Off The Market

by Vernon, Magan

  Off The Market

  A 12 NAS of Christmas Novel

  Magan Vernon

  Text copyright© 2013 by Magan Vernon

  All rights reserved

  www.maganvernon.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form by or any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

  For information visit www.maganvernon.com

  Summary: Etta Davis didn't have showing a house penciled into her Christmas plans, but with the other realtors already off enjoying their holiday, she'd been stuck with the task. It wasn't all bad though, the house up for grabs used to belong to the family of her high school sweetheart, Andrew Larson. Though now dilapidated, thanks to its current owners, it still held the power to bring back forgotten memories and turn the routine showing into something else entirely. Particularly when Andrew shows up, wanting to buy the house. Now Etta must decide whether a second chance is worth taking the house, and her heart, off the market.

  First Edition, November 2013

  Cover Design by Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations

  www.okaycreations.com

  Cover photo by Sasha Nelson Photography

  Cover models: Michael and Rachel Matranga

  Edited by Brenda Rothert

  Other Books by Magan Vernon

  How to Date an Alien (My Alien Romance Series #1)

  How to Break up with an Alien (My Alien Romance Series #2)

  How to Marry an Alien (My Alien Romance #3)

  My Paper Heart

  Life, Love, & Lemons

  The Only Exception

  The Only One

  One Wild Night (Forever Wild #1)

  Ghost of Christmas Past

  Pleasant Surprise

  Christmas Wish Come True

  Full Of Christmas Cheer

  Wrapping Paper

  Ex On The Line

  Oh Holy Night

  Who Spiked The Punch

  Gifts Of Christmas Past

  Silent Night

  Off The Market

  12 NA’s of Christmas

  About the Author

  More From Magan Vernon

  Sneak Peek of One Wild Night

  Ghost of Christmas Past

  ETTA

  I believe it was Thomas Wolfe who said “you can’t go home again.” Obviously Mr. Wolfe’s dad didn’t have a massive heart attack while he was away at college, forcing him to move back home to help out. Which is exactly why I’m stuck spending another Christmas Eve showing houses. Real Estate seemed like a safe career, that would keep me around to help my mom, but I didn’t expect the housing market to crumble so bad.

  The snow fell heavily around my Toyota, blanketing the entire neighborhood in a white sheet. As the snow crunched under my tires, I cursed myself for answering my co-worker’s desperate call.

  "Myra, it's Christmas Eve, who even wants to see a house on a holiday?" I asked. Not that I really had anything better to do on Christmas Eve. Mom was visiting her sister in Florida and without a family of my own, I was stuck staying at my sister’s. If I had to hear one more realtor joke from my brother-in-law, I would probably gouge his eyes out with one of the icicle lights from the Christmas tree.

  Myra never answered my question. She was too busy yelling at her kids after I heard the sound of shattering glass, so she blurted out the address almost too fast for me to write down, and was off the phone.

  "Figures I'd be going back to my old neighborhood on Christmas," I muttered, glancing down at the directions. When Pine Hill subdivision was built, it was the Mecca for all the suburban families south of St. Louis; with its never ending sidewalks, cookie-cutter two-story homes, and plenty of yard space for all of the neighborhood kids to run around in.

  That was before the economic down turn. Now Pine Hill was just like every other subdivision in town: rows of foreclosed homes with overgrown bushes and paint chipping from the wood siding. The particular house that I was showing had been on the market for almost a year and was one that I was very familiar with. It was the house of my high school boyfriend, Andrew Lawson.

  The very guy whose heart I broke when I moved to California for school and didn’t want a long distance relationship. I could have gotten back in contact with him when I moved back to Missouri, but it just didn’t seem right. I couldn’t go running back to him and expect everything to stay the same. So I cowardly did everything I could to avoid him. I never went back to all of the places that we used to hang out in high school and tried never to show houses in Pine Hill. That was before I found out his parents moved not too long ago. A lot had changed in the past two years.

  Driving down his old street was like going back in time. I could see my sixteen-year-old self, walking down the sidewalk on a hot Missouri day, my legs freshly tanned from spending all day at the lake, just hoping Andrew would stop his basketball game and take one look at me. When he finally did catch a glance he'd usually stop his game, sweep me in his arms, and give me a hard kiss on the mouth, right in front of all of his friends and the neighbors. For good luck, he always said.

  I sighed. That was ages ago. Other men rarely looked at me and certainly not the way Andrew used to. I broke it off with Andrew right after graduation. I was headed to college and he planned to stay and take over his father's business. He begged me to stay, pleaded that I could go to school somewhere closer. Of course I didn’t listen. Why didn’t I listen? Now I was living in my mother’s basement and working on Christmas Eve. I was really moving up in the world.

  I hadn't heard from Andrew since I moved back and didn't even know if he still lived in town, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't want anything to do with me anyway. It had been years since I'd seen him and the years had not been good to me. Gone was the dancer's body and long, glossy black hair. Now my hair was a shorter, highlighted do and a there were a few extra pounds that I could never get off of my hips. I could blame it on the dorm food, but that should have gone away by now.

  I saw the familiar blue house with its white picket fence. The old basketball hoop was even still hanging over the garage. It wasn't the same house that Andrew's dad had taken so much pride in, but its shell was still there. I could still see some sparkle left in the broken shutters and knew there had to be someone special that could breathe some life back into the boarded up windows.

  I pulled into the driveway, thinking about the last time I was at the Lawson house for Christmas. Andrew had greeted me at the door wearing a white wool sweater and smelling of cinnamon and egg nog. I could still recall the way he smiled down at me with a hint of mischief in his eyes and the cockeyed grin on his face. I remembered pushing a blond curl out of his eyes and the way he snuck in a quick kiss before his mother emerged from behind him, her arms wide open and always welcoming.

  But Mrs. Lawson wouldn’t be there today, just me and whoever had the gall to call and request a showing on Christmas Eve. The snow crunched under the tires of my car and I prayed I wouldn't get stuck in the sloped driveway. Luckily the little car plowed through the snow and I was able to park facing the old basketball hoop.

  I looked over the garage at the now rusted backboard. It seemed like only yesterday that Andrew stood on the ladder, wearing his new Bulls jersey, forcing me to stand in the driveway to make sure he got it centered over the garage. The backboard was still crooked, just like it always was since I didn't have a keen eye for getting it level. But Andrew didn't move it. He said he loved it j
ust the way it was because it was my version of straight and he loved me.

  Love. That was a word I hadn't heard in a long time. I had a brief string of bad dates in college and my mom always tried to set me up on dates with her friends’ or co-workers’ sons, but none of them worked out. None of them had that spark. That thing that made my stomach do somersaults.

  I stepped out of the car, shaking the thoughts of my past life out of my head while my heels dug into the freshly fallen snow. I cursed myself for not putting on some sort of winter footwear. It was a holiday after all, so the client couldn't have complained about my footwear when he was the one inconveniencing me.

  I walked up the small path way, now lined with broken solar powered lights, to the big white door. Quickly, I swiped my broker card in the realtor lock box. The green light blinked and I pushed open the door.

  There hadn't been more than a handful of showings in the year the house had been listed, but I never once showed it. I was always afraid to come back. Afraid it would have the same feeling as it had now. Like I was coming home.

  I'd spent more time in the now faded foyer, underneath the broken chandelier, than I did in my parents’ house. There were prom pictures taken on the grand staircase and nights I spent cuddled with Andrew on the living room couch across from the now dilapidated fireplace.

  Mrs. Lawson used to keep the house so nice. She always had candles burning and every single light fixture would shine. The owners after the Lawsons obviously didn't have as much pride in their home. It didn't take long for the bank to foreclose on it and for my real estate company to get tapped to re-sell it. I almost wished I could buy it myself, fix it up and restore it back to its former glory. But I had neither the money nor the time for such things. My life had become my work and without a family of my own there was really no need for the grand four-bedroom house.

  A soft knock came at the front door.

  "That must be the client. He'd better put in an offer," I muttered, smoothing out my skirt and walking to the front door.

  "Hello, I'm —"

  I stopped, my mouth still wide open, because standing in the doorway was one of the former residents of the house, Andrew Lawson.

  Pleasant Surprise

  ETTA

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. At first I thought that they were just playing tricks on me, but there he was. Andrew Lawson. My first love. My first everything. Of course he wasn’t the same Andrew I remembered. He was definitely older and the years had been very good to him. Instead of the body of a lanky teenager he had put on definite muscle that I could even see beneath his leather jacket and faded jeans. I had to take a deep breath before I could even speak to him.

  “Hello, Andrew. Good to see you again.” I couldn’t believe I could even utter the words. It had been almost two years since I’d seen him or spoken to him.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Etta.” He smiled that brilliant white smile that always made my heart do somersaults. How could I have broken up with him? God I was stupid. He was probably looking at the house to buy with some new girlfriend. Candy Hawkins always had a thing for him and I knew she went to beauty school in St. Louis right after high school. She probably already snapped him up and this was his Christmas gift to her.

  “And please call me Andy. You were the only one to ever call me Andrew,” he said as he walked out of the cold and into the front foyer.

  He would always be my Andrew, I thought. The other neighborhood kids may have called him Andy, but to me he was always Andrew. My Andrew. How many times had I said his name in anger, passion, and just in general in those years that we dated? So many I lost count, but I hadn’t said it since we broke up. Now it was the only name I wanted to say, but I respected the name he wanted. This new name.

  “Well, Andy,” I barely choked the name out. “I know that you’re already well acquainted with the layout of this home, so if you would like to take a look around I’d be more than happy to wait here for you.”

  Andrew ran a hand through his hair. No longer did he have the fallen curls, but it was cropped into a short, military style. I thought about how I missed those curls, but the new cut definitely brought out his beautiful blue eyes, the same color as the sapphire bracelet he bought me on my eighteenth birthday. The one that I still kept at the top of my jewelry box. I never wore it, but I found myself staring at it every time I went to get a pair of earrings.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, I would love a tour from an expert who knows this house just as well as I do, maybe even better since you’re the realtor,” he said, taking a step toward me.

  I was sure he had to know about me coming back into town. Sure it was a pretty big area, but word travels fast. He probably knew I was the realtor and that’s why he came here. Or maybe I was thinking too much into it. Maybe he really was just looking at the house for a girlfriend.

  I took a big swallow. No one had ever made me as nervous as Andrew made me. He always did that to me, even when we were kids. I remember the first time he walked up to me at the neighborhood park. I couldn’t even look at him. I just watched the methodical way his Chuck Taylors crunched on the grass. Even when we were older he still found ways to leave me breathless. Just like now.

  I pulled myself together, straightening my shoulders and nodding. “Right this way, sir.” I pointed my arm out toward the kitchen.

  Andrew laughed, shaking his head. "Sir, Etta? Really? I may be older now, but I'm still the same boy you knew since the day we moved to Pine Hill, and definitely not old enough to be a sir."

  I let out a nervous laugh. I couldn't believe my palms were starting to sweat. I couldn't believe he was actually there, talking to me like we were old friends. Like I never left.

  Andrew walked with the same methodical strides, like he was carefully calculating each step. I watched him move into the kitchen, examining each cabinet and piece of tile as if he’d never seen it before, but I knew, in fact, that his father had put in every element of that kitchen with his own hands.

  ANDREW

  ETTA DAVIS STILL hadn’t aged a day in my mind, even the way she said my name, Andrew. I remembered the first time she talked to me, how her voice was a little deeper than the other girls on the playground and I found it incredibly attractive even at such a young age. She eventually grew into her voice and her body. I couldn’t forget her long legs and the way she wrapped them around me. The way she moaned my name and arched her back when I was inside of her. And now she was back, standing in front of me like nothing had ever changed. Maybe it hadn’t.

  I brushed my fingers on the butcher block countertop. I remembered my mom insisted that we must have them in our kitchen. Dad thought they were silly and going to get cut up, but he always gave into my mom. I smiled to myself, thinking about how many times I sat there with Etta, pretending to do homework when really I just spent the whole time glancing over at how good she looked. When I found an ad for my parents’ former house in one of the free real estate magazines at the gas station, I was intrigued. But when I saw Etta’s big brown eyes staring back at me from the corner of the ad, I knew I had to see it.

  I loved her. Part of me still did. Even though it was years ago that we were together and she broke up with me when she left for college, I still couldn’t get her out of my head. When I heard she moved back to town I couldn’t figure out a way to contact her, but after almost two years, walking around and debating what to do, I decided that the ad was a sign. Even if it was Christmas Eve.

  “Would you like to see the rest of the house, Andrew?” Etta asked.

  I looked back over at the girl I loved. Did she still love me? She definitely wasn’t the same girl I remembered; there was something different about her. She was older and it was as if all those years added some wisdom. She knew what she was talking about when she pointed out every nook and cranny of the house, explaining the plumbing changes and what the inspector had seen. She also looked different, that was for sure, but I liked the new look. I always thought she was
too skinny, all those years of dance kept her as thin as a rail and now I wanted to run my hands down the new curves of her body. I wanted to rip the skirt right off of her and delicately, slowly peel her tights off and feel those legs around me. But I had to keep my head in check. Maybe she didn’t feel the same way. Maybe I was just making a fool of myself.

  “Sure, let's see if the basement has been destroyed as much as the rest of the house.” I motioned toward the door right off the kitchen.

  “Very well,” she said, a tiny hint of color flashing at her cheeks before she opened the basement door.

  How many times had we walked down those very stairs to get some alone time away from my parents? She would lay on the old plaid couch, her long body almost took up its entire length. I loved watching the way she’d smile when I climbed on top of her, spreading light kisses down her neck, chest, and just about everywhere she would let me. I could feel myself rise to the occasion just thinking about it. I had to stop thinking about her, or my bulge would be a tell tale sign that I was.

  I glanced over at Etta and saw she had that same grin she would when she would lay on the couch. When she saw that I was looking at her she quickly looked away, her cheeks growing even redder than before. I hoped she was thinking the same thing I was and remembered all those late nights in the basement. It wasn’t just for the sex. It was also the first place I told her that I loved her. And that she said she loved me back.

  The basement, however, did not receive the same love since I moved out. The once former hangout of all the kids in the neighborhood had become a moldy, dank room. A smell permeated from the carpet that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years with all the grime piling up. Two stained couches sat in one corner underneath a boarded up window. This was not the basement my dad had worked so hard to finish.