where was he staying.
“Hibiscus Court near the harbor,” he replied, sipping a lukewarm draft and fighting the urge to check out the bar for anyone else he might recognize. Not that he expected Lacey Armstrong to show up in a place like this. He’d come to grill the locals and find out what he could about her, so he forced himself to focus on the women who’d zeroed in on him as soon as he’d arrived.
“You planning to stay awhile?” Grace asked. “That’s a furnished rental, but I know Chuck Mueller wouldn’t let you sign less than a three-month lease.”
“I’m still deciding, but I wanted to keep my options open.” He’d signed that three-month lease, but he was optimistic like that. “And there aren’t a lot of other places to stay around here unless I go to the mainland.”
Grace’s smile widened as she exchanged a look with Gloria. “You just aren’t talking to the right people, hon. I’m the owner of the Fourway Motel.”
“There was no vacancy.”
She lifted an eyebrow and gave him a deliberate once-over. “Then my husband must have been working the front desk, and he’s easily intimidated by big, handsome men.”
He laughed off the compliment. “The Fourway, huh? Interesting name.”
“If you’re in Mimosa Key long enough, you’ll know what a Fourway is.” She gave him a teasing wink. “My cousin, Gloria, and I will teach you.”
“You’re going to scare the life out of him, Grace,” the other woman said, giving a dismissive wave. “The Fourway is the intersection of Center Street and Harbor Drive, the historic site of the first traffic light on the island.” She added a shy smile. “There’s a long history on Mimosa Key, you know. Our mothers are the daughters of the first pastor when the island was founded back in the 1940s.”
“Which explains your names.”
“And theirs,” Gloria said. “My mother is Charity and Grace’s mom is Patience, and they own the Shell Gas Station and Super Mini Mart Convenience Store, also known as the Super Min, located at—”
“The Fourway,” he finished for her.
“You’re catching on,” Grace said as she leaned in close. “There might be a town council, a mayor, and few influential big mouths on this island, but the fact is, we practically run the place.” She trailed a long, white-tipped nail over his knuckles and held his gaze. “So you’d be smart to keep us on your good side if you’re looking for business.” Her finger continued to his bicep. “I assume you’re in construction.”
“Are you?” Gloria asked. “Because Beachside Beauty, where I work, lost a few windows and the guy who was supposed to install them never showed.”
“I don’t do windows. I do full buildings.” At their questioning look he added, “I’m an architect.”
“Whoa.” Grace backed up an inch. “Who’s hiring an architect?”
No one yet. “Some of the places in Barefoot Bay were demolished and need a full rebuild.”
“Like what places?” Grace asked. “It’s mostly wilderness, scrub, and mangroves up there and only a couple of old houses.”
Here was the perfect opening to get some information on Lacey Armstrong. “Maybe not for long,” he told her. “Could be a bed-and-breakfast going up.”
Grace’s jaw dropped and all the friendliness went out of her eyes. “I don’t fucking think so.”
Clay blinked at the unexpected profanity. “Why’s that?”
“Zoning ordinances,” she said, shifting her gaze to her cousin to share silent communication. “Nobody can build a hotel, motel, inn, resort, B and B, nothing. Won’t happen. Better look for work elsewhere, Frank Lloyd Wright.”
Everything in her body language changed; her back stiffened, her nostrils flared, and she downed half a glass of wine in a single gulp. Then she stared at him, all the friendliness gone.
“Who’s building it?” she asked.
As much as he wanted to know more about Lacey, instinct told him to keep her name out of it. “One of the residents up there.”
“Everham? Tomlinson? Who?” Grace asked, her brows knitting as she thought about it. “Surely Lacey Armstrong isn’t going to try to put me—try and build some kind of motel.”
“But why wouldn’t she?”
“I just told you.” Grace moved in to make her point, a whiff of bitter Chardonnay on her breath. “Ordinances. Changing them would require approval from the town council, which is controlled by the mayor.” She angled her head and gave him a smug smile. “Who is controlled by my mother.”
“Really?” Ah, the intricacies of small-town politics.
“Really.” Grace signaled the bartender. “Need my bill, Ronny.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Clay said.
But the woman’s look was cold. “Trying to