Greta Kinyon stood at the window of her Hideaway Hill suite, gazing at the sunset that shimmered on Bodega Bay and wondering why she couldnât relax. This B and B was her favorite retreat. Ordinarily, the minute she set foot in the lobby, she felt a lovely wash of peace and her worries fell away.
Today, though, the magic hadnât kicked in. She was restless. Nervous. Wrong from head to toe.
And she had no idea why. Sheâd just closed one of the biggest real estate deals of her career. Sheâd been able to give a nice bonus to her assistant, who was going through a tough divorce. Gretaâs father, her main investor and mentor, would be thrilled about the sale, though the bonus would exasperate him. He had many wonderful qualities, but giving without expectation of return wasnât among them.
Still, the sale had been a coup. And now she was starting a weekâs vacation at one of the prettiest spots on the California coast and planning to spend it with Franklin Marks, the man sheâd been seeing for the past year.
Recipe for bliss, right?
And yetâ¦
Greta stepped out of her heels, then peeled off her jacket. Plopping on the bed, she tossed a pillow across her stomach, as if applying pressure there might settle the butterflies she seemed to have swallowed. Just for a minute, she shut her eyes.
Suddenly someone rapped at the suiteâs door. As she jolted awake, the stomach butterflies reacted to the knock, fluttering frantically.
And then she knew. Franklin. As strange as it sounded, she was dreading seeing Franklin.
âCome in,âshe called, noting that the last of the sunset was merely a gold shadow on the carpet. How long had she slept?
She heard the door open in the front room, followed by the rumble of a room-service cart. She whisked her feet down and tried to smooth the bed-head out of her hair. Franklin must have ordered something.
âThanksâ¦please just put itââ
But as she entered the other room, she got a look at the man pushing the cart.
âGabe!âHer heart lifted.
Though this was her fifth vacation at the Hideaway, the gorgeous owner, Gabriel Lennox, never seemed to change. He always wore some version of a soft Henley shirt that molded to his sexy chest, and faded jeans, which did the same for his lean legs. His chestnut hair still didnât have a single strand of gray, even though he was thirty-sixâsix years older than Gretaâand sheâd found one on her pillow just last week.
He always looked casual and earthy, as if heâd just come from building a tree house, yet he never seemed out of place, even among his most elegant guests.
âHey, Chicken Little.âHe opened his arms. âWelcome back.â
She groaned at the old nickname, though secretly she loved hearing it. Her first year at the Hideaway, sheâd booked this suite for the express purpose of losing her virginity on her twenty-sixth birthday. Sheâd ended up chickening out, and instead spent all night on the back porch with Gabe, crying into her wine until he began making jokes so absurd she had to laugh.
She returned his hug warmly. As usual, she stole a glance at his left hand. Still single. Amazing. Female guests at the Hideaway outnumbered the men five to one, undoubtedly because word had spread that the owner was a hottie.
Some of the guests werenât subtle about what they wanted, either, and Greta wondered how often he accepted. Last year, she had spotted a well-known actress emerging from his suite in the predawn hours, looking dazed and delighted. It was the only time sheâd seen anyone near his roomâ¦but, then, Greta only came to the Hideaway once a year.
Still. Apparently even the actress hadnât received a permanent offer. Maybe Gabe just wasnât the marrying kind.
His arm still around Gretaâs shoulder, Gabe surveyed the empty room. âSo whereâs Mr. Lucky?â
Over the past four years, sheâd come to the Hideaway with three different men. Gabe referred to them all as Mr. Lucky.
âFranklin,âshe corrected. âFranklin Marks. I guess heâs late.â
âGuess so. He ordered this, though, so he must have expected to be here to drink it.â
She looked at the champagne, glittering with condensation in its icy silver cradle. A bowl of strawberries and cream sat beside it, and a single red rose beside that.
She imagined Franklin standing before her as midnight chimed and Valentineâs Day officially began. Heâd pour their glasses and propose a toast.
Proposeâ¦
Suddenly she knew the cause of her anxiety. Deep down, she was afraid Franklin might choose this vacation to propose.
âMaybe heâll have to cancel.âOptimism sparked in her chest. âMaybe something went wrong at work.â
Gabeâs brows arched, touching the hair that tumbled onto his forehead. âWow. Iâve never heard anyone sound so happy about getting stood up. Youâre actually hoping he wonât show.â