Rescuing the Bad Boy (Second Chance #2)(14)

“Donny Pate,” Faith drawled.

Folding his arms, he spared her a brief glance.

“Donovan,” he corrected. Then to Sofie, “Here’s the deal. I could fight you if I wanted to. Scott Torsett is an old friend of mine. Don’t think for a moment he wouldn’t find a loophole around my delusional grandmother’s contract.”

Sofie bristled. She didn’t love confrontation. But she also wouldn’t take it lying down. Being good at conflict resolution meant she was also good at keeping her head during said conflict.

“Open Arms is a valued partner in this community,” he continued. “I have a responsibility to the man buying the mansion after this fiasco. Part of that responsibility is not tarnishing his image before he gets to town and builds a B-and-B. It’s the best business decision for everyone involved that the mansion be synonymous with helping the people in this town.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Sofie said dryly.

Faith stirred in her chair, ready to rip into Donny if needed.

“Point being, I will not stand in your way.” He pointed to the key on her desk. “Skeleton. Fits the front, back, and side door. Also fits the attic, but I don’t keep it locked.”

Done with his speech, he turned to leave.

“Will you be there?” Sofie asked as his hand closed around the door handle. “Or do I have free run?”

He didn’t face her, but he turned slightly, his profile dark in the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“My work will not stop because you’re using a room or two. I won’t stand in your way. But I expect you to stay out of mine.”





CHAPTER THREE




When he informed Sofie he wasn’t willing to stop his renovation of the house, Donovan wasn’t bluffing. To get the mansion ready for sale, he had land to clear, repairs to make, and an entire basement full of home-shopping garbage and family heirlooms—God help him—to unearth.

Gertrude Pate’s spending habit had gotten out of hand over the years. He angled a glance at the full-size carousel horse leaning against one of the bedroom walls, its mouth open in a whinny.

Way out of hand.

Alessandre liked to preserve some of the original pieces from any structure he acquired, so Donovan knew he wouldn’t be throwing everything out. There were a few antique dressers, table and chairs in the dining room, and key pieces throughout the house he would leave to Alessandre’s discretion. Also staying, the books in the library downstairs, and possibly the hot tub, assuming it was in working order. Currently it was outside on one of the balconies, empty, the bottom filled with dried, brown leaves.

But a few things had met their demise in the Dumpster he had delivered this morning. Mattresses, for example. Worn recliners from the TV room. Anything unfit for a luxury bed-and-breakfast had to go.

He’d been hauling crap out to the cobblestone driveway for nearly seven days, and wasn’t close to halfway done. Too bad the hot tub wasn’t up and running so he could soak in it. His back killed.

Not only from hauling things up and down—and back up and back down—countless stairs, but because he’d been alternately sleeping on the pile of springs that was the red velvet couch or the lumpy L-shaped sectional in the great room. He’d thrown out the mattresses first, figuring he’d be gone soon enough.

Never before had he been so wrong.

The idea of sleeping in a hotel or cabin in town was out. Last thing he wanted was to rub elbows with the locals. He was at capacity for blasts from his past.

Tonight, maybe he would sleep in the back of Trixie under the stars.

Leaving the painted horse behind, he closed that door and popped open another, hoping to find this room empty. What he found instead were porcelain dolls. Hundreds of them with creepy faces and old clothing. So many damn dolls. He closed the door and heaved a frustrated breath.

Again, he thought about hiring someone else to deal with the rest. But he’d still need to be here. No one knew Alessandre’s taste like Donovan, what to keep, what to toss.

He took the stairs down to the foyer. When he reached the last step, the front door swung inward. In the threshold stood a muscular guy with sandy-colored hair, a scowl on his face, and biceps like tree trunks.

“Son of a bitch. It is you,” said Connor McClain.

His shoulders had doubled in size since Donovan last saw him. The military had changed Connor’s body. And his face. There was darkness in his eyes Donovan didn’t remember being there when he’d returned from his last tour in Afghanistan.

When Donovan left Evergreen Cove seven years ago, it was Connor who hunted him down in New York. He tracked down Gertrude, which led him to Caroline, who in turn gave him Donovan’s phone number.

One minute, Donovan had been watching television in Aless’s guesthouse, the next he’d been getting an earful from a guy he hadn’t seen in two years.

“Clean out your guest room,” Connor had told him over the phone. “I’m visiting before I deploy.”

When he showed up the next week, Donovan learned why the sudden interest in serving the country. Connor’s girlfriend had been pregnant, and he’d learned the baby was not his. He enlisted in the army the day after he found out.

There’d been no talking him out of it.

He may be several years younger than Donovan, but Connor had always been ten times more mature.