Find My Way Home (Harmony Homecomings) (6 page)

Dottie shook her head, but her lacquered blond curls never moved. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do when you move to Atlanta in three weeks. It won’t be the same around here. That design firm doesn’t know what a prize they’re getting.” She patted Bertie’s hand, nodded in Keith’s direction, and sashayed toward the bar.

Atlanta? Great! She’d be moving in three weeks and he wouldn’t have to worry about grabbing her and shoving her down on the nearest surface so he could push himself inside her. Surely he could hold himself in check for three more weeks.

Bertie’s bottom lip appeared swollen where she’d been gnawing on it. Worry lines marred her smooth features. Then it hit him like an ace down the T: she wasn’t going anywhere as long as one hundred and fifty thousand dollars sat on the table. Damn Francesca.

“I’ll give you three hundred thousand dollars to leave town.”

“Of all the…the very idea…I’m so mad I could spit!” Bertie ranted behind the bar as she shoved soapy glassware under the running water.

“Whoa there, Trigger.” Cal grabbed a glass from her slippery hands before she added it to the already broken collection on the floor as her temper reached the boiling point.

“Why don’t you head on home before you start smashing plates? I’ll finish cleaning up.” Cal thrust a dry dish towel at her and turned her toward the door. The bar had closed an hour ago, but she stayed behind to help clean. She often did to distract herself from worry—if breaking glassware constituted cleaning.

“Take my car.” Cal unlocked the front door and handed Bertie his keys along with her handbag.

“How will you get home?” she asked, palming the keys. Cal lived farther outside the city limits.

“Don’t worry ab—”

“Cal, you almost done?”

Bertie glanced across the bar to the office door where Angie, one of the gals who worked downtown, leaned against the doorframe with a sulky look on her face. Apparently, she’d been kept waiting by Cal the Casanova.

“Geez, Cal,” Bertie muttered under her breath. “Are you actually dating her?” Cal pulled the front door open. “She isn’t going to go quietly when you dump her, you know.”

Cal gave her an extra shove. “You’re the one with the problem. Now get moving. You have a lot of ranting, raving, and hair pulling to do.” He shut the door in her face and turned the deadbolt. Bertie trudged over to Cal’s SUV parked in the side lot. She drove the three miles to her home on the near empty streets of Harmony, wondering what the heck she was going to do. Not that she was even considering taking Mr. Perfectly Rude’s offer to leave town for three hundred thousand dollars. The nerve. As if she could be bought like that. Okay, maybe she could, but not from him and not like that. After Keith had insulted her with his outrageous offer, he apologized, glimpsing her horrified expression. Once the outrage over what he suggested had dissipated, Bertie had told him in a calm voice to enjoy the rest of his meal and then stormed away from the booth.

To stay in Harmony would be professional suicide, but to go would be suicide on a whole other personal level. She could do a lot with the money she’d make on Keith’s job, like finishing renovations on her home and helping with some of the maintenance at the Dog, and that didn’t include the outrageous bonus of one hundred and fifty smackers from Aunt Franny. Bertie unlocked her kitchen door, tossing her handbag on the antique bench by the back door, and retrieved a bottle of water from the refrigerator. As she pressed the refrigerator door closed, her eye caught the two pictures stuck under sparkly shoe and handbag magnets. Bertie slipped the picture down of four-year-old Jorge Bianco, smiling and clutching a rusted John Deere toy tractor to his small chest in front of a small, brand-new yellow-painted house—a home she and Gary had helped to build through the charity organization Dwelling Place. Bertie had spent endless days and nights raising money through pancake breakfasts, school carnivals, karaoke contests at the Dog, and countless other fund-raisers. They had managed to help complete two houses for the charity and give homes to families like Jorge’s who couldn’t afford decent housing on migrant workers’ pay. Bertie enjoyed working on those two homes with their low budgets and tight spaces almost as much as the elaborate designs of her prominent clients. Dwelling Place could always use funds, especially now, when there were so many migrant families in need outside of Harmony. Bertie slid the snapshot back under the magnet and pulled out her cell phone, pressing a name under favorites.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” a sleepy voice answered.

“I’ve been thinking,” Bertie said, tapping her fingernails against her countertop.

“Not again,” Gary moaned.

***

The pounding inside Keith’s head caused his groggy eyes to open. As he lay on his rumpled mattress, blinking at the lazy, lopsided circles of the white ceiling fan, he realized it wasn’t his head pounding. The sound was coming from outside. More specifically, the side of his house. Keith bolted out of bed and stomped to the back door in his bare feet. He flung the door open and stepped out on the porch, unmindful that he wore only pajama bottoms and a good case of bedhead.

He blinked at the sight of construction workers crawling all over his lawn. Carpenters were ripping off old, rotten shutters, and painters were sanding and stripping paint. But the biggest shocker had to be Bertie, standing in the middle of his backyard, gesturing with one hand, while the other hand held the leash to what looked to be a brown, shaggy mongrel with a floppy purple bow tied around its neck. Keith gave his head a violent shake, wondering if this was another bad dream disturbing his sleep since moving to Pleasantville. He hadn’t seen Bertie in two days, since she had left him in a huff at the bar. He’d secretly hoped maybe, if he laid low for a couple days, this whole debacle would disappear…like Bertie would leave town as planned and his aunt would come to her senses and call off this ridiculous bride-in-a-bag search.

“Hey,” he croaked. No one heard him over the commotion. Keith cleared his throat. “Hey!” Still, no one paid him any mind. Shoving his thumb and forefinger in his mouth, he let out a shrill whistle. Bertie’s head jerked in his direction at the same time the mongrel beast tore across the yard at full speed, pulling Bertie behind him.

“
Sweeet
Teeea!
” Bertie yelled, still holding the leash. Hair flying, short skirt lifted, Bertie squealed as she fell out of her colorful clogs and landed headfirst into a pile of mulch Keith had delivered the other day for ground cover. The dropped leash trailed across the grass as the barking mongrel bolted around the corner of the house.

“
Dios
mio!
” One of the painters charged over to Bertie. “Ms. Bertie, are you okay?” he asked in a heavy accent, bending down to help her up.

Bertie scrambled to straighten her short, flared skirt and extended her hand to the painter to help her up. Keith ambled over to assist…hoping to get a look at the goods underneath. Even better, Bertie brushed mulch from the long sleeves of her tie-dyed lace tunic, unaware that the string closure at the top had come undone, showcasing the tops of her creamy breasts. Keith gave a sigh of pure appreciation. Bertie looked up and locked gazes with him. His lips twitched, trying to hide his smile.

“Well, isn’t this a beautiful morning?” he said as he reached and picked a piece of mulch from her tangled hair.

Bertie stumbled back, and her brow furrowed, as if she couldn’t understand why he’d be standing in his own backyard. She almost lost her balance again between the pile of mulch and the foolish bushy mongrel who decided to return to the scene of the crime and bump the side of her leg. Keith grabbed her elbow to keep her upright. When he was certain she was steady, he pulled her with him toward the house, scooping up her clogs along the way.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” Bertie said as she skipped to keep up. “Julio, please grab Sweet Tea’s leash and put him back in my car. Windows are cracked,” she called to one of the workers.

Keith couldn’t believe that shaggy beast of a dog wearing a stupid purple bow was Sweet Tea. Poor dog. Man, Dottie Duncan of the Toot-N-Tell won serious points for small-town weirdness. Keith opened the screen door to the porch, keeping a firm grip on Bertie’s elbow. Dropping her clogs on the wood floor, he led her to the kitchen. “Sit,” he commanded, pointing to one of the two ladder-back chairs next to an old farm table.

“Let me explain—”

“Sit.” He pushed her into a chair and headed for the coffeemaker next to the old farm sink. He made quick work of measuring out scoops of coffee and setting the carafe on the burner. He couldn’t deal with any more drama without his caffeine fix. The rich aroma permeated the not-so-still morning air. Keith pulled down two mismatched mugs from the upper cabinet and set them next to the coffeemaker. He leaned against the cabinets and crossed his arms, fixing Bertie with his famous Morgan glare, the one he used to stare down an opponent on the other side of the net. But watching Bertie squirm as she curled her pink-painted toes around the rung of the chair made him feel like laughing, not fighting.

“Explain,” he said, struggling to keep the edge in his voice as he stared at her tangled hair with bits of mulch peeking through.

Bertie released a huge breath. “I’ve got three months to get this place looking beautiful, and there’s not a minute to waste.”

Keith pushed his fingers through his own unkempt hair. “Christ. So, you’re taking the money.” Like he didn’t know. A yard full of construction workers was a pretty good sign.

The color pink infused her cheeks. “It’s a lot of money,” she mumbled, fiddling with the ties to her top.

The coffeemaker spit and sputtered as it finished brewing. Keith poured the steaming morning elixir in the mugs, wishing for an extra strong
cafecito
from his favorite Cuban coffee stand instead. “Cream and sugar?”

“Cream, please.”

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.”