The Heir's Unexpected Return. Jackie Braun

He would be sleeping in her bed.

      And she would be in the room next door.

      He swallowed hard and told himself the sudden uptick in his pulse rate was only because he was wondering how long the arrangement would have to continue. Weeks at least. Months? Possibly. She’d said the inn was booked, so it would be a while before a vacancy opened up.

      Regardless, he had a lot to learn from the efficient Miss Wright if he hoped to run the resort as capably as she had been.

      Eventually, that was his plan. He’d decided on it during his long stint in the hospital, when the shallowness of his life had been as impossible to ignore as his mounting debts. Kellen was done shirking all responsibility. Life as he’d known it was over in more ways than one.

      In the meantime, he had an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon in Charleston the following week. He hoped to receive a better prognosis than the one the previous six had given him. Hoped being the operative word.

      As if on cue, his leg muscles began to cramp and spasm. He leaned on the door frame to the bathroom to take the weight off his bad leg. When he glanced up, he spied the message. It was written in block letters on the mirror, and accompanied by an arrow that pointed to the bottle of over-the-counter painkillers on the counter.

      “Non-habit-forming,” he read aloud. “Take two and thank me later.”

      An odd sound echoed off the tile work as he studied his reflection. The hollowed-out eyes and gaunt cheeks no longer took him by surprise. But it came as a serious jolt to realize he was smiling. And that strange sound? It was his laughter.

CHAPTER THREE

      A COUPLE HOURS LATER, Brigit was in the resort’s commercial, galley-style kitchen helping the chef with dinner preparations when one of the swinging doors opened and her unwanted guest lumbered inside.

      Sherry Crofton glanced up from the pot of sauce she was stirring on the cooktop.

      “Sorry, but guests aren’t allowed back here,” the chef said politely, if firmly.

      The kitchen was Sherry’s domain, and she didn’t care for outsiders breaching its door. To call her temperamental would be putting it mildly. She’d been known to shoo out the staff with a few choice words. One time, she’d even thrown a pot of blanched green beans at Danny’s head when the young bellboy had had the audacity to filch a sugar cookie without asking.

      But she was a damned fine chef, classically trained with twenty years of experience running some of the finest kitchens on the East Coast. Brigit considered it a major coup that she’d managed to get Sherry to sign on as the chef at a small resort tucked away on an equally small island, regardless of the inn’s growing reputation.

      Kellen’s brows notched up in surprise. It was a good bet he wasn’t used to being told where he could and could not go, especially on property he owned.

      Hoping to ward off a battle of the egos, Brigit set aside her paring knife and wiped her hands on the bib apron she’d donned to protect her clothes.

      “I think we can make an exception for this one since he signs our paychecks.”

      “Mr. Faust?” the chef began, her tone brimming with disbelief. Her gaze slid to his leg and then over to the cane. “I didn’t recognize you. You look—”

      Sherry was known for her innovative dishes, but not so much for her tact. Brigit decided to keep the older woman from digging herself into a deeper a hole.

      “Mr. Faust, this is Sherry Crofton, the inn’s chef. You’re in for a treat at dinner tonight. She’s making her specialty, pan-seared sea bass in an herbed butter sauce.”

      “Sounds excellent.” He acknowledged the chef with a perfunctory nod, but his gaze strayed to Brigit and his eyes narrowed. “Why are you wearing an apron?”

      “The sous chef is running late because of the storm. He lives on the mainland. I’m lending a hand with prep. Nothing that requires a culinary degree. Just chopping up vegetables for a steamed medley.”

      Eyes still narrowed, he asked, “Do you help out often?”

      Since the question seemed rooted in genuine curiosity, she decided to answer truthfully. And, okay, she wanted him to be aware that she went above and beyond the call of duty when necessary.

      “I wouldn’t say often, but I pitch in when and where an extra pair of hands is needed, whether that’s here in the kitchen or someplace else on the property.”

      Indeed, during her tenure, Brigit had changed soiled bedding, flipped mattresses, unclogged drains and performed dozens of other less-than-glamorous chores. Nothing was beneath her, despite her high rank in the staff’s pecking order. Apparently all of her predecessors had had other ideas. They’d deemed themselves too good for menial labor. Brigit figured her willingness to roll up her shirtsleeves was why she had earned the staff’s respect as well as their loyalty. Turnover was at an all-time low.

      Kellen rubbed his chin. “I see.”

      Did he? Unfortunately, she couldn’t tell from his expression whether he thought this was a good use of her time and managerial skills or not. Some of her old insecurities bubbled to the surface.

      You’re so stupid, Brigit.

      She banished her ex’s hurtful words. She refused to start second-guessing herself again. Those days were long over.

      Squaring her shoulders, she asked, “Was there something you needed?”

      “Needed? No. Just...taking a look around. I haven’t been to the resort in years. A lot has changed.”

      From Kellen’s tone, however, Brigit couldn’t tell if he was happy about that or feeling nostalgic for the past.

      His grandfather had owned the resort from the late 1950s on, which helped to explain why it was a virtual time capsule when she’d been hired. None of the managers before her had pressed for renovations to improve the business’s bottom line. Perhaps they’d been as apathetic toward the place as their employer, seeing it as an easy paycheck rather than wanting to mine its potential. She’d gotten enough compliments from new guests as well as returning ones to know that the new look and amenities were a hit.

      Speaking of changes, Kellen had undergone a bit of a transformation as well. His dark hair was wet as if he’d recently showered. He wore it slicked back from his forehead, although a few curls fell across his brow, giving him a rakish appeal. His face was freshly shaved, all shadow gone from its angular planes. But it wasn’t the absence of stubble that caught her attention. It was the absence of a grimace.

      “I see you took me up on the offer of some ibuprofen.”

      The barest hint of a smile lurked on his lips when he asked, “How do you know?”

      “Well, for starters, you’re no longer gritting your teeth.”

      “And?”

      “You look...rested.” The word approachable fit even better.

      As did handsome. Despite his obvious weight loss, the man was definitely that. Instead of the workout attire he’d arrived wearing, he had on a crisp collared shirt that was tucked into a pair of beige dress pants. The carved wooden cane in his right hand added to his air of sophistication, although she was pretty sure he would take umbrage at her description.

      “I got in a nap.”

      “And a workout?” Joe had mentioned something about that.

      “No. I wasn’t in the mood for more pain. Don’t let Joe’s baby face fool you. He can be ruthless.”

      Kellen’s subtle attempt at humor came as a welcome surprise. She decided to return it.

      “I would think that you’d pay him extra for that. No pain, no gain.”