by Sahara Kelly
Working Stiffs - Book Two
Open House
Sahara Kelly
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Sahara Kelly
Cover Art Copyright 2012, S.L. Carpenter for P & N Graphics, LLC
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Author’s Note
The second in a series of novellas based around hard-workin’ folks and their amorous adventures, this story was inspired by my own recent experiences in the real estate milieu. Thankfully, my steadfast hubby steered us both through the tricky shoals of options, floor plans, permits, mortgages, homeowner association bylaws and other assorted realty catchphrases. Also wine-cooler cabinet thingies. Sigh.
This tale is fiction, of course. But offered with a warm smile of gratitude to everyone who helped make my modest home-buying adventure so pleasant. If only you would come and help pack the boxes as well…
As always, a big thank-you hug goes out to my writing partner and best friend, S.L. Carpenter, who turns our idle chatter into magical ideas like Working Stiffs. His vision for our stories and his creative cover art concepts - well, none of these tales would have emerged without his whimsically inventive brain. Go read his books - not just the ones in this series, but the rest of them as well. You won’t regret it.
*~*~*~*
Last weekend ~ Saturday afternoon
“I’ve sacked Rome.”
Jeff McAdams looked up from his blueprints. “Isn’t that rather grandiose for a Saturday morning? It took Hannibal weeks.”
“What?” The older man blinked. “Oh. Ha ha.” He rolled his eyes as he grasped the historical reference. “No, I mean I’ve sacked Rome and Associates. They aren’t our design team as of yesterday. I’m so damn sick of their fol-de-rols. Couldn’t stand it anymore.”
“Dad.” Jeff sighed.
“I know, I know.” McAdams Senior folded his arms and thrust out his chin. “But I didn’t like ‘em. Not from the get-go. All their fancy wine cabinets and bathroom crap nobody ever used.”
“Some people drink wine.”
“Then they can put it in the fridge like the rest of us. We can give ‘em a couple more cubic feet if we need to, can’t we?”
Looking back down at the papers spread across the gleaming dining table, Jeff considered his next words carefully. He loved his father, and liked him as well, so anything containing inferences that might be misconstrued as accusing his parent of being an interfering pain in the ass wouldn’t work.
“You’re an interfering pain in the ass, you know that, don’t you?”
So much for filial affection.
“Yep. That’s my job in life these days. Your mother says I’m very good at it, too.”
Jeff grinned. “I bet she does.”
“Seriously, son.” John McAdams’ lined face sobered. “We need a better designer. Someone who can tap into what every buyer wants and needs, without targeting these overpaid upper crust singles, who are in and out of towns like rats anyway.”
“Ouch.” Jeff ran a hand through his hair. “Since I could be easily classed as sort of an upper crust and overpaid single, that’s a bit hard on my generation, Dad.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No, I suppose not.” He thought about his father’s words. “It’s true that our buyers tend to stay less than five years and then sublet.”
“And these developments we’re building become less like homes and more like apartment complexes. Which isn’t what we set out to create, Jeff.”
“I know.”
And he did. The sad thing was that his father was right. With the unstable economy and companies alternately expanding or folding, uncertainty ruled the real estate market. Buyers who had a mortgage would hold on to it, but often have to relocate, meaning they’d rent out their property.
There was nothing Jeff could do about the state of the country. He didn’t want to write no-sublet clauses into any purchase agreement, since that would definitely cut into their bottom line.
He straightened and flexed his shoulders with a groan. “Okay. Rome is gone. Any suggestions on replacements?”
“Paris?”
Jeff lifted an eyebrow.
A gusty sigh and dramatic sigh ensued. “Made an appointment with a new group. Just set up shop out in Greenfield county. Salvucchi, Inc.”
“Never heard of them.”
“That’s because they’re new, son. Stay with me here.” His dad snapped his fingers at Jeff, making him laugh.
“Sorry. Salvucchi Inc. You sure I’m not going to have to leave the gun and take the cannoli?”
“It’s a meeting, not a hit. If they want to take you for a ride though, say no.”
Both men shared a love of the classic gangster movies, and Jeff knew his father would easily catch this particular reference. Which he had, with great enjoyment.
“When?”
“Later today, as a matter of fact. They’re new around here, but established out west. Came highly recommended.” McAdams Senior looked at his watch. “Shit. I have to go. Your mother is expecting me to take her someplace this afternoon.” He turned and headed for the door. “Charlie will be back Monday. Then you can leave all this sales stuff behind and get back to designing.”
“Yeah. Can’t come too soon. I’m not cut out to hawk the product. Just create it.” He walked to the top of the staircase and watched the older man head down to the first floor foyer.
“Remember.” The front door alarm pinged as Jeff’s father opened it. “Salvucchi. Around four or so, I think.”
“Got it. Thanks, Dad.”
Alone once more, Jeff strolled through the townhouse, enjoying the quiet ambience of empty rooms.
It was the ‘model’ home, the showplace, decorated to the most tasteful limits by a firm that now, thanks to his father, no longer worked for J and J Development Group.
He looked at the stuff scattered here and there; decorative pieces - a vase with one silk orchid, an odd plate, a grouping of glass fruit in an improbably blue bowl. The latter reflected the late afternoon sun as it thrust its way past the lighter blue draperies and onto the table behind the couch.
It was, he realized, about the only time he’d ever actually seen one of those tables in a living room rather than a furniture showroom. Nobody he knew had a couch with a table behind it. Most of ‘em had a couch with a coffee table in front of it you could put your feet on while watching the game.
Perhaps his dad was right. This place was fine for meetings, possibly a sedate book club or two, and perhaps an elderly widow knitting peacefully in the fall by the gas fireplace.
He didn’t really see kids scampering around, or newlyweds frantically hurrying out the door to their respective jobs. He didn’t see dogs lying anywhere or cats curled up on that overstuffed white chair.
White? Sheesh. His mom’s cat would have that covered in ginger fur before she could yell “don’t you claw that cushion, Nixon.”
He smiled at the thought as he walked back through the open space to the dining area and his blueprints. Such was his mother’s radical support of the Democratic party, she’d named her obstreperous kitten Nixon so she could yell at him with complete political impunity.
The cat had to be pushing fifteen years old now. He was, in all likelihood, deaf as well. But he was much loved and Jeff couldn’t see his fat feline butt waddling through a place so…so…fucking perfect.
That might be the problem. From garage and family space on the ground floor to the extra bedroom-slash-office on the third, everything was just freaking perfect.
It needed…humanizing.
Hmm. He considered the options as his gaze wandered around the kitchen.
It needed some mess.
At that moment, the alarm on the front door pinged. It was probably another set of interested buyers, or at least people who wanted a break from the late summer heat and humidity. They’d find it here, since Jeff’s design incorporated the latest technology in cooling systems and he was damned proud of the efficiency ratings all the other ecologically smart energy choices were starting to produce.
However, buyer or cold-air hunter notwithstanding, it was certainly people he’d have to meet, greet and schmooze. None of which he particularly enjoyed. He cursed his top salesman for going on vacation and followed that up with a mumbled imprecation aimed at his father for guilting him into covering the gap.
He steeled himself to look welcoming at the table, knowing the newcomers would be prowling the first floor right about now and then would follow the oak staircase to the main living area where he’d say hello and begin the ‘let me tell you about this wonderful place and why you should think about buying it’ spiel. It was a routine process he’d repeated more than a few times that day.
But anything routine about this visitor flew out the window when she walked quietly up the stairs and paused at the top, looking around. One hand rested on the newel post and the other gripped a large leather folder she carried tucked beneath her arm.
When she finally saw Jeff her lips parted, and he swore he could hear her sharp gasp. That was a millisecond before he made one of his own.
“Gaby.” The word escaped on a breath.
“Jeff?” She blinked at him.
Holy fucking crap. There she was. In the flesh. In the very luscious flesh. Gabriella Rossini.
The one that got away.
*~*~*~*
She hated the heat and the humidity, but was learning to adapt. She disliked the structured corporate environment but again, was managing to adjust. The last three months had been hot, sticky and professionally challenging, but she’d coped, and built the business - slowly but steadily. She felt she’d accomplished what she’d set out to do when opening a new branch of the company in a new location.
But in this one tiny slice of time, this single miniscule eon of stillness, all her confidence, her control, her professionalism - everything was ripped away from her as she met the dark gaze of the man standing by the dining room table.
And recognized him.
“Jesus. Jeff McAdams.” She gulped air down past an odd obstruction in her throat that was making her hoarse. “It is you.”
“Gaby Rossini.” He was smiling now, the friendly business-face replacing the stunned surprise that they’d shared for a second or two. “It’s been years. You’re looking wonderful.”
The hand was out, the shake formal and proper. Yet the warmth of his palm burned hers, just as the heat in his eyes seared through her to her toenails. He’d always had that power, she remembered.
On the memory she smiled, and he spoke. “God, you’re still looking at me like that.”
She blinked. “Like what?”
He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. “No, that’s how we got into trouble last time.”
She backed up, increasing the distance between them, wondering if the emotional tornado that had exploded in the intervening space was real or just in her imagination. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were one of the J’s in J and J Development. If this is awkward or a problem…”
“No. Not at all.” He shook his head. “How’ve you been?”
She stilled. “Seriously? Eight years and all I get is a how’ve you been?”
“Eight years? Wow. I had no idea.”
Gaby clenched her teeth in a private moment of sheer fury. Then she let it go. Obviously things had changed. Her brief, incandescent flare of what could best be described as unadulterated lust was unreciprocated. Fine. Whatever.
“Something like that. Time does move on.” She dragged her gaze away from his handsome face. “So this is one of your buildings? I refuse to believe you’re a salesman. And, if I remember rightly, you were studying architecture or something, weren’t you?”
There. Take that, you callous asshole.
He smiled and shifted a little, settling his arms across his chest. His nicely filled-out chest. Not that she noticed.
“You’re right. I’m no salesman. He’s taking a week’s vacation and I got stuck covering for him. But yes, this development is pretty much my baby. Dad had a lot of input, but essentially it’s mine.”
“What I’ve seen so far is very nice.”
That was easy because it was the truth. The building had clean lines, great spaces and a logical traffic flow from floor to floor and room to room. She’d yet to see the bedroom floors, but she’d bet they were equally acceptable.
The complex was just getting started, but the few streets already laid out, along with the two rows of completed townhouses - well, it was starting to look like someplace she’d be happy to live. Given the price and the location, it was definite that others would, too.
“Thank you.” Jeff gathered the blueprints into a roll and slipped them into a large leather tube. “Since you’ve got a big-ass folder under your arm, I’m going to guess you’re not here as a potential resident. You’re either a realtor or…” He paused and an arrested expression crossed his face. He snapped his fingers. “You’re from Salvucchi. The interior design company my dad just hired.”
She inclined her head in agreement and walked into the kitchen, running her hands over the dark-as-midnight granite counter, admiring the tiny flecks of shiny mica embedded in its depths. “My brother-in-law’s company. He started it several years ago and I liked what he did. Fortunately, he liked my ideas as well. We’ve worked together for a while and a few months ago he asked if I might consider kicking off my own branch in this area. Lots of building going on. Lots of business.”
“And you were majoring in design. The artsy stuff.”
She glanced at him. “From the looks of this place, you’d do well not to sneer.”
“I wasn’t sneering.” He frowned. “I don’t sneer.”
Gaby snorted. “From where I’m standing it was a sneer. No doubt about it.” She turned away. “However, moving on. You need to change this up. Even the best model home can use some appealing touches to lure in buyers.”
“This is appealing, isn’t it?” He scanned the space from front living room wall to rear kitchen wall. “Airy. Clean.”
“Dull. Boring. Yesterday’s home dec magazines.”
“Oh.”
She put her folder down on the counter next to a mug tree and sighed. “Sorry. But definitely boring. This is a place you want buyers to feel at home in. To want to kick back and relax. This…” she flicked her fingers at the mug tree, “this isn’t going to cut it. Not in today’s market.”
Turning, she leaned against the counter and stared at Jeff. “So. Would you like to hear my ideas?”
He met her gaze, held it, then strolled casually toward her, his movements reminding her more of a jungle cat on the prowl than a man selling real estate. Her belly tightened low and deep and she could feel her pulse beginning to pound. Damn him. Even after all these years he could still hit her “on” switch with a mere look.
“You have ideas, huh? Sure. I’d love to hear them.” He stepped even closer, ending with his hands on the counter, either side of her body.
She was caged, surrounded by him, aware down to her toenails of his scent, masculine but vaguely familiar. His eyes never drifted away from her face, nor did h
e touch her. But his presence this close was a caress in and of itself and she knew it. So did he, the bastard.
His hair was short, very short. Cut close to his head for summer, maybe. It had to be cool, and she envied him that. Her own dark hair was seriously messy and had been for at least six weeks.
“I’d love to hear your ideas, Gaby. And in return, I’d like to share some of mine.” It wasn’t a professional statement although it could have been. It was a growl, a sensual demand, one she did not mistake for anything else. She’d known this man, not for very long and quite a few years ago, but she’d known him well. Passionately. Intimately.
She couldn’t help it. She looked at his lips and licked her own.
That was all it took.
*~*~*~*
It was that tongue, that sheen it left on her mouth that did him in. He’d always been insanely crazy about her lips, and the way they pouted so naturally into something kissable. A shape designed solely to tempt a man into thinking how that mouth would feel against his, or sliding around his cock.
Time had not done a damn thing to lessen its impact. Here he was, kissing the crap out of her, no more than two minutes after saying hi, how are you?
And drowning in her at the same time.
She’d had some magic power all her own, and it had not been diminished by the years which had passed since he’d seen her. She was a visual punch to his gut and if she’d reached into his trousers and grabbed his cock he couldn’t have gotten any harder than he did when she simply smiled.
Their kiss was inevitable. He might get his face slapped or his balls kneed, or worse. She’d always been inventive, he recalled.
But it would be worth it just to taste her again. He found himself forced to admit that he’d never forgotten that sweet tang, the unique something that made her Gaby. It had imprinted itself on his brain back when he was young, but had not faded, staying sharp and fresh. Easily remembered at odd moments.
