Page 46 of Meant for Me (Magnolia Bay #3)

Isaac Bergeron sat with his back to the restroom wall, his iPad on the table before him next to a mug.

The Magnolia Blossom Café had never used a designated set of coffee cups.

Delia Boudreaux, the long-time owner and town “mama,” had told Noah when he was a kid that she was clumsy and would end up breaking them, so if they never matched, no one would know.

The thought brought a smile. Maybe he’d missed this quirky town just a little.

Isaac looked up from his iPad, squaring his shoulders under his dark polo shirt. His face was clean shaven save for a tidy goatee peppered with gray. “Noah. Glad you could make it.”

Noah’s burst of generosity dissipated. He dipped his chin as he slid onto the bench seat across from Mr. Bergeron, then remembered a childhood’s worth of Delia’s reminders to take off his hat during greetings. He tugged his favorite ball cap free from his head and nodded again. “Sir.”

Isaac wasn’t a gambling man, but his poker face could have won him a bundle. He revealed zero hint of how sharing a table with a Hebert affected him, if it did at all. Especially this particular Hebert.

Noah, however, worked hard to keep his thoughts off his expression. He replaced his hat and searched for polite conversation. “Have you ordered?”

“I had a bagel. Would you like some coffee?” Isaac cocked one brow, the intentional movement creating the exact intimidation factor Noah was sure he intended.

“I think I’m set, thanks.” He wanted a stack of pancakes, but not at the expense of making this meeting longer than necessary.

Under the table, Noah flexed his hands against the worn denim of his jeans.

During the inspection last week, they’d kept their distance.

Isaac had done his official thing, while Noah hovered just close enough to be reached if the inspector had any questions.

Thankfully—for both of them—there had been few, and their forced interaction hadn’t taken long.

Isaac took a leisurely sip from his mug, and Noah dug his fingers harder into his knees. Surely Isaac wanted to get this over with as much as Noah did. But the older man didn’t seem in a hurry to hand over the coveted contents of the closed manila folder sitting on the table.

“As you might expect, I have some news for you.” Isaac set down his mug, then draped one arm across the length of the booth seat.

There was the poker face again. He braced himself for a request to tweak a few things.

But Noah knew the inn, knew the work that had been done with his own sweat and blood, not to mention the crew he’d hand-picked that had come highly recommended.

He’d had a tight budget to work with from his construction loan, but he’d gotten the best and even bartered a handful of favors when finances got tight.

That reminded him—he owed Peter a few bass.

Noah cleared his throat. “I’m ready.”

“I have to warn you, it might not be good news.” Isaac drummed his fingers on the bench as if it were a regular day, not as if he was holding Noah’s golden ticket just out of reach. “But it’s how these things go sometimes.”

So it was as he’d feared. Noah gritted his teeth, keeping his gaze on the syrup-sticky menu between them rather than on Isaac’s smug expression. “I assume there are some changes you’d like to see?”

“Only one big one.” Isaac finally reached for the folder and slid it across the table to Noah, then flipped open the cover. The bold stamp boasting the words FAILED INSPECTION met him like a red-inked slap in the face.

Noah’s mouth went dry. He stared at the unexpected words until they swirled against the other type. “I don’t understand. How?” His renovations couldn’t have failed. Noah had personally attested that everything had been done up to code.

But he did understand, didn’t he? He should have known a Bergeron wouldn’t play fair.

Noah wished he could rip the paper into tiny shreds and throw it in Isaac’s face.

Wasn’t that what his grandfather had preached all those years of Noah’s childhood, as he grew up in the inn?

That the land under the Blue Pirogue was rightfully Hebert property, despite their petulant claims otherwise, and that the Bergerons were simply “too lazy to make their own good business deals”?

Isaac’s face was less than sympathetic—in fact, that appeared to be a smirk hovering around the corners of his mouth. Then the man schooled his features and picked up the condemning paper before Noah could give into temptation. “I’m sorry it wasn’t what you hoped.”

“I bet.” The words slipped out before Noah could censor, but as a flush of heat crawled up his chest, he realized he didn’t want to. This was injustice. “There is nothing wrong with those renovations, and we both know it. I followed all the rules.”

“What are you implying?” Isaac tilted his chin a degree, his gray eyes narrowing.

“More like assuming. I’m assuming the fact the Blue Pirogue happens to be on the exact acreage our families have been feuding over for generations has nothing to do with this.” Noah jabbed his finger at the folder.

“Of course it doesn’t,” Isaac snapped. “Are you questioning my professionalism?”

“Yes, along with about a dozen other things right now.” Namely, what in the world had he taken on with this inheritance?

Hadn’t his dad, who’d been successfully managing a luxury hotel chain in California for the past fifteen years, warned Noah when Grandpa got sick the first time?

He’s going to pawn that old dump off on you in his will, you know.

It’ll be a money pit. You don’t have to accept it.

But Noah had. And until this moment, he hadn’t regretted it.

Isaac’s eyes flashed.

Noah took a deep breath, trying to regain control. He laid both palms flat on the table, releasing his breath. “Let’s just say I’m questioning the timing. You’ve had your eye on that inn since before Grandpa started chemo.”

“That has nothing to do with this and you know it.” Isaac’s voice turned to steel. “In fact, if you’d bothered to read the report before making accusations, you’d see there’s a good reason the inspection failed.” He nudged the paper closer to Noah. “Black mold.”

Noah’s fire tempered a bit. “That’s impossible.” He’d have seen it.

“Afraid not.” Isaac pulled a few photos free from the folder pocket and turned them around for Noah.

His heart dipped in his chest as he stared at the evidence in the walls. Not so impossible after all. He picked up another glossy image. “How did I miss this?”

“It probably happened after the storm. You know Hurricane Anastasia didn’t play favorites last summer.” Isaac’s haughty expression sobered. “Left more damage in its wake than a Kardashian.”

“I know. It even hit us in Shreveport. Mom and I have lived there for fifteen years, and we’d never seen anything like that reach so far up north.”

Was it his imagination, or did Isaac’s eyes narrow at the mention of his mother?

“Regardless of where it came from…” Isaac began stacking the photos. “The mold exists. It’d be unprofessional to approve this inspection before the problem is fixed.”

Noah stared at the way Isaac calmly slid the photos that were ruining Noah’s life back into the folder pocket. He’d thought the Blue Pirogue hadn’t taken much damage during the storm, and what little there had been had easily been swept into the round of renovations.

He’d thought wrong.

“Black mold is a massive liability.” Isaac leaned back in the booth, his expression tight. “You clearly can’t operate with guests until the mold is taken care of.”

“But I can’t afford this.” He’d barely made budget on the renovations needed to get the inn up to date—and up to code—for the pending tourist season.

The inn’s books had been in the black—barely—when Noah took over, but having to close temporarily for the repairs had given the dwindling business account a hit.

So far, he’d managed to keep his own meager savings out of it, hoping to get the inn back up running before he decided whether or not to keep it.

Isaac shrugged a little, downing the last of his coffee. “Maybe if you hadn’t expanded the third-story suite, you’d have some money left over for emergencies.”

Noah stiffened. The last thing he needed was yet another person telling him how to manage and market the Blue Pirogue.

“Not that it’s your business, but that expansion was necessary to draw honeymooners and guests who want more space.

” He folded his arms over his hammering heart.

“Statistics prove it’ll pay for itself in a few years. ”

“That’s great—except you can’t start the clock until this is handled.” Isaac tapped the folder.

He was aware. Noah cleared his throat. These next words were going to taste like sawdust. “Then what do you suggest I do? I don’t have that kind of money left.” Or energy. Or time. The inn was supposed to be finished in the next few weeks so he could figure out his next steps in life.

Not take several backward.

“Do like everyone else does—get a loan.” Isaac raised his eyebrows in challenge as a slow grin curved the corners of his mouth. “Or you could always sell.”

Noah’s gut tightened. “Nice try.”

Isaac leaned forward and lowered his voice, all pretenses gone as he braced both hands on the table. “If you don’t handle this one way or another, I’ll call Judge Morrow. You’ll have a cease and desist slapped on you faster than you can say?—”

“Afternoon, gentlemen.” A slender, tan arm stretched past Noah and started pouring coffee from a carafe into Isaac’s mug. The familiar scent of vanilla and honey hit Noah like a two-by-four from the past and he didn’t need to look up to know.

Elisa Bergeron.

But he did look up, because there wasn’t a man on the planet who was unable to spare Elisa a second glance.

He swallowed hard, watching her pour her father’s coffee, his gaze skimming over her high cheekbones and pink lips.

Her blond hair, shorter than he’d ever seen it, was tucked back into a tiny ponytail, revealing her slender neck.

“And can I get you anything, hon?” Elisa’s voice, twangy with a southern drawl just as he remembered, trailed off as her eyes met his. Just as blue as he remembered, too, though they darkened as recognition paled her cheeks. She jerked the carafe upright. “Noah Hebert.”

He spread his arms in a slightly exaggerated, resigned gesture. “That’s me.” And that had always been the problem between them, hadn’t it? His name. What he represented.

She lifted her chin, her smile wobbly around the edges. “Well, I’ll be. It only took you four months of being back in town to stop in here, didn’t it?”

“I’ve been pretty busy with the inn.” He waited. Elisa had always been a master at keeping her emotions in check. Hard to tell if her words carried a genuinely pleasant undertone…or if she was contemplating stabbing him with the fork resting near Isaac’s mug.

She resumed pouring, her back rigid but her tone fluid as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “I didn’t think men who wore flannel every day were afraid of anything.”

He scooted the fork out of reach. “Never said I was.”

“You’re right. You didn’t say much of nothing, did you? Some things never change, I suppose.” Her voice flowed like molasses, but the look in her eyes as she met his gaze full on packed a punch he hadn’t expected.

And just like that, he was eighteen again, sitting on the pier out by the bay and memorizing the curve of her sun-kissed shoulder beneath his arm. The smell of sunscreen and vanilla wafting off her hair, lapping over him like the waves beneath their feet.

Naively believing that summer would last forever.

He held her challenging stare. “And some things do.” Unfortunately, and fortunately, all at once. He watched a hurricane of emotions flicker through her eyes, but he couldn’t have named a single one.

And he refused to look away first.

“Elisa!” Isaac yelped.

She finally broke eye contact, looking down with a gasp. Coffee spilled over the brim of Isaac’s mug and formed a river on the table, cascading toward Noah. He jerked back, but not before a stream of scalding brown liquid struck the leg of his jeans.

Forget Hurricane Anastasia—Elisa would always be the biggest storm he’d ever encountered.

And it looked like his brief respite from the rain was over.