Chapter 3 The Contractor Who Says No

Lina Pov

"Rowan Vale doesn't take on pet projects, Lina," June warned me as we stood outside her shop. "He takes real jobs. And he picks his clients like he's adopting a child."

"I don't need him to adopt me," I said, slinging my canvas tote over my shoulder. "I need him to patch a ceiling and fix dry rot."

"Go down to the old timber yard past the cannery," June said with a wry grin. "Wear sturdy shoes. And don't give him your corporate smile. He hates that."

The walk down to the harbor was steep and windy. The cannery district felt separate from the pastel storefronts on Main Street. Here, giant stacks of rough-hewn cedar dried under tin sheds, and the sharp scent of pitch and pine shavings overpowered the salty ocean spray.

Vale Woodworks sat at the very end of the gravel road. The shop was an old boat barn with peeling green paint, double carriage doors thrown wide open, and sunlight streaming through tall, dusty windows.

Inside, a table saw hummed to a halt.

The silence that followed was thick with the smell of warm resin and freshly planed oak. A small radio on a distant workbench was tuned to a classic rock station, playing at barely a murmur. Every tool on the pegboard walls was hung with surgical precision. Chare cutters, chisels, steel squares—nothing out of place.

A man stood over a long workbench in the center of the shop, his back to me.

He wore a dark blue work shirt with the sleeves pushed up past his forearms, faded canvas pants covered in fine wood dust, and heavy leather boots. He held a brass marking gauge in one hand, running it down the edge of a thick plank of walnut.

"Shop's closed to walk-ins on Tuesdays," he said without looking up.

His voice was deep, rough around the edges, and entirely unhurried.

"I'm not looking for custom furniture," I said, stepping across the threshold onto the wood-dusted concrete.

Rowan Vale set the gauge down. He wiped off his hands with a clean rag from his back pocket and turned around slowly.

He was tall, broad in the chest and shoulders, with dark hair cut short and practical. He had a strong jaw shadowed with two days of dark stubble, and cool, amber-brown eyes that seemed to take me in completely in two seconds flat. He looked at my city sneakers, my tidy sweater, and the clean notebook under my arm, then right back up to my face.

"Lina Hart," he said. It wasn't a question.

"You know who I am," I said, offering a polite, practiced hand.

He didn't take it. He just folded his arms over his chest. "I know Clara's granddaughter when I see her. What do you need?"

I dropped my hand back to my side, refusing to feel embarrassed. "I need a licensed general contractor immediately. Seabreeze Cottage Inn has code violations, water damage, and a ticking clock. Sixty days to get it ready for the seasonal opening."

"No," Rowan said.

The word was so quick, flat, and absolute that I just stood there for a beat, waiting for the rest of his sentence. It didn't come.

"Just 'no'?" I asked. "You haven't even seen the scope of work. I have a detailed inventory of the primary issues right here." I tapped my notebook. "I can pay standard commercial rates."

"I don't need commercial rates," Rowan replied, picking up a block of sandpaper and a scrap of walnut. "My schedule is full through autumn."

"June said you just finished the boathouse rebuild and have an open slot before the marina contract starts next month."

Rowan's eyes narrowed just a fraction, a spark of dry humor flickering in his expression before disappearing. "June talks too much."

"June wants the inn to survive. This town needs that inn." I stepped closer, leaning into my best professional cadence, the voice that used to convince high-end hotel managers to rearrange ballroom bookings at two in the morning. "Look, Mr. Vale. I understand this is short notice. But I am organized, I am on site full-time, and I won't get in your way. I just need your license and your hands to clear the structural violations so the town inspector signs off."

Rowan set the sandpaper down on the wood with a quiet, solid click. He leaned his hips against the heavy bench, pinning me with a steady gaze that completely ignored my polished pitch.

"You're wasting your breath, Miss Hart," he said quietly.

"Why? Because I'm from the city? Because you think I'll leave after the summer?"

"Because your name is Hart," Rowan said, his voice dropping an octave, deadpan and steady. "And I don't work for your family. Ever."

The air between us went still.

I stared at him, my mind spinning through every family story I knew. Grandma Clara was universally loved. Aunt Mara was gentle to a fault. My parents had lived in Seattle since I was four years old.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I demanded. "What did my family do to you?"

"Ask your aunt," Rowan said simply. He turned his back to me again, picked up his brass marking gauge, and leaned over his plank. "Close the door on your way out. The salt fog ruins the finish."

My temper flared hot in my chest. I had spent four years taking calm, polite control of impossible situations, but this man made me want to kick a pile of sawdust.

"Fine," I said, spinning on my heel. "I'll find someone else."

"Good luck," he murmured to the wood. "Nobody else in this county has the coastal certification to sign off on Clara's timber frames before July."

I marched out into the cold harbor wind, my hands clenched inside my coat pockets. The salt spray stung my cheeks.

I took the long path up the bluff, fuming every step of the way. When I reached the inn's front gate, I stopped short.

There was a white envelope taped over the orange violation sign on the front door.

I ripped it open with shaking fingers. Inside was an official memo on Seabreeze Bay municipal letterhead. The scheduled inspection date wasn't sixty days out anymore. Due to a "revised priority review requested by the district planning board," the date had been moved up.

The inspector was arriving in thirty days.

Elliot Crane's smooth face flashed in my mind. He wasn't just waiting for me to fail; he was speeding up the clock.

I looked down at the paper, then back down the road toward the harbor where Rowan Vale was working alone in his quiet shop.

He didn't want to work for a Hart.

Too bad. He was the only one who could keep the roof from caving in on my head, and I wasn't leaving this town without a fight.