t know how much of it will be left to recover.” Then he shrugged. “I’ve got insurance. It wasn’t fancy anyway.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Not like this house. I didn’t get a chance to appreciate it last night with the lights out and my head on fire.”

      “That’s understandable.”

      “The detail work is incredible. I’m guessing it was built in the late 1800s, probably between 1885 and 1890.”

      “Eighteen eighty-seven,” she confirmed, surprised by his perception.

      Motioning with his fork he asked, “Do you know if those are the original cabinets?”

      “Yes. The hardware is vintage, too.” She frowned at the worn finish of the cabinet doors and tarnished brass knobs before her gaze dipped to the scored floorboards that peaked from beneath a faded throw rug in front of the stove. “I’m afraid most of the house could use a fresh coat of paint and other renovations.”

      Ree could afford none of that right now. She would be lucky to scrape together enough money to pay the taxes when they came due in the fall. Her grandmother’s long illness and then Nonna’s request that both she and her deceased husband’s bodies be interred in the family plot in their native Italy, had depleted not just her grandmother’s bank account but Regina’s limited savings as well.

      Dane lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “That’s cosmetic. The structure appears good.”

      “For the most part,” she agreed. But since the house was all she had left of her family, it pained her to see it in such shabby condition. “It needs new shingles, though, and part of the floor on the side porch is a casualty of dry rot.”

      “Basic maintenance,” he said with another shrug, unaware that Ree had been racking her brain for months trying to figure out how she could afford those necessities. “Get it fixed up and you could turn it into a world-class bed-and-breakfast. The view alone would have customers lining up at the door.”

      “I’ve thought about that,” she admitted.

      She had more than thought about it, actually. But opening her home to paying overnight guests still required an initial investment. It would take money—and a lot of it—to whip the Victorian into the kind of condition it needed to be in to attract high-paying clientele and hire the required staff. In the meantime, the bank wasn’t likely to extend that kind of credit to a woman who had no stable source of income or track record for running such a business.

      It was breaking her heart to think that despite all her efforts, she might wind up selling the place after all.

      Dane’s low whistle pulled her back to the conversation. “Did you know that your banister is made of quarter-sawn oak? They don’t make homes like this grand old lady any longer.”

      “No, they don’t, which is why I don’t want to see it destroyed by some developer who isn’t as interested in preserving history and beauty as much as he is in making a quick buck.”

      “So don’t sell.”

      She wiped her mouth on a napkin as the familiar panic settled in.

      “It’s not that easy. I own the place outright now. My grandmother left it to me when she died. But the taxes…” With a sigh, she slumped against the back of the chair.

      “Steep, I’m sure, especially for this much frontage on Lake Michigan.”

      “And especially for me at the moment.” It galled her to admit, “I’m sort of between jobs.”

      Actually she hadn’t had a steady job in years. During the time she’d tagged around after Paul, she had worked as a freelance writer for a travel magazine. The pay was decent when she sold something, and living out of a tent, or at times a small trailer, had kept expenses pretty minimal. But her journalism degree hadn’t seen much of a workout since she’d returned to Peril Pointe. In any case, even with the aid of a nurse, caring for her grandmother had been a full-time job. Ree now had her résumé in with the local newspaper and a northern Michigan magazine. But even if she secured full-time employment, the aging Victorian with its constant upkeep and eye-popping taxes would remain well beyond her budget.