plan says, we want to start making custom furniture again, under the Barrett’s Mill name. Folks love having something unique, and that’s what we’ll give ’em. Everything will be ripped on the saws and handmade by our own carpenters, so no two pieces will be the same.”
“All those shop classes you took are finally coming in handy.”
He took her teasing with an easygoing grin. “Yeah, but I’ve also got a secret weapon.”
“What’s that?”
Glancing around as if he was checking for spies, he moved close enough that she picked up the scent of soap and hard work. It was a pleasant, masculine kind of smell, totally different from the overbearing colognes so many of her coworkers were convinced women loved. They reeked of trying way too hard, while Paul wasn’t trying at all. It set him apart from all the other men she knew, and she sternly dragged her wandering attention back to what he was saying.
“My brother Jason and I have been out in Oregon, working for a company that dredges old timber from river bottoms to be used in modern mills. Back in the day, they used to float trees down from the mountains, and a lot of the bigger ones sank. Some are over a hundred years old, and they’re buried in the mud, just waiting for someone to come along and salvage them. I worked out a deal with my old boss, and when we’re ready, Jason’s gonna bring a load of them here for us to use.”
“Is there really a market for that kind of thing?”
“Sure is. That timber’s been seasoning a long time, and once you dry it out, it makes great raw material.”
“And it has a story to go along with it,” she added, allowing herself a little smile. “People love a good story.”
“You got that right. But I’ve been doing this with my own money, and that ran out a couple weeks ago. We need some serious cash to get us back on track.”
His explanation tripped a switch in her mind, and things began falling into place. “Is that why you’re driving that old sawmill truck?”
“Yeah. When Boyd and I got back here, I sold my crew-cab pickup to a guy over in Cambridge. I really miss that truck,” he admitted with a sigh. “But what he paid me got me started here, so it was worth it.”
She was struck by his commitment to reviving the mill, and as she considered what he’d already accomplished on a shoestring budget, she realized his innovative idea just might fly. In the current era of mass-produced everything, people craved one-of-a-kind items that set them apart from the crowd. As Paul continued explaining the nuts and bolts to her, his eagerness began to erode her professional skepticism.
If his motivation had been purely profit, she would’ve remained pessimistic about his chances. But he’d sacrificed his beloved truck, which proved to her that money was no more important to him now than it had been years ago. Since the tireless effort he was putting in was inspired by the grandfather he adored, she knew Paul would do everything in his power to be successful.
When he finally stopped, she said, “You’d build your marketing strategy around the distinctive history of the town, I assume.”
He hesitated, and she knew she’d caught him on that one. True to form, though, he grinned. “I’ll leave that to the experts. My job is to give them something interesting to market.”
Good answer. Then again, the natural scholar and superjock she remembered from high school had always had a ready comeback for everything. The guy was a born salesman, but where the bank’s money was concerned, she wasn’t certain that what he was selling was worth buying into.
“It’s not up to me.” His cocky grin faded a bit, and she felt a prick of guilt for dashing his hopes. She felt an obligation to be honest with him, but reopening the shuttered business clearly meant a lot to him. Out of respect for his feelings, she softened her tone. “I’ll do my appraisal, then present it to the loan committee for their consideration. The notes and pictures I’m taking today will help them make a fair decision.”
“But you can sway them with the way you lay things out, right?”
The suddenly desperate edge to his voice didn’t jibe with the laid-back personality he’d displayed until now. It made her uncomfortable, and out of habit, she fell back on her usual detachment. “Sometimes. For now, I should get back to work.”
“Okay. I’ll be in here tinkering, so let me know if you need anything.”
As she resumed her assessment, she began to rethink her initial gut reaction. On paper, Barrett’s Sawmill was the worst kind of project the bank could take on. But having viewed it in person, she definitely saw potential in the old mill and its new owner.
The problem was, if Paul couldn’t turn a profit and defaulted on the loan, the loss would be a black mark against her. But if she championed his idea and he succeeded, she’d look like a financial whiz. Then she’d have a realistic shot at the vice president’s position opening up when the head of her department retired at the end of the year. This could be precisely what she needed to make a lasting impression on her father and move her one precious step closer to her ultimate goal of running the bank someday.
Cautious by nature, this was a thorny decision for her, but she was starting to believe the possible benefit just might outweigh the risk. The trick would be convincing a room full of ultraconservative bankers to agree with her.
* * *
Chelsea Barnes, Paul thought while he painstakingly sharpened an old saw blade one tooth at a time. Of all the people Theo Barnes could’ve sent to do this appraisal, who’d have guessed he’d choose his tightly wound daughter?
While his visitor poked around, taking electronic notes on her tablet and snapping pictures with a slick digital 35 mm camera, Paul tried not to watch her, but it was tough. Somewhere along the line, the crazy-smart bookworm that lingered in his adolescent memories had become one of the most beautiful women he’d ever met.
Not gorgeous like a model, he amended silently. She was too petite for that. But the gray suit and crisp white blouse she wore set off her expertly twisted auburn hair and vibrant green eyes to perfection. The earrings sparkling in the sunlight were obviously diamonds, and more studded the slender gold watch that had probably cost more than he made in a month. The two of them might’ve started out in the same tiny town, but they’d ended up at completely opposite ends of the spectrum.
As she prowled around his domain, those keen eyes didn’t seem to miss a thing, lighting with curiosity while she examined the machinery, narrowing when she glanced into the darkness beyond the production area.
“What’s back there?” she asked, pointing with her stylus.
“I call it the tomb,” he joked. “Even Boyd won’t go back there.”
Clearly unamused, she angled a look at him, one elegant brow lifted in reproach. “That’s nearly half your available floor space and will be included in the appraisal. If you don’t currently have it in your plans, we’ll want to invent a use for it before the board reviews your request.”
Paul couldn’t believe his ears. Was the ice princess of Barrett’s Mill High actually stepping down from her glacier to help a peasant? His attitude must have showed, because she turned to face him head-on.
She didn’t look happy. “Did I say something funny?”
“No. Why?”
“You were grinning,” she said haughtily, tilting her cute little nose in the air. “I’m totally serious about this. You should be, too.”
She’d been serious about everything when they were growing up, too, he recalled grimly. Always studying, never allowing anyone to discover if she had a lighter side. Chilled by her frosty glare, Paul decided that despite the smile she’d given him earlier, she hadn’t changed all that much. Not that it mattered to him either way. The only approval he needed from her was financial.
When Boyd ambled over to say hello