he confided that service industries were tedious and boring and acknowledged that he’d only applied for the job because employment opportunities in the town were limited.
And then there was Lissa, a college dropout who claimed that her life experience made her uniquely qualified for the job. When Liam asked her to give him an example, she explained that she’d lived with her in-laws for eighteen months without killing either of them—though she confessed that she’d given the idea more than a passing thought on a few occasions.
Which meant that, for the sake of the business, there really was only one choice for Liam to make.
He was going to have to hire Macy Clayton.
As he chewed on his sandwich, he accepted that whether she was or wasn’t his type, hiring Macy Clayton would definitely put her off-limits for any romantic overtures.
And that was a damn shame.
* * *
Macy showed up just as the delivery truck was pulling away from the inn the following afternoon. Liam had kept himself busy directing the unloading and placement of the furniture so that he could pretend he wasn’t watching and waiting for her to arrive for the promised tour of the property. At the same time, he reassured himself that his response to her couldn’t possibly have been as powerful as he remembered.
Then he saw her, and the awareness hit him again, like a sucker punch in the gut.
It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, though she was undoubtedly that. Even dressed casually, as she was today, in slim-fitting jeans and a cowl-neck sweater beneath a charcoal-grey wool coat belted at her waist, she was stunning. But he’d crossed paths with plenty of attractive women in his twenty-nine years without ever experiencing such an immediate and intense reaction, and he couldn’t deny that it worried him a little.
“Good timing,” he said, in lieu of a greeting as she walked up the steps.
“Was that the delivery truck just leaving?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I recognized the logo,” she said. “You’re obviously a man of exquisite taste.”
“Garrett Furniture has a great collection of pieces that coordinate without being exactly the same,” he told her. “The idea is that every room will offer the same level of luxury but in a distinctly individual setting, so that guests who enjoyed their stay in the Doc Holliday Suite might want to come back to experience the Charles Goodnight Suite—or upgrade to the Wild Bill Getaway Suite.”
“Are all of the rooms named after famous people?”
“They are,” he confirmed. “It was my grandmother’s idea, and she did the research, from Annie Oakley to Wild Bill. Interesting details about their lives are engraved on plaques in each room—but instead of telling you about them, why don’t I show you?”
“Sounds good to me.” She reached toward the door before he could, but instead of grasping the handle, her fingers traced the outline of the raised panel on which was carved an intricate and detailed image of a horse-drawn stagecoach. “This is amazing.”
“The previous owner wanted to acknowledge the building’s origins,” Liam told her. “There’s a series of paintings in the library—original oils by local artists—that also pay tribute to the town’s history.”
Since the door opened into the lobby on the main level, that’s where they started the tour.
Macy had come in the same way when she’d arrived for her interview the day before, but the folding table and cheap plastic chairs that had created an ad hoc interview space had been replaced by an elegant double pedestal executive desk with dentil molding and antique brass hardware. The high-back chair behind the desk was covered in butter-soft leather that coordinated with the sofa and oversized chairs that faced the stone fireplace.
“You should have a lamp for that table,” she suggested, pointing. “And a focal point for the coffee table. Maybe a copper bowl—wide and shallow. Have you ever been to the antique and craft market out by the highway?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You should go,” she told him. “There’s a local artist who sells his pieces there. I bet you could find all kinds of unique things to add not just visual interest but local flavor.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, as he directed her toward the library.
The room had the potential to live up to its name, with two walls of built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcases—currently completely empty of books. She thought about the fun she could have stocking those shelves to provide guests with a variety of reading materials. Maybe she’d even throw in some board games, lay out a chess set on the square table between the two silk-upholstered wing chairs.
She took a moment to study and admire the paintings he’d told her about, appreciating not just the talent but the subjects represented in every brush stroke and color.
“Basque linens,” she said, as they moved down the hall to the main floor guest rooms.
“What?”
She chuckled. “Sorry—I’m sure that seemed to come out of nowhere, but I was just thinking about other ways to highlight the history of not just this building but the local area.”
“I know about the Basques but nothing about their linen.”
“It was originally made from flax grown in the fields and woven with colorful stripes, traditionally seven, which was the number of Basque provinces in France and Spain. The source of the fabric and the process has evolved over the years, but the colorful stripes remain a defining feature.”
“How do you know this?”
“In high school, I did a research paper on how the Basque people and culture have influenced our local community, which is just one more reason—” she offered a hopeful smile “—I’d be an asset at your front desk.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he promised, leading her down the hall to the Annie Oakley Room.
She wondered if he’d chosen the color palette and furnishings, or if his grandmother had taken the lead in that, too. Either way, the overall impression of the room was warmth and comfort, and she could imagine herself contentedly curling up in the middle of the half-tester and dreaming sweet dreams. That tempting fantasy was followed closely by one of sinking into the claw-footed tub filled with scented bubbles when she peeked into the bath.
Appropriately, Bonnie & Clyde were adjoining rooms—the former with a single queen-size sleigh bed, the latter with two double beds of the same style.
“A, B, C,” she realized. “I assume you did that on purpose?”
“Yeah, although it kind of fell apart upstairs where we jump from D to F.”
“What’s beyond those doors?” she asked.
“Serenity Spa.”
She sighed, a little wistfully. “When I heard you were looking for a manager, I knew I wanted the job,” Macy told him. “Because it’s what I’ve trained to do—and what I’m good at. But that was before I’d seen what you’ve done here, and now that I have, I want it even more.”
“You haven’t seen half of what we’ve done here,” he said, leading the way to the second floor.
He was right. And with every door she walked through, she fell more and more in love. The rooms were all spacious and inviting, with natural light pouring through the windows, spilling across the glossy floors. She’d often thought hardwood was cold, but the rugs that had been added provided warmth, color and texture. There were crown moldings in one room, window seats in another, elaborate wardrobes and antique dressing screens, padded benches and hope chests. The en suite baths boasted natural stone tiles and heated towel bars, waterfall showerheads inside glass enclosures and freestanding soaker tubs.
Each