She laughed. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve knocked anything with anyone?”

Miss Gina pulled her special lemonade from the refrigerator before turning over two glasses that were drying on a towel by the sink. “That’s a damn shame. When I was your age I didn’t go a week without sex.”

“Those were the sixties.”

Miss Gina stopped pouring and stared longingly out the back window. “Indeed they were. Best time ever.”

Melanie accepted the lemonade and leaned against the counter. “Why is it there isn’t a Mr. Gina around?”

A visible shiver actually ran down Miss Gina’s body. “Good God no. Commitment? I never could go that route.”

“I’m sure there had to be someone, somewhere who made you consider it . . .”

A play of emotions danced over her face as if she were rewinding the tape of her life and watching it a second time. “Nope. Not really. When I was your age, the men were everywhere. The last thing I wanted was to pick just one.”

“What about later?”

“Later happened in my thirties. I had a few men pass through town once I started the inn, but they weren’t the sticking type, and I wasn’t one to ask to change their minds. I understand a free spirit.”

“Yet you’ve had the inn for decades and almost never leave town.”

“Doesn’t mean I haven’t wanted to.”

That’s where Melanie found herself stuck. “Then why didn’t you? Why not find someone to help with the inn and tap into that free spirit of yours?”

Miss Gina sent her a devil of a smile. “That’s a really good idea. Maybe I should pack my bags and go to Europe for the rest of the summer.”

Melanie choked on her drink, started coughing until tears welled behind her eyes. “W-wait . . .” She looked around the kitchen as if it were an unfamiliar space. “I didn’t mean . . . I don’t know.”

Miss Gina replaced the devil with innocence and chuckled. “Relax, sweetie. You’re not ready to take over quite yet. But by the fall, things should settle into place.”

Trepidation and pride in Miss Gina’s words left warmth in Melanie’s heart. The fact that the woman she’d felt closer to than her own mother was confident enough to leave her baby for Melanie to run did something more than a paycheck could.

“Maybe by fall,” Melanie found herself saying.

“It’s paint!” If Melanie had a romantic thought in her brain about how the night was going to go . . . it was all but gone after an hour under Wyatt’s direction. Direction being the completely wrong word for how he ordered everyone around.

Everyone consisted of Jo, Luke, Mel, and Josie.

“It’s really hard to screw up paint,” Luke added to Melanie’s previous words.

“You tell that to Josie in the morning after it’s dry and half of it looks like five-year-olds tossed this on the wall.” Wyatt stood with a roller in one hand, his other pointing at the wall that looked less than perfect.

“I think five-year-olds might have done it the last time.” Josie tipped back a beer that was free for everyone to drink during the all-night paint party.

“Well it’s not being done by five-year-olds this time.” Wyatt placed his roller on the wall with conviction. “Make sure you cover every inch. And Jo,” he said with a shake of his free hand. “If you’re not going to use the tape around the molding, don’t slop it on. Be more careful.”

Jo saluted him with a wet paintbrush, which brought laughter from the others in the room.

Josie placed the digital jukebox on free play and had a few tunes pumping into the room while they worked.

“I swear this bar wasn’t this big when we walked in,” Luke said less than ten minutes later.

“Just keep moving,” Wyatt said from the corner of his mouth.

Jo leaned close to Melanie. “He’s a paint Nazi.”

“I heard that!” Wyatt said over the music.

Melanie laughed. “You know what this reminds me of?”

Paint dripped from the end of Jo’s brush and ended up on her shirt. “No, what?”

Melanie reached out to try and remove some of the mess Jo was making. “Why I don’t do home improvement projects.”

“Amen,” Luke said.

“It’s just paint.” Wyatt moved faster than all of them combined. He was clearly on a mission and focused on his work.

Luke reloaded his roller and stepped back up to reach the top third of the wall. “Says the man whose own home is in a constant state of unfinished projects.”

Melanie stopped smearing the paint over Jo’s clothing and focused on Wyatt. “What’s this?”

“Nothing.”

Luke laughed.

“No, wait . . . what is Luke talking about?”

“It’s nothing.” Only Wyatt glared at Luke.

“Wyatt has a hard time completing his own projects within any reasonable time frame,” Jo told her.

“But this is what you do.”

“I’m busy. And since it doesn’t affect anyone but me, I can take my time.”

“Nothing like living on milk crates and walking on plastic to make you feel at home.”

“Screw you, Luke.” Apparently Wyatt didn’t like his imperfection vocalized for everyone to hear.

“Grrr,” Luke teased.

“Living the cliché, eh, Wyatt?” Josie asked.

“Every cliché holds truth or it wouldn’t have made it to cliché status.”