“Gross. I could do without the visuals.” She scowled up at her brother’s laughing eyes. “Was he a man ho while married?” That would make him pretty close to pond scum in Bertie’s book. Mr. Slimeball sounded more and more like a spoiled professional athlete.
He chuckled again. “Couldn’t say. Why don’t you open with that at your meeting?” Cal ruffled her hair like he’d done since the day he’d learned to walk, before sauntering over to the bar to help serve the lunch crowd.
She smoothed her thick hair back in place, casting an irritated look in his direction. As she sipped her Mason jar of iced tea, she looked out over the cramped dining area at the regulars in their usual seats, enjoying the special of the day. Bertie had eaten the turkey burger without the bun and the salad with the dressing on the side. She didn’t dare grab an order of the homemade fries, knowing she could never stop with just one.
Three young gals she recognized from the law firm downtown sat at the bar, flirting with Cal, a common occurrence any day of the week. Cal, one of the few good-looking, eligible bachelors left in Harmony, did not lack for female companionship. His quick wit, movie star hair, and athletic frame helped his cause, of course.
Miss Sue Percy waved Bertie over. She sat in the middle of the bar with Shirley Douglas. Both women had been old friends of her mother and Bertie had known them her whole life. They used to cluck after her as if she was their own little chick. Still did.
She snapped her laptop shut and headed over to greet the ladies at their favorite table, where they could oversee the entire restaurant.
“You’re looking real nice today, Bertie,” Miss Sue chirped.
Bertie smiled and patted her wrinkled hand. “Thanks.”
“Scott is coming into town this weekend, Bertha. I’m sure he will want to see you. I hope you’ll be free,” Shirley Douglas stated in her firm schoolteacher voice. Bertie barely refrained from cringing. First of all, Mrs. Douglas always called her by her given name, the name that had been the brunt of so many jokes growing up and was only made worse when coupled with her middle name, Mavis. Bertha Mavis, after both her grandmothers.
She loved her parents, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out why they would name their only daughter the two worst names in the English language. Thankfully, Cal shortened it to Bertie as a toddler. But ever since she’d stepped into Mrs. Douglas’s first-grade class, she’d been Bertha.
Of course Shirley would bring up Scott, her only son and Bertie’s first boyfriend…if you could call sharing lunch and holding hands near the back fence at Liza Palmer’s tenth birthday party a sizzling romance. Because that was the last time she remembered liking Scott in that way. For some reason, Scott never got the memo. He’d been actively pursuing her ever since.
She kept her smile from faltering. “All righty then. We’ll have to check our schedules. Uh, tell Scott I’ll be in touch.” Moving away suddenly looked better and better.
***
“Anyone home?” Bertie called out. The lead-glass front door sat ajar and she pushed it farther open. It was three o’clock on the dot.
She had sat in her battered but serviceable blue Honda CR-V across the street for a good ten minutes, trying to decide if she was going to keep this appointment. Her insatiable curiosity won, beating down her weak practical side. The heavy door creaked as it moved. Yep, only curiosity. Because she didn’t want this job. Really. She didn’t. She didn’t want to work for a rich, ex-professional tennis player who probably sported an attitude the size of the Pacific Ocean and an ego to match.
She stepped into the large foyer of the old home.
“Hello?” Her voice echoed in the empty grand house. Finding a front door unlocked in Harmony wasn’t unusual. Doors and gates were left unlocked all the time. She did have an appointment, but the house appeared deserted.
Her eyes wandered over the warm plaster walls. Her toes curled inside her pumps as she took in the old, wide-plank oak floors, which gleamed in the glow of the afternoon light filtering in from the dining room windows. She stepped into the glorious parlor to her left and froze as she spied the beautifully carved wood mantel that was clearly original to the house. Closing her eyes, she pictured ladies in ruffled, starched blouses, sipping tea on a blue velvet Victorian sofa. The scent of beeswax and vintage textiles hung in the air.
Bertie forgot all about her meeting and poked around for the small spiral notebook she’d shoved in her handbag. She went from room to room, snapping shots with her phone, noting the original woodwork and light fixtures, and making small sketches. She became so engrossed in her space planning that she forgot the time…and the fact that she might be trespassing an itty-bitty bit.
A screen door slammed, and her head shot up from the wood floor pattern she’d been copying. For the first time, she actually saw her surroundings. She stood in the middle of the one room that looked occupied throughout the empty house. The king-sized mattress on the floor with the rumpled sheets was a dead giveaway.
Oh my gawd.
Panicked, Bertie dove for the first door to her right, in the nick of time—a closet jammed with packing boxes and men’s clothes hanging in a disorderly fashion. She crouched low behind a cardboard box stuffed with books seconds before she heard Keith come through his bedroom door.
“…yeah, it’s a regular Mayberry, complete with an honest-to-God barber shop on Main Street,” Keith said in a low voice.
She tried not to gasp for air as extreme fear and ultimate embarrassment crept its way up from the tips of her toes to her constricted lungs. The smell of cedar and old books tickled her nose. She could hear him on his cell loud and clear as he moved about the room.
“The house is actually great, but my aunt is trying to pull a fast one with this interior decorator.”
Interior designer, you dummy. She had a degree and a license to practice. Decorator implied a bored housewife who only dabbled.
“…I know…my aunt led me to believe it was a guy. Yeah, which I could’ve handled no problem. Uh-huh. She wants me to work with Betty Boop.”
Excuse me? I am not Betty Boop.
His voiced died away as she strained to hear more. He must’ve stepped into another room. She needed to get out of this closet and out the front door without being discovered by Mr. Insensitive. As she attempted to uncurl her body and stand, his voice rang out.
“…hair like Jessica Rabbit, but she’s short and curvy like Betty Boop, with round, green eyes and exaggerated, curly eyelashes.”
Make up your mind. Betty Boop or Jessica Rabbit? There was a huge difference. And for the record, her eyelashes were not exaggerated. Sounds of him rifling through a box of clothes reached her ears. Her knees burned from crouching so low, and she stifled a yelp as her hair caught on a wire hanger.
“Yeah. The town is quaint and quiet. The perfect place for me to get away and settle down. But I don’t need my aunt riding my ass and I certainly don’t need her hiring my interior decorator from the cast of Looney Tunes characters that live here.”
Cartoon characters? The nerve. And who the hell was his aunt? Bertie wanted nothing more than to set Keith Morgan straight on a few things, but then she remembered she was hiding out in his closet next to his assortment of designer shoes, basically trespassing or breaking and entering—both crimes. Not good.
“Betty Boop is showing up any minute…” His voice became muffled again. Bertie edged closer to the door in her stooped position, straining to see through the slight crack to determine where Keith went. She heard water from a tap, which meant he was probably in the bathroom. She fished out her cell and punched in Gary’s number.
“Hey. I need your help.”
“Bertie? Why are you whispering?” Gary asked.
“Because I’m hiding in Keith Morgan’s closet and I need you to get me out.”
“I’m sorry, but it sounded like you said you we
re hiding in Keith Morgan’s closet.”
“I did. Don’t start. Just get me out of here. And don’t tell Cal. I’ll never hear the end of it,” she whispered feverishly. She could’ve sworn she heard Gary mumble, “this time you deserve it,” but she couldn’t be certain and she didn’t have time to argue.
“We don’t have much time. Come to his house and knock real loud on the front door while I sneak out the back. When he answers, tell him I’m running late, but I’m on my way.”
“This is nuts even for you. You know this is a really bad idea.”
“I’m begging you. You have to help me. I can’t be caught hiding in a closet. He already thinks we live in Mayberry. He’ll probably have me arrested and…I’ll get thrown in jail. And even worse…I’ll never get out of Harmony,” she wailed in a quiet voice.
“You’re talking crazy. Calm down. I’m on it. But I want a raise and—”
“Shhh.” She heard Keith’s shower go on. “Wait…” She listened as the water ran. “I think he’s taking a shower so I can sneak—” Her words lodged in her throat as the closet door swung open and she looked up at a half-naked, marble-sculpted Greek god standing with fists on his hips, looking a lot like an enraged Keith Morgan.
“Never mind,” she said in a small voice as she stared up at his granite-like jaw. The icy blast of his gaze froze her to the spot. “Busted. Uh…if you don’t hear back from me in exactly fifteen minutes, call the police. And be sure to check the freezer for cut-up body parts…mainly mine.” She punched her cell off, her eyes never leaving his fierce face.
“What do we have here? Barney calling Goober for backup?” he said in a chilling tone.
“Uh, okay, here’s the thing…” She scrambled to stand and in her haste tripped over a pair of black Gucci loafers. She felt herself falling forward, right into Keith Morgan’s glorious chest of sculpted steel.
With quick reflexes, he grabbed her by the hips before she managed to plow him over. All good. Until she realized her breasts were smashed against his bare chest. Oh my! He smelled musky and sweaty…a tantalizing combination. She inhaled his scent deeply. Overcome by the surrounding hotness of Mr. Perfect-Please-Be-Mine, Bertie wobbled on her four-inch heels and appeared to be molding herself to his hard, warm body. Nothing could be further from the truth. Okay, well, maybe it was a little bitty close to the truth.
Whatever you do, don’t look down.
She glued her gaze to the dark stubble covering his stern jaw, fearing that if she did look down she’d see his low-slung towel, hanging even lower and revealing something pretty darn spectacular, if what she felt pressed against her stomach was any indication.
Something she hadn’t seen in a very long time. Or felt.
Something she didn’t need to see now. Or feel. Because she could almost guarantee that she’d gawk and then do something really stupid, like beg him to take her.
***
Keith witnessed Bertie’s expressions go from fear to shock to sexual awareness in a matter of seconds, even though she never lowered her sea-green eyes past his chin. He wasn’t completely sure, but he could’ve sworn there was an ongoing conversation taking place inside her head. Her generous, plump breasts were pressed up against his chest, and her soft, round hips were burning holes in his hands. He wondered if it would feel as nice if he slid his hands from around her hips to her curvaceous ass. Okay, now I’m acting nuts.
Bertie’s big eyes went from the color of the sea to dark forest green as they grew wider and more dilated. Then it hit him—gardenias. He’d smelled gardenias when he’d stepped into his bedroom earlier and thought it must’ve been a blooming bush outside or something. But no, that would be too simple. Betty Boop smelled like gardenias and it was kind of making him a little crazy.
Shit. This was bad, real bad. So bad it felt fucking great. Keith’s knees almost buckled as he felt Bertie take an unsteady breath, making her gorgeous full breasts expand, pulling her closer. Her delectable lips parted and he didn’t think. He just acted, swooping down for a crushing kiss before she could start talking crazy and break the spell.
***
Bertie froze like a statue, Keith’s lips rocking over hers in a kiss so mind-blowing that he literally took her breath away. She had no idea how long she leaned into him, allowing him to kiss her, before she realized she wasn’t participating and was missing some really good stuff. Since she didn’t want Mr. Perfect to think he was kissing a total fool, she ran her hands up his strong, defined arms and locked them around his neck as she stood on tiptoes. Not wanting to miss out on probably the best kiss she’d ever experienced, her tongue tangled with his until the kiss became hotter and deeper and more drugging.
Suddenly his large hands were everywhere. One cupped the back of her head, tilting it for better access; the other massaged her bottom until she heard a deep, throaty moan. It took a few seconds to realize it came from her. She couldn’t remember the last time a kiss elicited any kind of emotion from her, much less a deep-throated moan. A thunderbolt shot clear to the soles of her feet. She pressed even closer and gave in to the sensations pouring through her.
Keith jerked back, dropping his hands and ending the best kiss in the whole universe. “Goddammit!” he growled as he retied the loose towel around his lean hips. Bertie clutched her throat with a shaky hand.
What had she done? She needed to dig her way out of this steaming heap of humiliation. She was a professional designer, not a bimbo who hid out in hunky sports celebrities’ closets like a stalker.
“Uh, okay, here’s the thing…your door was open and I wandered in and then I got so absorbed in the bones of the house that—”
“Enough.” Keith stepped even further back, as if Bertie had leprosy, and indicated with a sweep of his arm that she should precede him out of the bedroom. Now. Bertie moved through the door on shaky legs.
“But, I need to ex—”
“Don’t elaborate any further. Look, Ms. Anderson, I’m sure you’re a capable decorator—”
“Designer,” Bertie interrupted as her heels clicked down the hall, making a hollow sound in the vacant house.
“Whatever. This isn’t going to work out,” Keith said behind her in a strained voice. “Let’s forget the whole thing.”
She stopped in the grand foyer, blocking the door while Keith reached around, careful not to touch her as he yanked on the doorknob. “Okay, but the thing is—” Bertie attempted to explain again, her face flushed from embarrassment.
“Thank you for your time, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…you know…kiss you. It was a mistake.” Keith held the door open for Bertie, looking not at her but at some fascinating spot over her head, standing as if he were Prince Charles and not a half-naked stud who’d been feasting on her lips only minutes ago.
“Right. A mistake. Well, good luck.” Bertie bolted from the house and down the porch steps as fast as her high heels could carry her. What a hot mess, emphasis on hot. She couldn’t reach her car fast enough. The minute she slid into her seat, she banged her forehead against the steering wheel. “Fudge. What did I just do?”
She was dazed and disoriented, not from beating her brains out, but from sharing a life-altering kiss with a guy she barely knew. She lifted her head and with a shaky hand shoved the key in the ignition. Her reaction to Keith Morgan was appalling, especially since he clearly couldn’t stand the sight of her and was probably disinfecting with Listerine at this very moment to remove the taste of her from his mouth.
“I am so leaving in three weeks,” Bertie said out loud as she started her car and peeled away from the curb. “A herd of rampaging bulls couldn’t make me stay.”
***
“Shit!”
Keith watched Bertie accelerate down the street like she’d reentered the Indy 500 from a pit stop. He felt the same way. He needed to get out of here, out of this town. And stay out. He couldn�
�t do this. Stomping back to his bedroom, he retrieved his cell phone from the bed. He almost called his former coach and best friend back, whom he’d been speaking with earlier, but instead punched another number and lifted the phone to his ear, rooted to the spot where he’d been kissing Bertie Anderson like a sailor on shore leave.
His insides got prickly and hot, and his heavy groin throbbed, helpless against the onslaught of uninvited thoughts—thoughts of Bertie’s lips pressed against his. He now knew she tasted a little like cinnamon and a lot like desire. He knew the texture of her thick, mahogany hair as it curled around his fingers. And the smell of gardenias still hung in the air.
No struggling or pushing him away. Her active participation had made lust burn low in his gut. He’d barely stopped before palming her perfect breasts. Thank God he remembered why he was really here.
“Hello?” Francesca Balogh, his aunt, spoke, her voice pouring through the line.
Keith unclenched his back teeth. “We need to talk. What time are you free?”
“Cocktails are always at six. Please be on time.”
“Count on it.” He hit the off button, tossed his phone on the unmade mattress, and headed for the shower.
***
Keith stood in Aunt Francesca’s buttery yellow living room, staring at a photo in a silver frame of his aunt and his mom posing on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence. The picture had been taken about two years ago, when Aunt Francesca traveled to Italy to visit her sister. Keith’s mom had lived abroad for the last twenty years, winning the prize of absentee parent year after year.
Keith moved to the antique bar supplied with ice, crystal high balls, and a brand-new bottle of Mount Gay. His favorite. The idea of downing the entire bottle was tempting. Instead, he poured himself a plain ginger ale and took a healthy gulp, hoping to ease the tension building inside his gut and working its way up to his throat.
Keith had packed up his entire life in Miami and moved to Harmony a week ago, and the culture shock couldn’t have been any stronger if he had moved to a village of huts in Zimbabwe. But he hadn’t done this for himself. He’d done it for his daughter, Maddie. And as Aunt Francesca had pounded into his foggy, alcohol-soaked head, she would not allow him to fuck up Maddie’s life. Well, she didn’t drop the f-bomb, but Keith got the message all the same.
Find My Way Home (Harmony Homecomings) Page 3
