The Welcoming

to be refinished yet, and the original hardware’s in that box.”
    After taking off her sunglasses, she dropped them into her bag. He’d been right. The collar of her shirt matched her eyes almost exactly. He looked into them as she examined George’s handiwork.
    “How many rooms?”
    “There are two singles, a double and a family suite in this wing, all in varying stages of disorder.” She skirted a door that was propped against a wall, then walked into a room. “You can take this one. It’s as close to being finished as I have in this section.”
    It was a small, bright room. Its window was bordered with stained glass and looked out over the mill wheel. The bed was stripped, and the floors were bare and in need of sanding. Wallpaper that was obviously new covered the walls from the ceiling down to a white chair rail. Below that was bare drywall.
    “It doesn’t look like much now,” Charity commented.
    “It’s fine.” He’d spent time in places that made the little room look like a suite at the Waldorf.
    Automatically she checked the closet and the adjoining bath, making a mental list of what was needed. “You can start in here, if it’ll make you more comfortable. I’m not particular. George had his own system. I never understood it, but he usually managed to get things done.”
    He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans. “You got a game plan?”
    “Absolutely.”
    Charity spent the next thirty minutes taking him through the wing and explaining exactly what she wanted. Roman listened, commenting little, and studied the setup. He knew from the blueprints he’d studied that the floor plan of this section mirrored that of the east wing. His position in it would give him easy access to the main floor and the rest of the inn.
    He’d have to work, he mused as he looked at the half-finished walls and the paint tarps. He considered it a small bonus. Working with his hands was something he enjoyed and something he’d had little time for in the past.
    She was very precise in her instructions. A woman who knew what she wanted and intended to have it. He appreciated that. He had no doubt that she was very good at what she did, whether it was running an inn . . . or something else.
    “What’s up there?” He pointed to a set of stairs at the end of the hallway.
    “My rooms. We’ll worry about them after the guest quarters are done.” She jingled the keys as her thoughts went off in a dozen directions. “So, what do you think?”
    “About what?”
    “About the work.”
    “Do you have tools?”
    “In the shed, the other side of the parking area.”
    “I can handle it.”
    “Yes.” Charity tossed the keys to him. She was certain he could. They were standing in the octagonal parlor of the family suite. It was empty but for stacks of material and tarps. And it was quiet. She noticed all at once that they were standing quite close together and that she couldn’t hear a sound. Feeling foolish, she took a key off her ring.
    “You’ll need this.”
    “Thanks.” He tucked it in his pocket.
    She drew a deep breath, wondering why she felt as though she’d just taken a long step with her eyes closed. “Have you had lunch?”
    “No.”
    “I’ll show you down to the kitchen. Mae’ll fix you up.” She started out, a little too quickly. She wanted to escape from the sensation that she was completely alone with him. And helpless. Charity moved her shoulders restlessly. A stupid thought, she told herself. She’d never been helpless. Still, she felt a breath of relief when she closed the door behind them.
    She took him downstairs, through the empty lobby and into a large dining room decorated in pastels. There were small milk-glass vases on each table, with a handful of fresh flowers in each. Big windows opened onto a view of the water, and as if carrying through the theme, an aquarium was built into the south wall.
    She stopped there for a moment, hardly breaking stride, scanning the room until she was satisfied that the tables were properly set for dinner. Then she pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen.
    “And I say it needs more basil.”
    “I say it don’t.”
    “Whatever you do,” Charity murmured under her breath, “don’t agree with either of them. Ladies,” she said, using her best smile. “I brought you a hungry man.”
    The woman guarding the pot held up a dripping spoon. The best way to describe her was wide—face, hips, hands. She gave Roman a quick,