Find My Way Home (Harmony Homecomings)

by Michele Summers

  He strained to hear her soft voice as he stirred cream into both coffees.

  Their fingers brushed as he handed her the mug. Shock widened her eyes as she felt the jolt of electric current their touch created.

  Keith settled back against the kitchen cabinets and lifted the mug to his lips. Bertie blew on her hot coffee, sneaking a wary look in his direction. Yep. They’d both have to deal with this insane physical attraction, one way or another. How? He had no fucking idea, especially now that she’d be all over his house 24/7, hanging pictures and fluffing stupid, useless pillows everywhere.

  “You gonna let me do my job?” she asked with visible unease.

  He tipped his mug in her direction in a mock salute. “Game on.”

  ***

  Bertie barely even tasted the strong coffee sliding down her throat. She needed to think, but her mind drew a blank, so distracted by his big, bare chest and his tousled, slept-on hair. When she heard him whistle, before Sweet Tea took off like a rocket, she couldn’t believe it. She didn’t think he could look any better than he had the other day in nothing but a towel, but she was wrong. Way wrong. His pajama pants hung low on his hips and yet he wore them as if they were custom-made formal wear.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Keith splashed more coffee in his mug. The irritation she sensed earlier had vanished from his features. Maybe he would jump on board and not make this a living hell for her. Maybe.

  “As you can see, we need to shore up the outside with new paint and shutters, and replace all the bad boards. I thought we’d stick with the dove-gray color and the teal blue for the shutters.” Bertie sipped her coffee. “I’m using the historical colors original to the house. Aunt Fran—” Keith’s eyebrows rose. “Francesca thought that would be best.”

  Keith yanked the chair around and straddled it. With a trembling hand, Bertie lowered the mug to the table, aware of his intense scrutiny. He was another client, putting his pants on one leg at a time like everybody else. It’s the taking them off that must be spectacular… Stop it!

  “Here’s how it’s going to work,” he said in a brisk tone. “You run everything by me from now on. My aunt is not to be involved. Understood?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “It’s my way or the highway. I’m the client, and you answer to me if you want to finish on time and get your bonus.” He made “bonus” sound like “crack pipe.”

  What did he know? Bertie had her reasons for staying and taking the money and Mr. Surly Athlete with the big, broad chest and sexy, dark stubble didn’t intimidate her. Okay, maybe a teensy-weensy bit, but she’d be damned if she let him see it. She lifted her chin a little.

  “How do you feel about the color red?”

  “I hate it.” He scowled down at her.

  “Good. I hate it too.” Bertie stood and chunks of mulch dropped to the floor from beneath her skirt. “We need to tackle the kitchen, floors, and bedrooms. I have samples and boards to show you, along with my design proposal.” She smoothed her denim skirt with her palm. “In the meantime, I’m short an electrician…” Keith tilted his head up and a smirk played around his sculpted lips. “…you need to remove the sconces on the exterior so the painters can finish,” she said with a toss of her head, flinging mulch as she turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?” he called out with a chuckle in his voice.

  Away from Mr. Drop-Dead Gorgeous before she did something stupid, like push him down on the kitchen table and have her way with him. “Taking Sweet Tea home. Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” he mumbled.

  “I heard that,” Bertie said as she shoved her feet into her Dansko clogs and banged out the screen door.

  ***

  Once inside her car, she shut the door and realized it was time to close another door. Her hand shook as she fished for her cell phone and scrolled through her contacts for the design firm in Atlanta. She’d made her decision, and it was only proper business etiquette to inform them. Sweet Tea nudged her neck from the backseat and gave her a slobbery kiss. Bertie scratched behind his ear and straightened his purple bow. “Just give me a few minutes, buddy, and I’ll get you home.” She put the phone to her ear.

  “Bertie?” Bill Murphy the managing partner said. “It’s good to hear from you. We’re looking forward to your coming down.”

  “Hey there, Bill. Uh, about your offer.” She licked her dry lips. “I’m in the middle of a very big project that won’t be finished for another three months, so er, I’m afraid—”

  “I see. Must be pretty important for you to pass on this offer from one of the premier design firms of the South.” Bill made it sound like she was throwing away a multimillion dollar offer to host a show on HGTV rather than an entry level position as a junior designer.

  Ignoring his sanctimonious tone, she said, “It is. Big enough that I can’t walk away right now. But at the end of the next three months, if there’s still an opportunity…” Her voice trailed off as she gave Sweet Tea another distracted pat on the head.

  “It’s possible, but I can’t make any promises at the moment. We have a pile of résumés from people who are eager to be here.”

  “Certainly. I completely understand.”

  “But your portfolio showed great potential, and with a little guidance and help from our top designers, you’d be gaining a wealth of experience. And I know this was your dream job…”

  Not exactly. This job was her ticket out. As for her dreams, they didn’t necessarily include slaving for other designers no more talented than she.

  Bill continued to blather on about the great reputation of his firm. “…so, why don’t you give us a call in three months and we’ll see if there’s another opening for you. Hmmm?”

  “Sure. Sounds great. I will definitely be in touch. Thank you so much for the offer and for understanding.” As she pressed End on her phone, she bit her lower lip and started counting to one hundred…and fifty thousand. By the time she finished, maybe her three months would be up.

  ***

  Two hours later, Bertie stood on Keith’s porch, armed with designer ammunition worthy of the old Victorian’s grandeur.

  “Honey, I’m home,” she called as she pushed the front door open, wrestling with bulky catalogs, wood samples, and paint chips in her bright orange leather tote. No signs of life except for the workers outside. The sconces had been removed from the front of the house, and her lips curled into a knowing smile. She dumped her tote and handbag on the wood floor in the foyer and then headed back to her car for more samples.

  After unloading her car, she went around back to check on the painters, not expecting to see Mr. Cocky Athlete on a ladder, hammering up new replacement wood. Bertie touched the side of her mouth to check for drool. She wasn’t kidding when she said nothing made her heart pitter-patter more than a man who knew his way around tools—and this one happened to be totally hubbalicious in cargo pants held up with a tool belt. No shirt. Again. How could she expect to get any work done around here when he insisted on parading around half-naked? Where was Hal with the missing front teeth when she needed him? She inhaled a deep breath. Three months and one hundred and fifty big ones. She could do this.

  She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey, Paul Bunyan! You wanna come down for a minute, so I can get your approval?”

  Streaks of sweat trickled down Keith’s bronzed back, seeking refuge inside the top of his pants. She had never wanted to be sweat before in her life…until today.

  Keith glanced at her, put his hammer and nails inside his tool belt, and climbed down the ladder. “What time is it?” he asked as he grabbed his T-shirt off the porch railing and wiped his brow.

  Okay, now, cover up. He hung the shirt around his neck, cocking his dark head to one side. No. Please. Not the sexy athlete poster pose, the one where sweat dripped down the
chest and ripped abs while said athlete wore the cocky, self-assured expression that could launch millions of dollars in sales for hemorrhoid cream. Mouth dry, she tried swallowing. She could do this.

  “Time?” he asked again, pointing to her wrist.

  “Oh”—she checked her bright yellow Michael Kors watch—“almost noon.”

  “Good. I’m starved. I’ll shower. You order lunch.” Keith hopped back on the porch and reached for the back door.

  “But…I have stuff…I wanted—”

  “Over lunch. Give me ten minutes.” He disappeared inside the house.

  “Good grief.” She fanned her overheated face with her hand and trudged back to her car parked in the driveway. She headed to the Dog, knowing she could grab lunch in less time than ordering a pizza. Besides, she needed to make sure Mr. Carmichael, her house-bound neighbor, had a meal too. She hoped she could survive another meal with Mr. Shirtless Stud.

  Thirty minutes later, Bertie came through the front door with two bags of food. She pushed the swinging door to the kitchen with her hip and stopped. Keith glanced up from the beat-up farm table with Bertie’s drawings spread across it. Thank goodness he’d covered his chest in a black, long-sleeve polo. Hair still damp from his shower, he looked squeaky clean and good enough to eat. All of a sudden, the chicken mandarin salad weighing heavy in her hand lost its appeal. Keith appeared much tastier.

  “What? You look stunned,” Bertie said, dumping the bags on the countertop.

  Keith started pushing her drawings to one side to clear a space on the table. “I guess I’m pleasantly amazed.” He indicated with his hand. “Your drawings are pretty good. I like some of your ideas.”

  “Oh? Which ideas?” She placed the containers of food on the table and Keith opened a drawer to grab silverware.

  “I like the kitchen design. It’s modern but still in keeping with the style of the house,” he said, handing her a fork and knife. Bertie’s heart did a cartwheel. He grabbed water bottles from the refrigerator. “What took you so long? I’m starving.”

  “I called in an order at the Dog and then I went to check on my neighbor, Mr. Carmichael. He’s old and sometimes forgets to eat.”

  Keith paused, holding a chip. “Let me see if I’ve got this. First, you walk that poor mongrel, Sweet Tea, who is obviously battling issues over his dumb name, not to mention the stupid purple ribbon. And then you check on a senior citizen to make sure he’s eating? And I’m assuming you also help out at the Dog. With all these extra jobs, when do you find time to design?”

  Bertie pushed the mandarin oranges around with her fork. She didn’t think it’d be smart to mention that she watered plants, shopped for food, and volunteered at Dwelling Place too. She knew Keith wouldn’t understand her desire or need to feel useful. Ever since the death of her parents, Bertie had filled the void in her life by helping others. Not because she dreamed of sainthood, but because she hated that empty, lonely feeling that consumed her and kept her up at night. That unsettled feeling that she didn’t really belong anymore. After her mom’s death, Bertie had filled her role by taking over all the cooking and cleaning. She kept hoping her dad would snap out of his depression if she showed him that nothing had changed. She worked so they could still remain intact as a family. Once her dad died several years later, Bertie had gotten used to juggling jobs to bring in extra money and to keep her mind occupied. She had a real knack for multitasking.

  “Um…I find the time. My office is in my home and I…uh…work late.”

  Keith studied her hard for a full minute. “This is a big job with a small window of time. I expect a hundred percent on your part.”

  Bertie pasted what she hoped appeared a confident smile on her face. “Have no fear. I’m a master multitasker, and Gary and I will make sure—”

  “There’s a lot of money riding on this job. Are you willing to risk losing it because you have to stop and walk Sweet Tea or mow someone’s lawn?”

  “Let me assure you, Mr. Morgan. I will give your job top priority and you will get the best service possible,” she replied in a prim, professional voice.

  Keith stabbed a piece of Bertie’s chicken with his fork, shoving the entire piece in his mouth, smiling while he chewed. Once he swallowed, he said, “As long as they’re your services and not Gary’s.” He winked and her stomach twisted into a delectable knot. “I still haven’t gotten over the fact that you thought I was gay. I’m going to need years of therapy.”

  “Oh, I’m sure one session will suffice. Your monster ego seems pretty healthy to me.”

  He laughed—a deep, confident laugh that had Bertie’s toes curling inside her clogs.

  “Let’s get back to your services. Your professional services,” he added when Bertie narrowed her eyes at him. “Gutting the kitchen is good, and I want to add a master bath.”

  Bertie stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth. “Really?” Definitely doable, and it would really enhance the house, but geez, she only had three months. “What else?”

  “We need to review the furniture plan and incorporate my own pieces.” She raised her eyebrows. “Yeah, hard to believe I own more than a mattress on the floor,” he smirked. “I haven’t had the rest trucked up yet.”

  Bertie sipped the cool water from the bottle. “I’m going to need pictures and dimensions. I can’t—”

  “All under control. My guy in Miami is putting all that together for you.”

  “What about the upstairs? I need to get started on your daughter’s room—”

  “I want her to have the connecting rooms. One as her bedroom, the other as her playroom/TV room…whatever. Rip up the carpets and refinish the wood floors.” Keith paused, making a dent in his roast beef sandwich. “Start fresh with Maddie. New furniture, fabrics, the works.”

  A softness came over him as he spoke about his daughter. A look of peace laced with a little sadness shifted across his features. Bertie wondered if he missed his wife. If he still loved her. If he’d ever love again. Stop it. Do not go there. Just because he kissed like a god didn’t make him worthy of dating. Dating? What a joke. Bertie’s naughty alter ego wanted more than a date. She wanted to hula in her slinkiest lingerie and get down with his fine bootay.

  Keith wiped his hands on the paper napkin. “I want her room to be special. I want her to call this home.”

  “I would love to meet her and find out what she really likes,” she said, realizing too late she sounded wistful.

  Keith sat back, pushing his container away, and gave her a small, crooked smile. Heat crept up her chest and settled on her cheeks.

  “Yeah? I’ll see what I can do.” His voice held a sexy, raspy quality.

  “Did you check the color key? I really think the combination of blues and browns adds a—”

  Keith jumped up, gathering containers off the table. “I really don’t care as long as it’s not pink and green or some other god-awful combination. No crazy, psychedelic patterns. This isn’t the Dog.”

  “Not even for Maddie?” she challenged, tossing paper napkins in the garbage. She turned and Keith stood mere inches in front of her. Only a sliver of air separated her lacy tunic from his black polo shirt. His musky, outdoorsy scent filled her head.

  “Maybe,” he said slowly. “How good are your skills of persuasion?” Keith brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, sending shivers down her spine.

  Bertie cleared her throat and her head at the same time. “Well, I’ve made a few selections…and…the drawings…” Her voice sounded breathy. Yikes.

  Keith moved back, a sexy smile played around his lips. “I’ve signed your proposal with a few revisions, and there’s a check on the counter for your retainer.” He grabbed a set of keys from a bowl on the counter and turned to leave.

  “Hey…we’re not done here. You need to make some final decisions.” He kept moving toward the door. “I hope y
ou like mauve. I plan to bathe your entire bedroom in it,” she said, following behind him.

  Bertie let out a squeal as Keith turned suddenly and backed her against the bare dining room wall. He leaned forward, planting his hands on the wall beside her head.

  “If I see any mauve anywhere in my house…including Maddie’s suite, I can assure you, you will not like the consequences.” He bared his teeth in a wicked grin.

  Okay. Time to show him that he really didn’t intimidate her—or at least, time to pretend he didn’t. She plastered a bored look on her face. “I know plenty of men who like the color mauve.”

  Keith’s hips pressed into her stomach and Bertie started from the shock. Christ on a cracker. He was hard…again.

  “Do I need to prove to you that I’m not gay, Ms. Anderson?” he rumbled close to her ear, making her light-headed.

  “N-n-no. I’m good,” she said, as she pushed at the brick wall that made up his chest. Keith didn’t budge. His gaze lowered to her mouth and remained for several long moments. He shook his head as if breaking a spell and dropped his arms.

  “Another time, perhaps?” he abruptly turned to leave.

  Why not now? Oh, shut up. “I need your approval…where’re you going?” Bertie called to his disappearing back.

  “Bride hunting. Where else?”

  Chapter 6

  Inside the coffee shop at the Barnes & Noble in Raleigh, Keith flipped through a book on the economic crisis of the twenty-first century. He’d read the first chapter at least two times, not because he didn’t understand the theories, but because he couldn’t stop thinking about Bertie. Her luscious body and her big eyes that flared whenever he got near her, or touched her—or almost kissed her. Fuck. He needed to stay away from her, not think of ways to be inside her. He had a job to do. He needed to find a wife. No. Correction: a suitable mother for Maddie who would also happen to be married to him. Someone plain, simple, and sweet. Someone who liked to clean, bake cookies, and watch Disney movies with his daughter. Someone calm who wore Keds tennis shoes and cardigan sweaters buttoned all the way up with a strand of pearls around her neck and a black velvet headband in her hair. Not someone who looked like she could salsa all night in spandex and stilettos. Flashes of his late wife, Adriana, laughing and swirling around with a mojito in her hand burned inside his head. Not that again. No fucking way.