He watched her move away, making her way toward a table of six that had just sat down. Regulars, he guessed, as they didn’t seem to need to look at the menus that were tucked beneath the tray of condiments on the table.

“It’s my fault,” Sky lamented, as she set a plate of food and his cutlery on the bar in front of him.

“What’s your fault?” he asked.

“I should have realized that saying Macy wasn’t your type would compel you to prove otherwise.”

“Maybe you should tell me why you’re so sure she’s not my type,” he suggested, lifting his sandwich from the plate.

“And maybe you should trust me for once,” his sister countered.

His gaze shifted to Macy again. “Yeah, I’m having a little trouble with that.”

“Then keep in mind that she’s going to be working for you.”

He wanted to argue that point, but after interviewing three other candidates for the job, he’d been forced to acknowledge that none of them was even remotely qualified.

Darren, currently a bouncer at a honky-tonk bar in Elko, was looking for a day job so he could go to night school. When Liam, simply out of curiosity, asked him why he wasn’t choosing to study during the day and continuing to work nights, it was immediately apparent that Darren hadn’t considered the possibility—an oversight that didn’t bode well for success in his future studies.

Felix’s résumé indicated that he was already college educated and had a master’s degree in English literature. Unfortunately, he had absolutely no experience in the hospitality business and even less interest. During the interview, 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 room was unique in its style and substance, and Macy honestly couldn’t have said which one was her favorite—until they reached the third floor and Liam opened the door to Wild Bill’s Getaway Suite.

Everything about the space screamed luxury, from the intricate mosaic pattern in the floor tile to the elegant chesterfield sofa and forty-two-inch flat-screen TV mounted above the white marble fireplace. Beyond the parlor was the bath, with more white marble, lots of glass and even an enormous crystal chandelier. There was a second fireplace in the bedroom, along with a king-size pediment poster bed flanked by matching end tables, a wide wardrobe and even a makeup vanity set.

“Well, it’s not the Dusty Boots Motel,” she remarked dryly when they’d made their way back down to the main level—and the solarium where he told her breakfast would be served.

Liam chuckled. “The idea was to give visitors to Haven another option.”

“I’d say you succeeded.”

The solarium had two sets of French doors that opened onto the deck, where additional bistro tables and chairs would be set up for guests to enjoy their breakfast in the warm weather.

“Did you have another space in mind for more formal, evening dining?”

He shook his head. “We’re limiting our service to breakfast-slash-brunch, with an afternoon wine and cheese in the library on Fridays and Saturdays.”

“I like the wine and cheese idea,” she said. “But if you’re not offering an evening meal, you’re missing out on the opportunity for guests to spend more of their money right here.”

“There are other places people can go for dinner,” he pointed out.

“There’s no place in town that offers an upscale dining experience. When my parents celebrated their fortieth anniversary last year, they drove all the way to Reno because they wanted candlelight and a wine list that wasn’t printed on the bottom of a laminated page below the kids’ menu.”

He smiled at that. “I can see your point, but I know nothing about the restaurant business.”

“Which is why you hire people who do,” she said.

“Like you?” he guessed.

She immediately shook her head. “No. That’s not my area of expertise. But Kyle Landry studied at the School of Artisan Food in England.”

“I’m sure his mother could have taught him everything he needed to know about making pizza.”

“Except that Kyle doesn’t want to make pizza. He wants to run his own kitchen in a real restaurant.”

Liam winced. “Don’t let Jo hear you say that.”

“His words, not mine,” Macy explained.

“Maybe that’s why he’s not working in her kitchen right now,” he suggested.

“Yeah, she’s not happy that Duke gave him a job. But Kyle’s not really happy, either, because Duke won’t even contemplate any changes to the menu. Kyle added chili-dusted pumpkin seeds to the coleslaw to give it a little bit of crunch and zing, and three customers sent it back. They grudgingly acknowledged that it was good but complained that it ‘didn’t taste right.’”

“People want what they want, and local people don’t want fancy food.”

But Macy disagreed. “They might not want fancy food in a familiar setting,” she allowed. “But a new restaurant would open up a world of new possibilities. Not to mention that a restaurant would create another revenue stream for your business.”

“Have you been talking to my grandmother?”

She laughed. “No, but I’m guessing she said the same thing.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “And maybe it is something to think about.”

“You might think about talking to Kyle, too” Macy suggested.

“I might,” he agreed.

* * *

She didn’t ask him about the job.

Macy figured there was a fine line between eager and pushy and she didn’t want to cross it. Besides, Liam had promised to make a decision by the end of the week, so she would hold on to her patience a while longer.

But by Friday afternoon, with another long and late shift at Diggers’ looming ahead, her patience was running out. She was grateful that she had a job, but it was hard to keep a smile on her face when she was working on less than five hours of frequently interrupted sleep.

Her babies, now eight months old, had started sleeping a lot better, more consistently and—maybe even more important—concurrently, which allowed Macy to get more sleep. But the past couple of weeks had been rough as two of the three were cutting teeth. Two tiny buds had poked through Ava’s bottom gum almost a week earlier with minimal fuss, but her brothers were struggling and miserable.

And despite Macy’s optimism after she’d completed her tour of the Stagecoach Inn—and Liam Gilmore’s promise to be in touch by the end of the week—she still hadn’t heard anything from him about the job. So she left a little early for her shift at Diggers’ and stopped by the hotel on her way. There was no one in the main lobby when she arrived, so she peeked inside the library, but that was empty, too. She wandered a little further and finally found Liam in the kitchen, muttering to himself as he opened and inspected a stack of boxes on the island.

“Is this a bad time?” she asked.

He held up a dinner plate. “Does this look like white to you?”

“Only if tangerines are white,” she noted.

He set the plate on the counter and selected a bowl from another box. “How about this? Is this—” he glanced at the notation on what she guessed was an itemized list of his order “—dove?”

“Um, no. I’d say that’s lemon,” she said.

“And this?” He showed her a salad plate.

“Lime.”

“Great,” he said dryly. “I ordered tableware and they sent me fruit salad.” He held up a mug.

“I’m tempted to say blueberry.” She fought a smile. “But it’s actually closer to turquoise.”

He shook his head, obviously not amused.

“I’m guessing you got someone else’s order.”

He scrubbed his hands over his face. “An order that I’ve been waiting on for three months.”

She moved to the island and set the salad plate on top of the dinner plate, then the bowl in the center of the salad plate and the mug beside it. “I like it,” she decided.

He lifted a brow. “You’re kidding.”

She shook her head. “White and grey are basic, boring. This tableware makes a statement that’s more reflective of what you’re doing with the distinctive décor in each of the guestrooms—providing your visitors with a unique experience.”

“I wanted basic and boring,” he said stubbornly.

“So you can send this back and find basic and boring tableware somewhere else, or you can keep this and negotiate a price reduction from the supplier.”

He looked dubious. “You really think I should keep it?”

“I do, but it’s not my decision to make. Unless that kind of thing falls under managerial duties,” she added hopefully.

“Someone once told me that a good employee is someone who steps up to do what needs to be done, even if it isn’t in her job description.”

“Touché.”

“And I’m guessing that’s why you’re here,” he realized.

“Well, you did say you’d make a decision by the end of the week, and it’s the end of the week.”

“So it is,” he agreed. “And there’s no doubt you’re the most qualified of the applicants I’ve interviewed.”

“Why do I get the feeling there’s a but?” she asked warily.

“But I have some reservations about hiring you,” he admitted.

“What kind of reservations? Did Duke complain about me being late? Because that was once. Okay, maybe twice, but—”

“Duke gave you a glowing recommendation,” he interjected to assure her.

She frowned. “Then why don’t you want to hire me?”

“Because you’re an incredibly attractive woman and… I find myself incredibly attracted to you.”

His reply wasn’t at all what she’d expected, and it took Macy a moment to wrap her head around it and decide how to respond to it—and him.

She was undeniably flattered. Liam Gilmore wasn’t at all hard to look at, and he was built like the rancher she knew he’d been before he bought the old Stagecoach Inn. And she admittedly felt a stir of something unexpected whenever she was near him, but she hadn’t let that dissuade her from going after the job she wanted, because she knew that a man like Liam Gilmore would never be interested in a woman whose first, second and third priorities were her children.

“I fail to see how that’s relevant to my ability to do the job you need done,” she finally said.

“You don’t think the attraction might make our working relationship a little…uncomfortable?”

“Not at all,” she assured him. “Because I have no doubt that you want this venture to succeed, and that requires hiring the right person for the right job. Aside from that, an initial feeling of attraction is always based on superficial criteria, and once you get to know me, you’ll realize I’m not your type.”

He scowled. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“While I must admit to some curiosity about the ‘everyone’ else who might have said the same thing, the reason is simple,” she said. “Because I’d guess that someone known around town as ‘Love ’em and Leave ’em Liam’ is only looking for a good time and—”

“That nickname isn’t just ridiculous, it’s completely inaccurate,” he interjected.

She ignored his interruption to finish making her point: “And, as a single mom, I don’t have time for extracurricular activities of any kind right now.”

* * *

Liam took an actual physical step backward, a subconscious retreat.

“You have a kid?”

Macy’s lips curved in a wry smile. “Yeah, I figured my revelation would have that effect.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just… I didn’t know.”

“Like I said—not your type,” she reminded him.

And she was right.

Everyone was right.

Because as much as he adored his niece—and he did—he wasn’t willing to play father to some other guy’s kid.

Not again.

He looked at Macy, dressed for another shift at Diggers’ in a different short skirt and low-cut top, and couldn’t help but remark, “You sure as heck don’t look like anyone’s mother.”

She smiled at that. “Thanks, I think. But I don’t want platitudes—I want a job. I want the manager’s job,” she clarified. “I don’t mind waiting tables at Diggers’, but the late hours mean that I miss the bedtime routine with my kids almost every night.”

“Kids?” he echoed, surprised to learn that she had more than one.

She nodded.

“How many?”

“Three,” she admitted. “They’re eight months old.”

He waited for her to provide the ages of her other two children, then comprehension dawned. “Triplets?”

She nodded again.

“Wow.”

“Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction when the doctor told me—although I might have added a few NSFW adjectives.”

“And the dad?” he wondered. “I imagine he was shocked, too.”

“I’m not sure it’s appropriate to ask a prospective employee about her personal relationships,” she noted. “But since there are no secrets in this town, I’ll tell you that he’s not in the picture.”

“You’re right—it was an inappropriate question,” he acknowledged.

Also, Macy’s relationship with the father of her babies was irrelevant. She might be the sexiest single mom he’d ever met, but he had less than zero interest in being the “dad” who transformed the equation of “mom plus three kids” into “family.”

“I guess the only question left to ask is—when can you start?”

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