Home Matters (A Ripple Effect Romance Novella, Book 1) (6 page)

Pete loaded his drill with another screw and pressed the sharp tip to the wall. “Speaking of which, I hear you’re shooting some segments with my guys tomorrow.” He depressed the drill’s trigger. “Refinishing a dressing table for the nursery and hanging drywall?” he said over the loud whirring.

Typically, switching on a blow dryer or taking the occasional turn around her apartment behind a vacuum cleaner was the closest Olivia dared come to using a tool powered by electricity. She watched the two-inch screw disappear easily into the wall. “How hard can it be?” she said, pretending not to be overly concerned.

Pete hooked the drill back to his belt and reached for another sheet of drywall. “Right,” he said, like he could see right through her. “Whatever you say, Peaches.”

A prickly burr worked its way up her spine. One minute he was warm and friendly, and the next, teasing her for no good reason. “Excuse me?” she chided. “It’s ‘Peach.’ And my daddy’s the only person on God’s green earth allowed to call me that. So, I’d much appreciate it if you’d refrain from now on.”

A wry smile lit his eyes with mischief. “All right,” he conceded. “How ’bout I call you Olive instead?”

Olivia knotted her arms together and held her position. “How ’bout Olivia?”

Replacing the drywall to the stack, he sidestepped until he was facing her straight on, then reached out and lifted her glasses to rest on top of her head. “No, I think Olive is better.” He hijacked her gaze with his. “It matches your eyes when you’re angry and not hiding behind those ridiculous contacts.”

“What could I possibly have to hide?” she challenged.

Crossing his arms over a set of firm pecs, Pete looked to the ceiling in thought. “For starters,” he began, “you have an overwhelming fear that you’ll never be good enough for either the career you’ve chosen or the love of a man who deserves you.”

Planting one hand firmly to either side of her, he leaned closer. “Which only exacerbates the fact that you might never have kids though there’s an ache inside you yearning for a family. But how can you heed that impulse when your mother’s happiness depends on living her own lost dreams vicariously through you?” He finished by sending her a piercing look of concern, a thread from his heart to hers. “That’s a lot of pressure, taking responsibility for someone else’s dreams at the expense of your own happiness.”

Her chest heaved up, then down, for want of sufficient breath. “I’m, um… not…” She didn’t know how to respond. She wanted so badly to lash back with a snarky retort, to disprove every assumption he’d made. But layer-by-layer, he’d peeled back her thick shell of pretense, exposing the fears and desires she’d kept securely hidden from everyone, including herself. Consequently, she didn’t know whether to slap him or throw her arms around his neck and sob into his shoulder. Her only choice left was to move, to get away from Pete and his probing eyes.

Tearing her gaze from his, she made a move to escape. Only before she got far, Pete’s fingertip touched her cheek—so soft, so powerful. Starting with her hair, his eyes circled her face, searching, questioning, and lastly softening as they lit upon her lips.

Dipping his head, his mouth inched to within a breath of hers where he waited, she assumed, for her to close the distance or pull away. She did neither. Even if she’d known which response to choose she couldn’t have moved. Her body had frozen, her jackhammering heart pumping blood faster than her muscles knew what to do with. After a long beat, he leaned the rest of the way and touched his lips softly to hers—just the brush of a kiss, and then another, and another. Gentle, and yet Olivia had never felt more consumed by a man’s touch. She wanted more, so much more.

A creaking sound interrupted whatever may have come next. The intrusion was barely audible but blaring enough to disrupt the magic.

Olivia’s nerves already on high alert, she arched back, slamming her head into the wall. “For the love of…” she cried, a string of unladylike words—the four-letter variety—following close behind. Pete pulled back as well.

“Olivia?” a questioning voice said.

Rubbing the hurt from a lump forming on the back of her head, she followed the sound of her name to the fuzzy image of a man peering through a gaping hole in the wall between the formal living room and kitchen.

She dropped her glasses back to her nose. “William? What are you doing here?”

He tucked what looked like a small camera into his blazer pocket. “I was looking for you. What else?”

A flash from a camera phone lit Olivia’s peripheral vision. She sent a shy smile over the table to William. While he appeared altogether unaffected by the attention, she felt positively giddy. Soon the world would know that Olivia Pembroke, a former nobody-special, had been out on the town with America’s Heartthrob. In the words of Pete, “Who’d a thunk?”

Pete
… She didn’t want to think about him right now, or how she should feel about what had transpired between them earlier. Finding herself alone with him—kissing him—it had all been so random, had happened too fast, and she couldn’t wrap her brain around what it meant. And didn’t want to. Knowing Pete, the kiss was nothing more than his way of crawling under her skin. Seeing how much irritation he could cause.

William reached over the table and touched her hand. He looked smolderingly handsome in a black turtleneck, dark-wash designer jeans, and a wool blazer. Around them, walls paneled in a natural wood finish reached high to an industrial ceiling, mixing cozy with contemporary to create the perfect atmosphere. Tonight, the tables were filled to capacity, the restaurant founded by one of America’s most beloved Southern cooks abuzz with activity.

“I didn’t realize it would be so loud in here,” he said, his hand now subtly caressing the back of hers. “I can barely hear myself think.”

Olivia swung her eyes to the unoccupied side of the table between them. “You could always move closer,” she suggested.

William’s gaze never left hers as he said, “Why don’t I do just that?” and he swiveled his chair into position at her side.

“Evening, Mr. Blaine. Miss Pembroke,” a man’s voice broke through the heat of their locked gazes. “My name’s Timothy, and it’ll be my pleasure to serve you tonight,” their waiter said, then went on to describe the night’s specials. “Can I start you out with something to drink? And an appetizer? May I suggest the fried green tomatoes? They’re a house favorite.”

“Scotch, neat,” William said and held up two fingers.

Timothy’s smile stretched thin. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blaine, but we don’t have a bar,” he apologized.

William eyed the waiter as if considering whether or not to protest. Olivia didn’t drink scotch, or any other hard liquor for that matter. She took advantage of the pause to subtly say as much. “Iced tea, please,” she said, giving the waiter her best smile. “Half sweet, half un-sweet, with a splash of lemonade.”

“Delightful,” Timothy said and turned back to William. “And for you, sir? Might I suggest a nice white wine? We have a Montevina I believe you’d enjoy. It’s not the most expensive, but in my opinion, price doesn’t always equate to quality when it comes to a good wine.”

Without giving the waiter’s suggestion the slightest of considerations, William waved the offer away. “Not just yet. I’ll have whatever my lovely date is having for now.” He turned back to Olivia with an affectionate smile. “And an order of those tomatoes,” he added without consulting her. Her mouth had been watering since the words “fried-green-tomatoes” had exited the waiter’s lips. She and William’s connection must be stronger than she thought. It was like he could read her mind.

When Timothy had moved away, William muttered from the corner of his mouth. “Like I’ll be paying for any of it anyway.” He winked. A thrill raced through Olivia’s chest at the possibility that someday, based solely on her celebrity status, restaurants and the like might comp her bill too.

“So, where were we?” William wanted to know.

Just getting started
, Olivia hoped, but didn’t dare say so out loud. “You were asking how the renovation was coming along, and I was scolding you for thinking that just because you’re devastatingly handsome, I would swoon into divulging such sensitive information. And telling you to mind your own business.” Pursing her lips, she gazed at him playfully from under the sweep of her false eyelashes. “So why don’t you tell me a little about yourself instead?” she suggested, as if she hadn’t googled him at least a half-dozen times since arriving in Savannah. According to her research, his favorite color was red. He loved sushi. Was an only child. And had grown up in Santa Barbara, California, behind the gates of a posh community overlooking the ocean. His mother was a successful realtor, his father a land developer. He’d attended one of those highbrow prep-schools, was an accomplished Polo player, drove fast cars, dated a string of beautiful women, and had never been married nor engaged.

In contrast, Olivia was none of the above. Sure, she’d grown up in a wealthy community that boasted many of the country music industry’s rich and famous, but her life had not been privileged. And though the five-figure income her father earned teaching at one of the local universities was respectable, it was nowhere near substantial enough to comfortably keep up with the Brentwood lifestyle. Still, her mother had insisted upon purchasing a home in one of the community’s older neighborhoods, convinced that a zip code alone would ensure Olivia and her four older brothers successes. Growing up, Olivia had clipped a mountain of coupons, shopped at designer consignment stores, and driven luxury cars her father and brothers had refurbished in the shop behind their house.

Dropping his chin to his hand, William stared at Olivia, his eyes like chocolate satin, transfixed on her. “What would you like to know?”

Unaccustomed to being gazed intently upon, and by a man so utterly beautiful, she felt her cheeks prickle with fire. “Well, for starters, what kind of music do you like?” she asked. She already knew jazz was his favorite—her least favorite—but she wondered (hoped, really) he had other musical interests.

He snapped out of his trance. “Huh?” he said. “Mostly iazz. Truffaz and Parks.” He sounded rather uninterested in his own choices.

Olivia had no idea who either of those artists was. “Ever listen to country, indie rock, classic alternative?” she asked, suggesting a few of her favorites. “Elvis Costello, maybe?”

“Elvis who?”

Olivia’s chin dropped, aghast. She quickly snapped it back into place. How was it even possible he didn’t know the greatest songwriter who ever lived?

A woman with a basket tucked under her arm appeared at the table and placed what looked like a small pancake and a cheese biscuit on each of their bread plates. Both had been fried to a perfect golden brown. Olivia’s mouth watered all over again.

“Compliments of the house,” she said, her eyes dancing toward William with obvious delight at having the opportunity to serve such a popular celebrity. “Try adding a helping of syrup. And don’t be shy, there’s plenty more where these came from.” She tilted her brimming basket for Olivia and William to see. “I’ll be coming around from time to time.” She sent William one last look of elation before moving on to the next table.

Olivia hadn’t tasted “real” fried food since the last time she’d been home. She dropped a quarter-sized circle of syrup onto her plate. The prongs of her fork had only begun advancing toward the biscuit when William’s fingers closed around hers.

“Here, let me,” he said.

Olivia looked from her biscuit to her date. He sent her a come-hither smile that shot a ripple of excitement all the way to her empty stomach. In anticipation of this evening, and wanting to look her best in her crimson, fitted sheath dress, she hadn’t eaten all day, which wasn’t unusual. What was unusual, however, was her insanely ravenous appetite.

“Oh, okay,” she said, relenting her fork into his waiting hand.

His fingers lingered on hers before pulling away. “I appreciate a girl with a healthy appetite,” he said as he cut a small triangle from the pancake and lifted the bite to her waiting lips.

As far as she could remember, she’d never been fed by a man, and certainly never in public. Weird and thrilling at the same time. “Why, thank you, kind sir,” she demurred as he slipped the bite into her mouth. A drip of syrup fell from the fork and landed on her bottom lip. “Oops.” She reached for her napkin. But before she could bring the cloth to her lips, William reached out, swiped the drop from her mouth with the tip of his finger, and slipped it between his parted lips.

Olivia all but melted in her chair.

Timothy reappeared at the table. “Two iced teas. Half sweet, half non, with a splash of lemonade.” He set a glass, filled to the brim and garnished with a sprig of mint in front of Olivia, then one next to William. “Do you two need another minute to consult the menu?”

William flicked the waiter a look. “We’ll have two specials—the snapper—and a salad with vinaigrette on the side,” he rattled off as if he couldn’t be bothered with such a trivial matter. “And could you leave off the lime butter sauce, please?”

“Excellent choice, Mr. Blaine,” Timothy enthused. “Your appetizers should be out in a jiff,” he added and rushed off.