Page 76 of That Time I Kissed My Beachfront Boss

“Everything went amazing with the fundraiser today. I think it’s safe to say everyone in town is excited about the reopening. We got plenty of book donations for the inn and suggestions for new pub names. With your go-ahead, Olivia and I will sort through the names and narrow things down before running the finalists by you.”

“Sounds good,” he says. “But that’s not why I’m calling.” He sounds more worried than excited. “Robin and I have been keeping an eye on the weather reports, and this could be the first real storm we’ve gotten since the old roof was replaced. We’d feel a whole lot better if we got regular updates from you until the rain passes.”

“No problem,” I tell him. “I haven’t had a chance to check all the buildings since we got back, but I’ll do that right away. I’m in the lobby now, and everything’s tight in here. No visible leaks at all.”

“Let’s hope things stay that way,” he says.

“Of course.” Nothing would screw up the reopening like a big storm revealing flaws in the construction. Then again, we’re better off finding out now than with an inn full of guests. “I’ll survey the whole property and get back to you in an hour or so.”

“Thanks, Hudson.” He blows out a long breath. “Being able to take Robin away means the world to me, and knowing you’re there holding down the fort has given us a peace of mind we haven’t felt in years.”

“That’s what Olivia and I are here for, sir.”

“Ah, yes. How is Olivia? Everything going all right with her?”

“Great.” My mouth slips into an involuntary half-smile. “She was an absolute champ at the dunk tank.”

“She’s a good girl, that one.”

Yes. She is a good girl.

An image pops into my head of her upstairs right now slipping on one of my long-sleeved shirts. And that’s when I remember what else is in my room I wasn’t expecting her to see.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Olivia

The first thing I notice about Hudson’s room is the scent. The air smells just like he does. Warm and earthy with a hint of spice. Like firewood and black pepper. Thanks to the storm brewing outside, the room is dimly lit, so I move over to the window and open the curtains. Dusky light streams through the glass, and across the four-poster bed.

If I’d had to guess, I would’ve predicted Hudson’s linens would be all smooth lines and neat hospital corners. Instead, he’s got a wrinkled navy quilt, a pile of white pillows, and a plaid blanket pushed down to the foot. Nothing is folded. It’s honestly a little messy. These details make me grin.

But you’re not up here to check out Hudson’s bed, Liv.

Right. I’m supposed to be changing.

I decide to skip the closet. Clothes that require hanging aren’t usually comfortable, and I’m not looking for jeans, button-down shirts, or polos. Instead I search in the dresser. That’s where the good stuff will be. The antique chest is five drawers tall and set between the door and a small love seat.

“Do not look in the first and second drawers,” I say out loud. That’s where his underwear and socks will be. Drawer number three is full of soft T-shirts that smell like clean laundry. I pull out the one on top. It’s sky-blue cotton with long sleeves. Extra-large, which is exactly what I need. The bigger the better.

In this case, coverage is key.

Dropping my damp bathrobe on the floor, I slide Hudson’s shirt on. It hits me just below mid-thigh, which I decide is long enough to safely shimmy out of my bathing suit. Then I search in the lower two drawers and find a pair of gray cut-off sweats. I cinch the drawstring as tight as possible, then roll the waistband twice.

Good enough!

Sure, the bottom half of my legs are bare, but at least I’m finally dry. I’m also a little chilly though, thanks to my still-damp hair. When I can’t locate any sweatshirts in the bottom drawers, I figure they’re probably too bulky. I might need to check the closet after all.

Glancing around the room, I spy a black sweatshirt tossed on the chair beside the bed. Hudson was wearing that one the other night. It will probably still smell like him. At the thought, my stomach fills with butterflies. Wearing his clean shirt and cut-offs is intimate enough. But being in a big old sweatshirt that smells just like him? That could be dangerous.

Still, I need to get back downstairs. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us, and Hudson’s already doing the tarps on his own. So I cross the room. After all, the easiest sweatshirt to borrow is the one on the chair next to the?—

Whoa.

I stop short when I see what’s on Hudson’s nightstand. A stack of leather-bound copies of Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall.

There’s a bookmark sticking out of the first third of Wuthering Heights.

My heart skips a beat.

---