A HEART IS A HOME
How does a smart, easygoing serial monogamist tame a closet Bohemian? Adam Taylor believes selling his childhood home is the only way to put the past…and the memories behind him. Then he meets Joy Pettigrew. The uptight real estate broker isn’t what she seems. Freaky and Joy Pettigrew no longer mix. She’s a corporate girl now. She plans to make the sale, get the commission, and never look back. So how does she keep the truth from Adam Taylor long enough to get him to sign on the dotted line? He swears he wants to sell his grandfather’s house and move on. She knows he’s lying to himself. He insists she throw off the façade she’s hiding behind. She knows she’s lying to herself. She also knows he’s going back to Houston. Nothing she does will change his mind…and even their shared passion won’t convince her to go with him. She’s already home. After all, Christmas is just around the corner and everyone knows you spend Christmas at home.
A Heart Is A Home Copyright © 2012 by K.E. Saxon http://www.kesaxon.com All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author K.E. Saxon, the copyright owner and publisher of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the publisher. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in its work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. License Notes This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to any major online retail bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. Cover Photos obtained from iStock Photo http://www.istockphoto.com/ Blurb: Tarah Scott tscott@tarahscott.com **** eISBN: 978-0-9881803-6-9
AUTHOR’S NOTE
For those who have (or will) read Love Is The Drug, you will recognize my hero, Adam Taylor, as the attorney-friend of Jason Jörgensen. Jason doesn’t play a role in this, Adam’s story, but you will see Julie again. You may also note that Wichita, the small town where Adam grew up, has a very similar name to a real town in Texas, Wichita Falls. I did use some characteristics of Wichita Falls, but also used characteristics of some of the smaller towns I am familiar with from my own childhood. Wichita, Texas, my fictional little town, is smaller than Wichita Falls and much more cozy. I hope you enjoy meeting Adam, Joy, and the other characters in Wichita, Texas. Merry Christmas! K.E. Saxon
CHAPTER ONE One (Is The Loneliest Number)
A
DAM WANDERED from room to room the first night he arrived. A photo album in one hand, and a glass of wine in the other. It was a big house. Built in the 1920s, it was the center house on the north side of Magnolia Avenue. Number 510, to be exact. 510 Magnolia Avenue. How many times had he said it, written it, in his life? Too many to count, he figured. There was a time, in his younger years, when he couldn’t wait to leave the place. Fly away to new adventures in larger towns, in more exciting locales. His father told him on the day he left for college, “Son, just remember, no matter where you go or how long you are away, this is still home.” That was the last time he’d ever seen his father alive. Two days later, the man was dead. Killed while he was on an electrical pole. The company determined it was an accident. His father had mistakenly touched a live wire. His grandfather told Adam that it was a quick death, there wasn’t a lot of suffering, but sometimes Adam wondered how much truth there was in that. It seemed to him that death by electrocution, no matter how short a time span, must be excruciatingly painful. He’d put his grandpa in the ground today. Eighty-five years, plus three days since the man came into this world. And now, all Adam had were memories, a few photos, and this house. The realtor would be here tomorrow morning. It hadn’t been an easy decision to put the old girl up for sale. Especially after walking her halls again, smelling the down-home must of her, hearing her aged bones creak as he moved across her dark-stained oak floors. No, the ache of losing her, losing his last attachment to his past, his family—what there had been of it—had come as a big surprise to him. After all, he’d strained at the bit to leave, to spread his wings, to EXPERIENCE life, and he hadn’t looked back either. Not once. Not in all these years. Until he’d come home this last time to bury his granddad. He set his wine glass down next to the circa 1970s stereo console—his grandpa’s pride and joy—and slipped an old Dean Martin album out of its careworn sleeve. After turning the silver dial to “on”, he gently slid the record onto the spindle, swept the arm over and carefully settled the needle on the first cut. A few hisses and pops followed before Dean’s smooth croon came through the gold and tan, heavy-woven cloth that covered the speakers. “Ain’t That A Kick In The Head”. Seemed appropriate, so Adam took up his glass and, waving a finger in the air in time to the music, half-danced over to the frayed brown couch from the same era as the console, and sat down, resting his head on the back of it. That was where he woke up several hours later, still dressed in his funeral suit, a sharp crick in his neck and the residual audio buzz of the console speakers serving as a back-up band to the syncopated ringing of the doorbell, followed by conga-beats of bare knuckles rapping on wood. He looked at his watch as he leapt up. Nine-thirty already? 1
He peeked through the beveled glass in the front door. The woman on the other side didn’t match the voice he’d spoken to a few days ago. That woman was at least fifty, he figured, and a real drill sergeant to boot. Someone, in other words, with lots of experience and efficient enough to take this chore in hand and allow him to get back to his real life in Houston. He flipped the lock and opened the door. “Hi, are you Joyce Pettigrew’s assistant?” He craned his neck to look further down the line of the painted gray porch and nearly gave himself a charley horse in the already abused body part. Slapping his hand over the sharp twinge and giving it a hard rub, he brought his body back into alignment. The girl thrust out her hand at him. “You must be Mr. Taylor. I’m Ms. Pettigrew.” The handshake she gave him was firm and self-assured. Now that his eyes and brain were a little more awake, he could see that she wasn’t quite as young as she’d first appeared to him. She was still much younger than he’d expected, but she was no teenager. More like twenty-six, twenty-seven, he’d guess. Medium height, blonde hair tied up in some tight bun-thing, blue eyes, slim, but proportioned nicely. At least he thought she was. It was hard to tell through the layers of dark blue suit. “May I come in?” “Oh—oh, yeah, sure. Sorry.” He stepped out of her way and held his arm out in a gesture of welcome. “Come on in.” She looked all around, up at the ceilings, down at the floors, and then scratched a quick note on the lined pad of her clipboard with the blue pen she was carrying. “Would you like some coffee? I’m just about to make some.” She didn’t even glance at him as she moved past him. “No thank you. I’ll be through here in no time. If I have any questions pertaining to the house, I’ll come find you.” She stopped walking and turned to face him. “Oh, I will need you to fill out some papers for me before I leave.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll meet you over there”—she pointed to the front sitting room—“in forty-five minutes. I’ll go over them with you then, if that suits?” Now this is the woman he’d spoken to before. “Certainly. I’m an attorney, though, so I’m used to legal documents. You won’t need to explain them to me.” “Oh yes, you mentioned that in our previous conversation. Fine then.” She scooted a few forms out of the sleeved black cover of her clipboard and held them out as she walked toward him. “Perhaps you could fill these out while I’m making my notes on your property?” For some reason, her calling it a “property” and not a “home” really bugged him. “Maybe I should take the tour with you.” He took a step toward her. “You know, so I can point out all the great things about this old girl—maybe you could even use some of them in your sales pitch.” She bristled, which surprised him. “I assure you, I do not pitch. I inform and I match people with their perfect property. I am no hack salesman.” “Sorry, no offense intended.” He needed coffee. “I think I’ll just fill these out first while I have my first cuppa joe. I’ll track you down when I’m done.” He was in the kitchen in two shakes. Angry drill sergeant women were not his forté. After brewing the coffee, he settled at the Formica-topped chrome table in the kitchen and perused the documents she’d given him. Pretty straight forward, nothing he wasn’t expecting. He filled in information where needed and signed and dated where indicated. He was done in ten minutes. He took a quick peek at his watch. He’d only been in here fifteen minutes.
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He heard the floorboards creak above his head and looked up. She must be in Grandpa’s room now. The wrestling match with his better judgment lasted less time than it took to count it. He lifted his hot mug and strode up the back kitchen stairs to the second floor landing and then, with even more purpose, directly into the room she was in. The window sheers made the sunlight streaming in twinkle and shimmer as it illuminated floating fairies dancing around her blonde head. His heart tripped. Lovely. Why hadn’t he noticed how pretty she was before? When she looked at him, he read a flash of irritation in her eyes before she quickly shuttered them with a blink. Upon opening them again, the cool professional was firmly back in place. “Hello, Mr. Taylor. Finished with the documents already?” “Yes. I thought I’d just see how the inspection was coming along. Are you finding any problems that will need to be remedied before you can put the house on the market?” She nodded. “Yes, a couple. But nothing too drastic.” *** Adam Taylor had turned out to be just as dark-haired and goodlooking—though much more mussed and sleepy—and oh-so charming, as all the gossips in town had been buzzing about since his grandfather’s passing last Saturday. And the bedroom-eyed look she’d caught him giving her just now only confirmed her already heightened suspicion of him as a player and good-time Charley. Why, he’d merely—and literally—phoned in his own grandfather’s funeral arrangements. He hadn’t even cared enough about the man to see to them in person. What kind of grandson did that? A selfish, egomaniacal one, surely. With effort she ungrit her teeth and relaxed her jaw. But. She needed this sale if she was ever going to finally afford her own means of transport, so personal feelings aside, she must carry on as any good professional would. “There’s a crack in the window pane in the small bedroom down the hall.” Adam Taylor’s lips twitched then tipped into another one of his irritating grins. “Grandpa still hadn’t fixed it? Pop and I busted that window the day I loaded up my old Trans Am and headed to U.T. on a baseball scholarship. We were horsing around with the ball and, well, it got a little out of control, if you know what I mean.” “Yes. Well. At any rate, I think it would behoove us to get that replaced prior to the open house I’m planning for Christmas Eve.” For the first time since meeting him, Adam Taylor’s brows slammed together in a show of true chagrin at the same time his hand came up, “Whoa, there, Nelly.” Nelly?? Her spine shot ramrod straight. “I would appr—” “Open House? Christmas Eve?” His head started shaking to and fro. “I don’t recall anything in our previous conversation about an open house—and certainly not on Christmas Eve. For one thing, that’s only a week-and-a-half away, and secondly, I don’t want strangers traipsing through my family home on my Grandfather’s favorite night of the year.” It took everything in her not to blurt what she thought of his too-little-too-late sentimentalities regarding his grandfather, but somehow she managed to say coolly, “Actually, Mr. Taylor, it’s genius if you want to sell this property quickly, as you’ve assured me several times now that you do. In fact, I was thinking of doing a week-long open house, with the finale being the festivities on Christmas Eve.” *** 3
Why Adam’s libido chose that moment to kick into overdrive, he didn’t know, but it did. He figured it had something to do with the flags of ire that flamed her creamy-smooth cheeks to passion-red, made her bright blue eyes darken and sparkle, reminding him of starry indigo nights in Martinique, and sent her raspberry-silk tongue darting over her full lower lip, making him crave to feel it over his own. His heart, already beating a tempo or two faster than normal with the blast of anger-adrenaline her announcement had provoked, shot into race-mode, making him sweat. He took in a slow, deep breath and held it a second. It was only when she crossed her arms over her chest that he realized where his gaze had drifted. “I think it would be best if I refer you to a male broker. There’s another brokerage in the area I could recommend,” she said on a turn toward the window, “as it’s clear you and I don’t see eyeto-eye.” “No, that won’t be necessary.” He took a step toward her before he could stop himself, but froze when he saw her shoulders tense. Eye-to-eye. Damn. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt his own cheeks flush. “I’m sorry. I…I don’t know what that was all about. It won’t happen again. I think, maybe, it’s some bizarre reaction to everything that’s gone on this week and my lack of sleep. I’ve come across as some kind of masher or something, and…” Oh, God. What was he saying? He was probably only making things worse, but still his mouth wouldn’t shut the hell up, “…I mean, you know Julie Jörgensen pretty well—she wouldn’t be friends with a total deviant, right? I mean….” Shut up, dude! Shut the hell up and stop backpedaling so hard. It only makes you look more guilty. It was with no little amount of surprise and relief that he saw her relax, turn around, and, well, not exactly smile, but her lips softened. “Yes, yes, of course,” she said and he pulled his gaze and his attention off her lips and moved them to her eyes, as requested. “You’ve had a very traumatic few days, and as you say, Julie would never have referred you to me had you been someone of weak character.” At last, she uncrossed her arms and she looked once more at her notes. It hadn’t escaped his notice that she’d been clenching the clipboard in her hand as she’d centered her gaze on some point outside the window these past minutes. “Now, shall we continue discussing the issues I found with the property before we continue on to the contracts and the preparations for the open house event?” “Yes, that would be fine.” With a nod, she moved past him in the direction of the door and a pleasant scent of citrus followed in her wake. He briefly wondered how he’d missed that earlier when he’d held the front door open for her, but it fled when she said, “The other issue I found is in the hall bathroom. The sink has a drip, so the fixture may need replacing.” “Or, maybe it’s just a worn washer. I’ll check it out.” She turned a surprised gaze on him. “You know how to plumb?” He grinned at her. “I’m no master at it, but I can do most of the basics myself, if need be.” One of her blonde sable brows lifted slightly and he heard a soft “hmm,” escape her throat. Want. It hit him like a sumo-wrestler’s shoulder, right in his solar plexus. Again, his heart started its mad tattoo, and again, he had to take in a slow breath. Okay. This was getting way out of hand. “I think I need that second cup of coffee. Would you like me to bring you a cup into the sitting room so we can go over those contracts now?” He needed a little space, a little distance, a little breathing room. Just for a second. Just long enough to get his equilibrium back. 4
With relief, he watched her give him a nod of agreement as she continued to make whatever note she’d begun on the heel of his plumbing confession. In the next second, he was trotting down the backstairs and racing into the kitchen. After grabbing a 16-ounce bottle of water from the fridge, he stood over the sink and gulped it down like the sex-crazed, trauma-dazed, schoolboy crush-hazed man that he was. ***
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CHAPTER TWO It’s Not Where You Start, It’s Where You Finish
J
OY GLANCED at her watch. It was just at eleven, which meant she’d been here an hourand-a-half. She didn’t usually stay so long, nor imbibe food or drink of any sort, even water, with her clients, it leant a too-casual air to the dealings which she didn’t feel comfortable with. But she’d made an exception this once because, after Mr. Taylor’s boyish blush and nearly stammered, but honest, confession upstairs—as well as the needed reminder of their mutual friend, Julie—she felt compelled to mend fences and, hopefully, get the both of them back on the business track they needed to be on in order to accomplish their shared goal of selling this property in the shortest amount of time possible. And she had to admit, he had been nothing but professional since she’d met him here in the sitting room earlier. But now it was definitely time to go. She set the coffee mug on the tray he’d arrived with from the kitchen and started to stand, which brought him to his feet as well. “I’ll return at five o’clock to help you pick out the tree.” Though the smile he gave her was pained, it still managed to send a flutter to her stomach and she stiffened against the reaction. “You’re absolutely sure I have to do this to sell the house this time of year, Ms. Pe—may I call you Joyce?” Oh, no. Too dangerous. “I think it best if we keep this on a strictly professional level, Mr. Taylor, and, yes, I am positive about the decorations and the open house.” She turned and began the walk toward the entry and he got in step with her. “This isn’t Houston, Mr. Taylor, it’s Wichita. You are already dealing with a much slower market than Houston, and Christmastime is notoriously a slow season in which to sell real estate, no matter the location.” “Okay,” he said as he pulled the door open for her, “I’m convinced. See you at five then, Ms. Pettigrew.” The odd note in his voice when he said her name had her swinging her gaze up to his. A desperately unwanted tingle traveled down the back of her neck and spine as she registered the twinkle of humor in his eyes. “Yes. Well. As you say, five then. Good day.” She straightened and walked with purpose—though many had told her she tended to march—across the porch and down the four steps, keeping her eyes fastened to the waiting multicolored, razzle-dazzled, and sequined 1968 Volkswagen Beetle she’d borrowed from her best friend, and art car artist, Candie. Why oh why had Candie’s Honda chosen this morning to not start? She felt his shock all the way down the walkway, so she finally turned and said only, “It’s not mine, it’s borrowed. Just so you know,” and with that she opened the door, got in, turned on the engine, gunned it and drove away, never looking back. It was just too embarrassing. *** Adam swung the door closed on a slow stream, turned, leaned against it with his arms crossed, and grinned, in spite of himself. The fact that Ms. Pettigrew even knew someone who had such funky wheels sent his already heightened interest in her through the roof. And the last hour or so of dealing with her one-on-one also let him know that she was, at this moment, no doubt fighting a deep mortification that her cover had been blown. 6
She was certainly all starched and proper on the outside, and that layer of primness was as thick and hard to penetrate as an inch of petrified mahogany. But Adam always had loved a challenge. And, yes, he knew he had no business—no business—messing with her, trying to get under her skin, since he had no intention of sticking around his old stomping ground for any longer than was absolutely necessary to get the ball rolling on the sale of his childhood home. Except, the temptation was just too great. That was one part of his personality that he and Jason Jörgensen had in common. It was probably why they’d been as thick as thieves since the first time they met at a mutual friend’s college digs for his yearly Super Bowl party almost fourteen years ago. He wasn’t talking about seduction, of course. It was just that he didn’t see any reason for their dealings to be quite so cold and professional. Besides, he definitely would like to see her wave her freak flag at least once before he left town. Hell, it’d be good for her. He’d be doing her a favor, getting her to loosen up a bit. It’d definitely help her sales. With her looks, she was wasting serious potential for a better, and higher profit margin. It was a well-known fact that people were more inclined to buy something from a person they found attractive, and he also knew that opinions were swayed much more easily by those with physical beauty; he saw it all the time in his own line of business. But it was more than that. There had to be some charm and charisma, some personality that was attractive to others as well, and that was what he was going to help dear Ms. Pettigrew do: Get a personality. Well, maybe not get one, but show her real one. And maybe that was just the balm he needed to keep his mind off of the fact that this was going to be his very first Christmas without any family to come home to. *** Adam had no idea why he was torturing himself like this, but he couldn’t seem to stop the momentum. He gave himself the reason that it was no doubt all part of the grieving process— that’s why he’d spent the last four hours on the old couch listening to track after track, album after album, of his grandfather’s records while he sorted through the old, beat-up cardboard boxes of Christmas ornaments and decorations. The track playing now was Glen Campbell’s Wichita Lineman. The song had always carried a personal meaning for his family, since both Grandpa and Adam’s dad had been linemen by trade, after their tours of duty in the military. Grandpa had been sure that the Wichita in the song was Wichita, Texas, and, even though Adam wasn’t convinced of the veracity of that belief, it had added an extra air of specialness to the song for them, as well. He was forcing himself to do what he and his grandpa had been planning to do on Christmas Eve. It was their family tradition: Pull down the boxes from the attic, pull a six-pack of beer from the fridge (they didn’t do eggnog), and decorate the tree they’d bought earlier in the day. A lot of folks, especially the neighbors, put their tree and ornaments up early, even the day after Thanksgiving, but that wasn’t the Taylor way. Even when his grandmother had still been alive— hell, even when his own mother had still been alive—it had always been Christmas Eve that the ornaments would go up. But not this year. And maybe not any year after, either. Actually, the way he felt at this moment in time, he saw absolutely no reason to ever put ornaments and such up again after this one last time. The time he’d say goodbye to this old house, these old memories, and all the old 7
Taylor ways. For good. Once and for all. That would be it. At least that’s what he’d been telling himself these past hours. As he listened to the old records, as he gathered together the old ornaments, as he pondered his old life and new. And maybe, just maybe, there was a part of him that knew he was bullshitting himself, and right to his own face, too. Restless now, he got up from the couch and moved into the dining room. The rectangular dark-stained oak table dominated the room. With the added shelf-thingy—what had his grandmother called it? The stem? The trunk? Oh, yeah, the leaf—it could accommodate eight diners, but right now, there were only six matching chairs around it, replete with some kind of faded red and off-white flowery design on the heavy-fabric cushioned seat covers. The other two were up against the wall on either side of the old buffet, which had rested under the lacecurtained picture window for as long as Adam could remember. There was a china cabinet in the corner to his right, just as he crossed the threshold of the open, double-wide entranceway that led from the sitting room into the dining room. For the first time, in he didn’t know how many years—maybe even since he was a little kid of five or so—he took the time to study the wall decorations that his grandmother had chosen for this particular area of the house. There were blue and white Wedgewood plates hanging high on the cream-painted walls from brass wire hangers, along with an old, and dusty, oil of a pastoral scene, rife with the requisite babbling brook, a fawn enjoying a cool drink from its banks, lush green-leaved bowing trees, and a pair of red birds peeking from a hidden branch on high. He shrugged. Old fashioned, but it did lend a nice ambience to the room, which no doubt aided in the digestion of food, and the ease needed to carry on lively conversations. From there, he wandered past the table and through the swinging door that led into the kitchen. This had always been the true heart of the home, even after his grandmother’s passing. Most family mealtimes were passed here, at the circa 50s—or maybe it was 60s?—oval yellow Formica-topped chrome breakfast table with matching chairs that grandma had inherited years before when her own mother had left this world for the next. The familiar ugly-green plastic napkin holder, with matching salt and pepper shakers, resided in its standard place in the center of the table, and was even filled with napkins. Another proof that his grandfather’s heart attack happened with no earlier warning of disease. He sat down at “his place” at the table and looked around. Not much had changed since he’d left for college, and even though he’d been back four—sometimes five—times a year to visit, this was the first time he’d really seen the place in years. White-painted cabinets with silver pulls lined the kitchen on one side, the same ruffled yellow curtains were tied back to let in light through the window over the ceramic sink, allowing sunshine through, creating a long tail of light that brightened a portion of the yellow laminated countertop. From there he traced the ofttrod path of his grandmother from her usual perch at the sink, across the green and gold-flecked white linoleum to her next stop: the refrigerator. It actually stunned him now to realize that the white double-door appliance was the same exact one his grandfather had bought as a surprise for his grandmother back…damn, how long had it been anyway? Fifteen? Twenty? No. Eighteen. Now he remembered. Eighteen years ago last May. He remembered because it just so happened to coincide with the last baseball game of the season, and the first time he’d gotten to second base with a girl. In spite of his glum mood, he smiled at the memory. That had certainly been a major turning point in his young life. He rocked back and lifted the front legs of the chair off the ground as he 8
crossed his arms and scrutinized the fridge with fresh eyes. Maybe he should keep it. The new owners no doubt would be bringing their own along with them, anyway. So what if he didn’t have a place for it in his townhouse? He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. That settled in his mind, he glanced at his watch, pushed to his feet and made his way to the stairs. After digging out the decorations and ornaments from the attic, he needed another shower, maybe even another shave, before he crossed swords with the prickly Ms. Pettigrew again. ***
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CHAPTER THREE How Lovely Are Your Branches
T
O SAY THAT Joy was less than thrilled at the prospect of being within breathing distance of Adam Taylor again so soon after her last off-balancing experience of him, was an understatement of monumental proportions. It wasn’t until she was well away from his home earlier, and at last over the embarrassment her mode of transport had caused, that she could finally admit to herself that, even though he’d put on a much more professional mien after their awkward and, in some ways, frightening first few exchanges together this morning, she was not as immune to his brand of good looks and charm as she absolutely must be in order to guarantee she reached her goal of total financial independence by the time her mother and father came back to town in February. She could tell he didn’t really want to sell the house. Oh, she was certain that he thought he did, but she’d been in this business long enough and had worked with enough buyers and sellers to see the proverbial writing on the wall. There was a part of her that wanted to nudge him into realizing it, but the larger part, the more selfish part, the part that was desperate to recover, finally, from her last break-up which had left her in this state of financial disgrace in the first place, wanted to just let it lie. Find the buyer, and get it sold, before Mr. Taylor had time to work through what it was that was truly bothering him. In fact, now that she was really thinking about it, she’d actually be doing him a favor. He had no business holding onto a property he wasn’t going to live in, and would no doubt just let lie empty, while he was off doing whatever he did, and with whomever he did it, in Houston. Especially when this was a prime piece of real estate, in a newly rediscovered area, and there were perfectly good folk, no doubt the perfect family, right around the next corner just waiting for her to match them to their perfect home. And wasn’t that her mission in life? Her raison d’être? Well, it was certainly her goal, at any rate. Girded with new determination, and with one last glance at her watch to confirm: 5 p.m. onthe-dot, she pulled the knob that rang the doorbell. So quaint. She’d make a point of showing it to potential prospects. She already had a young couple lined up to view the property tomorrow afternoon. They’d specifically requested an older home with original hardwoods and fixtures. Wouldn’t it be fabulous if her first potentials turned into purchasers? Fleetingly, the niggling of conscience threatened to raise its ugly head, but she stiffened her spine against it. She refused to be the man’s therapist, and that was that. He’d commissioned her to do a job, and that was what she intended to do. When she heard the familiar clip-clop of shoed feet on hardwood, followed by the muted sound of a shuffle over the entryway rug, then saw the shadow of tall, dark male through the sheers on the rectangular glass in the door, a bubble of excited awareness careened through her, making her heart do a giddy trip in her chest, and before she could get her equilibrium back, the door swung wide and she was face-to-face once more with Mr. Gorgeous and his boyish grin. 10
Her fingers curled into fists at her side to fight the reaction as she forced a small smile to her lips and said, “Good evening, Mr. Taylor, are you ready to go?” It took everything in her not to scan her eyes down his torso, but her peripheral vision took in the new look of him anyway. Shaved, combed, and no longer in the rumpled dark suit of the morning, he exuded a panther-like lean strength that the fitted kelly green long-sleeved polo and tan khaki slacks only served to enhance. “As ready as I’ll ever be, Ms. Pettigrew.” He’d said her name again with that hint of humor behind it, and, as it had done prior, it brought her up short, brought her back to her senses, too. Good-time Charley. It wouldn’t do to forget that, either. And what should she care if his eyes carried a bit of emerald fire in them when he looked at her? It was no doubt the same with all the women he deigned to look upon. Or, anyway, it might just be a trick of the porch light. *** “I can never get used to how early the sun sets this time of year, can you, Ms. Pettigrew?” Adam said as he slung his lightweight jacket over his shoulder and stepped out on the porch. While he took care of locking the door, he heard her say behind him, “Yes, it is a bit off-putting, but I believe once we get the Christmas lights up on your property, it will actually work in our favor when showing the house.” All business. He didn’t know why he’d expected a bit of thawing from her since they’d parted this morning. He also didn’t have a clue why she revved his engine so quickly and easily with that starchy attitude, either, but damned if she didn’t. Down boy. He wasn’t going to be around long enough to get involved in anything remotely romantic with her, and it wasn’t his style to be a love’em and leave’em type. No, he, as his friend Julie had recently pointed out—and much too accurately for his own comfort—was more the serial monogamist type. A type he’d had no clear intention of becoming, but there it was. If you spent your life looking for the one, it unfortunately did end up turning into a series of short- and long-term relationships, when your one didn’t show her lovely self as quickly as you’d hoped. “I pulled down the boxes of ornaments and decorations from the attic, and started going through them already, as you suggested,” he told her as they walked in tandem down the porch steps. She looked at him askance as they moved down the walkway together. “Aren’t you cold, Mr. Taylor?” He grinned and shrugged into the jacket. “Yeah, it is a little chillier out here than I was expecting. The old furnace is working like a charm, you’ll be happy to know. It lulled me into a false sense of temperature. Plus, having lived in south Texas for so many years now, I forgot how much colder the northern end can get this time of year.” I am going to force a real smile on those pretty lips of hers tonight, come hell or high water. “My SUV is over here.” He pointed to his right at the same time he veered in that direction, crossing the lawn toward the driveway. He could feel her presence a step or two behind him. After he unlocked the passenger-side door on his Range Rover, his gaze followed her through it, for the first time noticing and thoroughly appreciating the smooth tanned limbs that were revealed momentarily as the slit in her slim blue skirt slipped open before she hastily readjusted the material, covering the golden skin once more. He shut the door, jogged around to the driver’s side, and got in. As he was fastening his seat belt, she said, “Normally, I take my clients on these types of excursions, or meet them there, but as my regular means of transportation is unavailable and as you no doubt 11
need a navigator to find the different tree vendors, I believe this will work out nicely.” She smoothed some invisible-to-him wrinkle or crinkle from her skirt and, straightening her spine, resettled against the back of the leather seat. Lord, did this woman ever unbend? He’d love to get her naked and find out just how long it would take him to get her to do just that. On the tail of that thought an image-montage of tanned limbs, soft round breasts and curving bare hips sent a dagger-sharp need straight to his groin, making his dick thick and his balls heavy. God! Move it man, move it! In a rush and fumble, he scrambled to put his finger on the pushbutton, then started the engine—and yeah, maybe his foot did press the pedal a little longer than was necessary, but better that than do the masher thing again. *** At the third tree lot they went to, Ms. Pettigrew finally gave her seal of approval to a sevenfoot noble fir with near-perfectly symmetrical branches, which was larger by at least two feet than the ones he and his family usually bought. As he and one of the guys working the lot maneuvered the tree onto the roof of Adam’s Range Rover, with Ms. Pettigrew’s anxious “Be careful!” admonishments repeating like percussion notes behind them, a tall, slender woman with long shiny black hair, bangs that covered her brows, and black clothes that matched, came swinging over to Ms. Pettigrew, threw her multi-braceleted arm around Ms. Pettigrew’s neck and pressed her cheek to hers. “Hiya, Joy! Sorry about the car thing this morning. Jack said he’s got it fixed now, so you should be able to use it again come tomorrow.” She swept around to face Adam, but kept her arm around the stiffened shoulders of his realtor, “And who, may I ask, is this fine specimen of man?” She broke the embrace and took two long strides forward, holding out her hand to him. “I’m Candie Apple—and yes, that is my real, honest-to-God birth name—I haven’t seen you around these parts before. What brings you to our fair town?” Adam made short work of completing the anchoring of the tree to his SUV before taking hold of the proffered long-fingered, black-lacquer nailed, and turquoise-beringed hand. “Adam Taylor. Nice to meet you. I’m actually from here. I—” Ms. Pettigrew (and wasn’t it just much too enticing to know her friends called her Joy?) stepped into their conversation and took over the explanation saying, “Mr. Taylor is a client of mine, Candie. He’s here selling a house.” Had she read his mind, or had it been some other impetus of her own that had made her interrupt his difficult confession about his true reason for being in town? Whatever it had been, he was grateful. *** Fifteen minutes later, they were on their way back to his childhood home. Adam, still intrigued with this new layer of information regarding his much too close-to-the-vest realtor, shot a glance her direction and said, “I could really use a cup of coffee about now, especially since we’ve still got the tree decorating to do. Do you mind if I make a quick pit stop at this gas station up ahead to get some?” Ms. Pettigrew, who’d been as still and mute as a stone since leaving her exuberant friend behind at the Christmas tree lot, made a small, but not impatient, sound of agreement in time with a shake of her head. “Not at all.” It was as they were pulling into one of the front parking spaces that he saw her jackknife forward and grip the armrest. Her eyes were glued momentarily to someone—one of the people in line to check out inside the store—then her head darted around from one side to the other and 12
stopped on a gray Toyota Corolla of about ’08 vintage. When a fluffy-faced, dark-nosed spaniel mix dog appeared at the cracked-open back driver’s side window, Adam was stunned to see Joy tear her seat belt off, jerk the door open, and tumble out of his SUV before dashing over to the car and leaning into the window. By the time he made it over to her, her face had transformed into one of joy—just like her name—and she was speaking in low, soothing, and dulcet tones with the clearly excited animal, who’d barked once upon seeing her, but upon her “shshh” had changed his show of happiness to snuffling her fingers through the small space the opening in the window provided, and wagging his back-end like an 18-wheeler jackknifing on an icy road. “And who might this be, may I ask?” he said with a grin, lifting his own fingers to the pooch to let it take a sniff. Her spine stiffened (and why did that still manage to surprise him?) and her countenance smoothed into the cool professional expression he’d come to hate. She turned her gaze to his, dropping her hand to her side. “This is Benji, my dog—my ex-dog—I mean, my ex’s dog.” “You were married?” Her eyes went cold, but her expression softened again when her gaze dropped back onto the animal. “No, Mr. Taylor, I was not married,” she answered at last, and the starch was back in her voice. She leaned down and whispered something to the animal, and it licked her nose, which brought back the lovely smile once more. She rubbed her fingertips over the top of its snout and straightened, visibly put her professional armor back in place, then turned and began walking back to his SUV. “I’ll wait for you in the car,” she said over her shoulder. Dismissed. That’s exactly what she’d done to him. And the more she kept her distance, perversely, the more intriguing and desirable she became. With a shake of his head and a farewell to the whimpering pooch, Adam strode toward the glass doors of the gas station’s convenience store. A few minutes later, he approached his SUV with two lidded Styrofoam cups full of coffee: Black for him, and cream and sugar for her. He’d remembered her preference from this morning’s meeting in the front sitting room and he was damned if he was going to drink alone, even if it was only coffee. It wasn’t until he got all the way to the driver’s side door and opened it, that he saw that Joy was speaking to a guy through the opened window of her door. He was about her own age, with dyed black hair that fell over his brow on one side and was spiked with gel on the other; medium height and build; pasty-white skin; an army-green T-shirt with some gold-colored slogan on the front and cut-off sleeves; and an irritated look on his face. They both shot Adam a look, and neither one seemed pleased to see him. “I’ll talk to you about it later, Randy,” she said, turning her gaze back to the guy. The guy’s eyes dropped back to hers then, too, but only briefly. He met Adam’s gaze again and his dark eyes narrowed fleetingly before he gave her a silent nod and walked away—over to the gray Corolla with the pooch in it. The ex. Must be. ***
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CHAPTER FOUR Come In From The Cold
J
OY WAS IN absolutely no mood to put up Christmas tree lights. Not after the stressful few hours spent in Mr. Adam Taylor’s company doing her darnedest to keep her growing physical attraction to him a secret, as well as dealing with her too-gregarious friend with her flirty come-ons to him—her best prospect for gaining financial independence that had come along in months—as well as having a run-in with her no-good, dog- and car-thieving exboyfriend. But, she must do what she must do: Go the distance, put up the lights, decorate at least the sitting room, so that those fabulous buyer prospects would snap the property right up tomorrow. A new thrill of anticipation went through her, giving her the added verve she needed to stay on task until it was completed. Without thinking, she took a swig of the coffee Adam had handed her a moment before. Despite her unease at lowering her professional guard, her taste buds did a happy jig as the toasted flavor of the milky-sweet coffee floated upon them. The liquid glided down her throat and drifted down the center of her chest, sending rays of warmth in all directions inside her. With a mental sigh of pure satisfaction, she allowed her head to rest on the back of the seat and fleetingly closed her tired, burning eyes. It had been a long, long day, and she still had at least two hours more work to do before she could end it and finally get back to her own abode. What she needed, what she craved, was a nice long, hot bubble bath. “Hey, you falling asleep on me there, Ms. Pettigrew?” Fire rushed to her cheeks as she bolted upright. The fact that he’d hit his mark only intensified her embarrassment, but still she fibbed, “No, not at all, Mr. Taylor. I assure you, I am full of energy. I was merely going down my mental list of projects, and it helps if I close my eyes to envision them better. I do not fall asleep on the job.” By the one-sided grin and lifted eyebrow he shot her direction, she knew she hadn’t fooled him one bit, but she’d be damned if she’d admit her lapse. Besides, it was her word against his— he had no way of proving that she’d dozed off. And anyway, it couldn’t have been for more than a second or two, surely. *** An hour later, they’d managed to get the lights on the tree, and most of the ornaments up. And now, it was time for its crowning glory: the star. “I think we’re going to need something to stand on to get this on properly. Even with your height, it will no doubt go on crooked otherwise.” She turned her gaze from the top of the tree onto Mr. Taylor’s. “Do you have a step-stool or a small ladder, perhaps?” He shrugged, as he too, studied the top of the tree. “There’s a step-stool in the kitchen, but it still may not offer enough height. Let me run out to the garage and see if Grandpa still had a ladder out there.” Turning toward the dining room, he said, “I’ll be back in a minute.” Not long later, after Mr. Taylor’s quest was successful, and after they’d both taken a few minutes to clean the dirt and cobwebs off of it, she watched as he positioned it next to the tree and proceeded to climb up. “Yep, this’ll work just fine,” he said, “Hand me the star, will you?” 14
She released the star from its snug red velvet impression inside its box and lifted it up to his outstretched hand. “Be careful, the glass is fragile. It looks vintage—is it?” She herself nearly dropped the thing, when, for the fifth or sixth time that evening, her flesh met his and a tremor went through her. In fact, the power of that last jolt of desire made her realize it was past time she left. “Yeah, I guess it is. My grandmother told me her mother bought it for her and my granddad their first Christmas together after they were married. It must be over 50 years old. You’re right, I don’t want to bust this.” “Yes, well. That looks just fine, Mr. Taylor. I’d best be going now, I’ve got an early morning tomorrow. Good night, then.” She didn’t wait for him to descend the ladder, simply grabbed up her purse, her clipboard, and jacket, and headed for the door. “Hey, wait! I’ll walk you to your car.” She barely looked at him over her shoulder as she continued her trajectory. “No! I mean, no need.” In the next seconds, she was out the door, across the porch, and heading, as fast as her loafered feet could take her, down the walkway to Candie’s spangled art car. At the driver’s side door, she ripped at the opening of her purse and dug inside. And dug inside. And dug inside. Where the hell are you, you piece of shit keys? Damn. She was going to have to dump her purse out to find them. She’d just done that on the top of the rounded front trunk of the VW Beetle when Mr. Adam Taylor came cruising out of his lair and started toward her down the walkway. Oh, why won’t you just go away? She plastered an unconcerned smile on her face and looked at him at the same time she lunged for a tube of lip gloss that went rolling toward the front of the car. “I seem to be having a bit of trouble finding my keys. I’m sure they’re here somewhere. It’s awfully cold, Mr. Taylor. Why don’t you go back inside, and I’ll be through here and away in no time.” “You can’t find your keys?” Hello! What did I just say, you idiot, gorgeous hunk of flesh?? “No, but I’m sure they’re here somewhere.” Unfortunately, it had become clear to her that they actually weren’t in her purse, and now her heart was beating with dread as well as irritation, as well as sexual excitement. “Do you think they fell out in my SUV?” Now that was an intelligent response. As well as a good idea. Relief washed through her and her smile was huge this time. “Yes! That must be what happened to them.” “I’ll just run in and get my keys. I’ll be back in a flash.” ~End of Excerpt~
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