More to Give (An Anchor Island Novel) Page 14

  Respectfully,

  Sam Edwards

  Just. Freaking. Dandy.

  No matter. She’d intended for this project to be her launching pad to running larger and more involved hotel transitions. To be the star attraction on her résumé. That beacon would shine even brighter if she managed to pull off the task in such a short period of time.

  Which meant she had to hit that deadline and the hotel had to be the next best thing since peanut butter met chocolate and they lived happily ever after.

  On a side note, Callie really needed to cut back on the candy.

  Two quick knocks sounded on her door before Jack popped his head in. “I hate to bother you,” he said, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper, “but the boss is on the phone.”

  Callie jerked back in her chair. Not only had she not seen Sam in the month since the dinner party, but he’d communicated with her exclusively through email. She’d been pissed about it for the first two weeks, but once the project had hit several bumps and delays, Callie had become relieved Sam wasn’t all up in her business.

  Shoving her in-dire-need-of-a-cut hair out of her eyes, as if Sam would be able to see her over the phone, Callie took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and said, “Put him through.”

  “Right,” Jack said with a nod.

  To Callie’s surprise, Jack the goofy counter clerk had been indispensable over the last few weeks. He’d made sure the crew had food so they didn’t have to leave the site to have lunch—an expenditure Sam had approved via email, of course—and he’d even picked up a paintbrush and done a better job than she did.

  Today he’d been helping Callie strip the wallpaper in the dining room, which was part of the reason she could barely lift the telephone receiver to her ear. The first order of business when this job was over would be a visit to an expensive and thorough spa.

  “Callie speaking,” she said, managing not to wince when the receiver reached her ear.

  “I’d like to visit the inn,” Sam said, forgoing a greeting of any kind.

  Panic latched onto her heart as her brain shuffled through possible excuses. “Um, this inn?” she asked, stalling for time.

  “As I’m currently sitting in the only other inn I own, yes,” he said. “That inn.”

  “Right.” What was she going to do? They weren’t far enough along. Callie glanced down at herself. She looked like hell. Then she closed her eyes and gave herself a mental slap for thinking it mattered one iota how she looked to Sam.

  I’m a complication, nothing more.

  “The place is a bit of a mess right now,” she hedged. Possibly the understatement of the year.

  “I would hope so,” he said. “The hotel is under renovation. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “But . . . ,” she started. Then the line clicked dead and Callie’s forehead hit the desktop. Rolling her head from side to side, she moaned, “This is so not good.”

  Jack stuck his head through the door again. “What’d he say?”

  “He’s coming over,” she answered, not bothering to lift her head. “We’re dead.”

  Technically, she was dead. Jack was an innocent bystander who would be left alive to find another job. Maybe Sam would make him the new manager. She ignored the taste of bitterness that thought put in her mouth.

  Sitting up, Callie said, “We can do this.”

  With a grimace, Jack motioned toward his forehead.

  “What?” Callie asked. “I have no time for charades, Jack.”

  “You’ve got a little something there on your forehead.”

  Callie dug through the mess on her desk to find the small compact she hadn’t used in weeks. Popping it open, she glanced in the mirror. There, in bold red letters, like a neon sign across her forehead, were the words PENDING APPROVAL—though it took her a second to figure that out, since the words were backward in the reflection.

  Looking down, she spotted the smudged image of those same words where she’d just stamped them on an invoice. Callie fought the urge to crumple under the desk.

  If those words didn’t describe the story of her life, Callie didn’t know what did. In fact, when she finally got around to writing that scathing memoir that would make her mother look like the non-nurturing hoyden that she was—long after her death, of course—that would be the title.

  Pending Approval.

  Snagging several tissues, Callie wet them on her tongue and rubbed feverishly at her forehead. Then she took a drink of water to get the paper off her tongue. After dropping the tissues in the trash, checking her reflection to make sure the ink was gone, and straightening the piles on her desk to give the impression of organization, Callie stood, tugging on her gray T-shirt.

  Holy crap. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. But she couldn’t exactly wear her good business suits to strip wallpaper. In her short career of hotel flipping, Callie had never been forced to do manual labor. But this wasn’t a normal flip, and she certainly wasn’t above getting dirty to get a job done.

  Maybe she had time to run home and change. Callie glanced at her watch. How long ago had he called? There probably wasn’t enough time. Screw it. Maybe Sam would be impressed that she was willing to pitch in a little elbow grease to hit his ridiculous deadline.

  And if not, what did it matter? She was finished in six weeks anyway. One way or another.

  “Where do we stand outside today?” Callie asked Jack.

  “They’re painting the end walls,” he said. “Which at least means they aren’t blocking the entrance.”

  “Or hanging from the chimneys like circus performers.” Callie would take whatever good news she could get. “That’s something. The floors?”

  Jack pinched up his face. “Only three rooms done. And the ripped-out carpeting is still stacked in room fourteen.”

  “I told them to get that into the Dumpster last week!”

  “I’ll see if I can find Lot, and we’ll throw it out the window, then haul it around.”

  Callie laid her hands against Jack’s smooth cheeks. “Your mother did a fabulous job with you, Mr. Barrington. Make sure you tell her I said so.”

  Her teen phenom blushed, flashed one of his crooked half smiles, then dashed out of the office, a blur of green shoes and flailing, skinny legs.

  Employing several deep breaths to calm her racing heart, Callie stepped out of her office in time to see Sam climbing out of his Nissan. If there was a god in heaven, may she be paying attention to a tiny island in the mid-Atlantic and send a miracle hurtling down toward Callie’s little inn.

  Sam was relieved as he pulled into the parking lot. The front looked fresh and polished. The once-peeling shingles shining like new in the morning sun. The porch still needed attention, but that would come. There were still six weeks to go.

  Before he could reach for the handle on the front door, Callie swung it open. She wore an old gray T-shirt, jeans with a small hole above the right knee, and stained tennis shoes.

  His mouth went dry. Staying away from her had clearly been the right decision. The physical reaction he was having to this casual look stood as confirmation that distance was best.

  But he couldn’t ignore the project completely. The hotel was his responsibility.

  “Good morning,” he said, stepping inside. “I see things are going well so far.”

  A chuckle that sounded more maniacal than humorous echoed around the lobby. “So far,” she said, closing the door, then retreating to the edge of the counter. “Can I get you some coffee? Or a soda?” She jerked a hand toward the area behind the counter. “We’re well stocked on sodas. Can’t let the guys go thirsty.”

  For a second Sam wondered if the job was maybe too much stress for her. Her eyes were darting too much. Her movements were jerky and stilted.

  “I’m good, thanks.” Sam stood his ground, afraid any sud
den moves might spook her. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” Callie said, louder than necessary. “I’m good. I’m great. Peachy.”

  “Good,” he said, more convinced that she was anything but.

  “Good,” she said, crossing, then uncrossing, her arms. “Well.”

  “Well?”

  “Right.” The woman had gone completely over the deep end. Regardless of the progress he’d seen out front, Sam worried he’d put too much on Callie’s shoulders. He’d neglected the project for too long.

  But he needed to see where they stood to determine how far he should step back in.

  “A look around, then,” he said, adding a smile to appear as nonthreatening as possible.

  “Oh,” Callie said, holding her place at the counter. “Are you sure you don’t want to sit in my office and talk? I could tell you about what’s going on.” Her voice trailed off a bit. “How well we’re doing.”

  Sam was pretty sure he knew how well they were doing. Not well at all.

  “I’d rather see it,” he said, willing to coddle her only so much.

  “Of course you would.” Callie ran her hands across the counter as she turned, offering a half bow. “Have at it.”

  The panic seemed to subside into forlorn surrender. Sam accepted the invitation, heading for the stairs.

  “No need to go up there,” Callie said.

  “The work hasn’t reached the second floor?”

  She shook her head. “But, as you can probably smell, we have lots going on down here.” Callie motioned toward the hall behind her that led to the downstairs rooms. “Want to see how the green you picked looks on the walls?”

  Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. Painted walls were a good sign.

  “I would, yes.”

  “Room nine,” she said, allowing him to lead the way.

  He’d barely taken a few steps down the hall, when Sam heard “Heave!” coming from a room nearby. Spinning to face Callie behind him, he asked, “What is that?”

  “What is what?” she asked, the crazy Callie back again.

  “You don’t hear that?”

  “Timber!” came the voice again.

  Sam lifted his brows. She couldn’t possibly pretend she didn’t hear that.

  Callie smiled. “One moment, please.”

  She squeezed past him, brushing her breasts across his chest. He might have found it arousing if she didn’t have that crazy look on her face. Like she was about to cut him into small pieces and use him for fishing bait.

  When she reached room fourteen, Callie opened the door, stuck her head in, and mumbled something he couldn’t understand. Then she pulled the door shut and said, “Shall we proceed?”

  A trip to the clinic might be in order. This woman needed a tranquilizer. Or a lobotomy.

  As Sam followed Callie down the hall, scenes from The Shining filled his head. He definitely had her in height and weight, but if she had him in crazy, those two advantages might not matter.

  “Here we go.” Callie swung open the door to room nine, then motioned for him to enter ahead of her.

  “Why don’t you go first?” he said, unwilling to turn his back on her.

  “Eh,” Callie said, walking into the room.

  He took his eyes off her long enough to examine the walls. The color was definitely the right choice. It looked great in the natural light from the window and was the right balance of masculine and feminine, as he’d hoped.

  Then he looked at the floor.

  “There’s no flooring in here,” he said, moving around as if that would make something different appear beneath his feet.

  “Not yet,” she said, that trilly little laugh back again. “They’re working at the end of the hall.” As if on cue, hammering sounds came from somewhere in the distance. “It’s taking a little longer than anticipated,” she added, holding his gaze.

  Her left eye was twitching. Time for an intervention.

  “Let’s go,” he said, motioning for her to exit the room in front of him. “We need to talk.”

  Callie sighed, her shoulders dropping so far, she looked like Quasimodo. She kept her head down as she trudged all the way to her office. He’d definitely let this go too long. A mistake he kept repeating.

  When they reached the office, Callie opened her mouth to speak, but Sam held up a hand to stop her. “I’ll go first,” he said. “I owe you an apology.”

  If the look on Callie’s face was any indication, that was the last thing she’d expected to hear.

  CHAPTER 16

  That was the last thing Callie expected to hear. Maybe losing your hearing was part and parcel of losing your mind.

  “Did you say what I think you said?”

  Sam sighed. “Sit down, Callie.”

  It was a good thing her desk chair was right behind her, because Callie dropped at the order. The chair rolled backward away from the desk, with her in it.

  “I knew this was going to be a major undertaking, even before the Christmas wedding opportunity came about,” he started. Callie watched his lips move to make sure she didn’t miss anything. “Against my better judgment, I took a backseat and let you handle the brunt of the project. A mistake on my part.”

  Callie let those words sink in. Tilting her head to the side, she asked, “Are you implying that putting me in charge of this project was your mistake?”

  “Not at all,” he said, face stern. “I stand by my decision.”

  Then she’d fried every last brain cell, because Sam wasn’t making any sense. “Tell me again what exactly it is you’re apologizing for.”

  Sam lowered himself into the chair in front of her desk. Finally. Callie was getting a crimp in her neck from looking up at the man.

  “I shouldn’t have taken the hands-off approach.”

  Again, not a vote of confidence.

  “So you should have been more hands-on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because I clearly was not the right person to be in charge.”

  “Not at all.”

  Maybe she was asleep and this was some psychotic dream. Callie pinched her leg. It hurt. Sam was still there. So . . . not a dream.

  Scooting forward, Callie propped her elbows on the desk and massaged her temples. “I can get this,” she said. “One more try.” She looked at Sam through narrowed eyes. “You’re confident that I’m the right person to run this project?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you made a mistake by not being more involved?”

  “Exactly.”

  She waited for something more, but Sam remained silent. Callie considered how much it would hurt her career to walk out now and never look back. Surely her mental health was more important than any job. And right now, she was seriously worried for her mental health, because someone in this office was nuts, and Sam looked perfectly normal.

  “Why are you wearing that outfit?” Sam asked, confusing her even more with the abrupt change of subject.

  Callie glanced down to remind herself what she was wearing. Oh yeah, the work clothes. “I’m wearing these clothes because I’ve been scraping wallpaper off the walls in the dining room. And last week I wore something similar because I helped rip out the carpet.” She wasn’t going to apologize for getting her hands dirty. “If I had the skills, I’d probably be at the end of the hall, helping lay the new floors. If somehow that means I’m unfit to run this job, then I’m sorry, but I don’t agree.”

  “The only thing that means,” Sam said, “is that I’ve been an idiot.”

  Was this exasperating man incapable of giving a clear answer?

  “Part of me wants to agree with you,” she said, too tired to keep this up much longer. “But an idiot on what grounds?”

  Sam leaned back, propping an ankle over his knee. “On the grounds that I
should be doing my part as well.” He stood up, prompting Callie to leap out of her seat. “I’ll report back after lunch, ready to work,” he said.

  Wait, what?

  “Ready to work?” she asked, absolutely certain this time she’d heard him wrong.

  “That’s what I said.” Sam exited the office while Callie was still standing stunned behind the desk.

  She ran after him. “What work do you plan to do?”

  “Is there more wallpaper to be scraped?” Sam tossed over his shoulder as he pulled the front door open.

  “Well . . . yeah,” Callie said.

  “Then we’ll start there.” As he practically hopped down the steps, he added, “Make sure there are enough scrapers to go around.”

  Callie slumped against the door frame, too confused to process his last comment. Sam was going to work beside her? Like, manual-labor work?

  There was no way.

  Jack chose that moment to sneak up behind her. “What happened?” he asked, ignoring Callie’s startled gasp. “Did he can you?”

  “No,” she said. “He’s coming back to help.”

  “Help with what?”

  “Scraping wallpaper.”

  “There’s no way,” Jack said with a snort.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Callie chimed.

  Guilt was Sam’s constant companion for the next hour as he stopped at the Anchor to let Yvonne know where he would be the rest of the day, then drove by his cottage to change clothes. He hadn’t been joking with Callie. If she had to pitch in with manual labor, so would he. Especially since he’d left her to completely fend for herself for the last month.

  All because he’d wanted to have sex with her.

  When he’d turned into a ball-less wonder, Sam didn’t know. But he didn’t like the feeling.

  To his relief, and to Callie’s credit, the project wasn’t nearly as behind schedule as it had looked on his first visit of the day. As luck would have it, the kitchen had been updated shortly before Uncle Morty had passed away. Since it didn’t need any work, Callie had used the kitchen as a staging area. As furnishings, linens, and décor pieces arrived, the boxes were labeled and organized into zones for more efficient distribution later.