Find My Way Home (Harmony Homecomings) (2 page)

Bertie could feel the color drain from her face. Not trusting her shaky hand, she placed her untouched coffee on the dark green granite countertop.

“Cal, tell me you’re joking.”

“Dead serious. Would know him anywhere.”

She scanned his handsome face for any signs of his usual smirk. For once in his life, Calvin’s laughing, light-brown eyes never looked more serious. Crap. What had she done?

“He’s a professional tennis player? As in…he’s been on national television? Played at Wimbledon?”

Cal nodded. “Along with every other Grand Slam tournament.”

“Oh gawd. I’m such an idiot.” Bertie turned wild eyes to Gary. “Okay, here’s the thing…at first, I assumed he was the electrician. He came in right after you called and asked for Bert Anderson, like he was reporting in. And then he looked so perfect…you know, too perfect,” she said, choking on the last sentence.

Gary groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.”

Bertie paced in front of the large custom-made kitchen island, her high heels making an ominous clicking sound against the flagstone floor.

“
What?
I didn’t come right out and say it.” Exasperation colored her voice. Both Cal and Gary looked dubious.

“I may have implied…a teensy-weensy bit…that he was maybe…you know…gay.”

Gary moaned as if in pain and Cal burst out laughing, spewing coffee across the island top. “He’s not, if the last Victoria’s Secret model he dated is any indication,” Cal said between hoots of laughter.

“I know. He corrected me. But this is still sooo embarrassing.” She grabbed a wad of paper towels to wipe up the splattered mess. She stopped mid-swipe as Cal’s other bomb hit her.

“What do you mean, he bought the old Victorian?”

Bertie had eyed that house for years, always wanting to get her hands on it and fix it up. It had such great potential. Right now it appeared a little dated and in bad shape, but she knew with her expertise, it could be renewed to its former glory…but that was all in the past. Time to move on to a new city with new opportunities.

“Excuse me? All done with the chandelier.”

Bertie froze when Mr. Perfect, aka Keith Morgan, interrupted from the doorway to the dining room. No one spoke for several beats. The air in the kitchen grew uncomfortably hot, as if both ovens were cranked up to 500 degrees with the doors wide open.

She slumped against the wood cabinets like a limp noodle dangling from a pot of boiling water. He was straight, gorgeous, famous,
and
the owner of her dream house. Bertie’s chest tightened, thinking about the old Victorian inhabited by a complete stranger.

“Hey, Keith. Welcome to town,” Cal said, extending his hand. “Calvin Anderson, and this is Gary Johnson. And I think you’ve met my sister, Bertie.” Cal indicated with a jerk of his head.

Keith nodded as he stepped forward and shook hands, and to Gary he said with a straight face, “My special
friend
, I presume?”

“I…uh…I’m already seeing someone,” Gary mumbled.

“Forget about it,” Keith said, his voice tinged with humor, then he pinned Bertie with a questioning stare. “No way in hell could you be mistaken for a Bert.”

Leaning as far back as the solid cabinets would allow, she would’ve crawled inside them if she thought she’d fit; her face flamed red hot.

Cal explained. “
Bertie
…it’s short for—” She cut Cal off with an I’m-gonna-strangle-you look before he could further elaborate.

Keith ignored the death glare she aimed at Cal. As he drew closer, his tall frame looked out of proportion in the room, taking up more than his allotted space and all the air, if that was possible, making breathing difficult.

“I wanted to speak to you about a decorating job. You came highly recommended, but it appears you have your hands full.” He continued to stare down at her, wearing a slight frown as if trying to sort the pieces of a puzzle in his mind.

Bertie stood there doing a good imitation of a guppy with her mouth, making no sound.

Her brother, the ass, snickered. “Uh,
Bert
, call you later. Gotta go. Glad to meet you, Keith.”

“Yeah, need to pick up those lamps.” Gary, the traitor, scurried after Cal.

Deserters. Losers. Both of them.

She moistened her dry lips with her tongue, weighing her next words. “Keith…uh, may I call you Keith?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Okay, here’s the thing,” Bertie said on a nervous laugh. “I was expecting an electrician because Gary had just called and then you came in and…I…uh, well…you know the rest. I’m sorry to admit I didn’t recognize you… I’m not much of a tennis fan.” She stumbled over her inept explanation as his dark features went from intense to unreadable. She straightened from her position against the cabinets and squared her shoulders.

His expression remained aloof. “Forget about it. I didn’t expect you to recognize me, and I didn’t mind helping out with the lights.”

“You didn’t?” she said, her eyes widening.

“Nah. You needed help, and it wasn’t a big deal. Besides, I mistook you for a man named Bert.” What he didn’t say spoke volumes—that no one could mistake her five-foot-two, round-hipped, rounder-boobed self for a man.

She cleared her throat and her head at the same time. “No worries, people make that mistake all the time.” She jerked on the hem of her cropped jacket, wishing it was longer, to hide her expanding hips. “As I’m sure you’ve been mistaken for a…uh…” Bertie blinked at Keith. What made her think he was even remotely gay when he blasted such a high voltage of testosterone it practically knocked her into the next county? “…football player?”

He lifted one mocking brow. “Uh-huh, I get that a lot.”

“Um, you mentioned something about a job.” Not that she was the least bit interested. No, siree. She needed to finish up here, pack her car, and hit the highway for the big city seven hours southwest of Small Town, USA. She had newer, bigger dreams to pursue before the noose of Harmony tightened around her neck even more. But she couldn’t stop picturing the Victorian house and thinking that it wouldn’t hurt to hear him out. Her curiosity got the best of her, plain and simple.

Keith hesitated as though he didn’t quite trust her. No…more like he saw her as some hick, small-town designer who didn’t know the difference between a chair and a chair rail. His obvious reluctance started to grate on her nerves. She lifted a brow at him, but before she could do something foolish, like list her impressive qualifications and sell her creative talent in order to get the job, his lips curved into what could’ve passed as a smile, if it had only reached his unreadable, dark eyes.

“I need help renovating the house on the corner of Main and Carver,” he said slowly.

Her breath left her lungs in a whoosh. “Not the old Victorian with the wraparound porch?”

“Yeah, peeling teal blue shutters. Why?”

Damn. So it was true.
She shook her head. “I’m surprised. I had no idea it was even up for sale.”

He reached into his front pocket and pulled out an old key dangling from a plastic lime-green key tag, with the address printed in dark, bold letters.

“Got the key right here,” he said as he wiggled it in front of her face. “Look, I came by to see if you’d be interested in helping with the design. I can do most of the work myself, but my aunt said you were talented and thought you’d welcome the challenge.” He hesitated again. “This probably isn’t a good idea. You seem really busy and short-handed.” He shoved the key back in his pocket.

“Wait!” She lunged forward as if to grab the key from his hand before it disappeared along with her dreams. “This can’t be happening.”

Keith shot Bertie a look that implied
you’re weirder than a tacky disco lava lamp.
“Look, lady, it’s okay. This job doesn’t seem to be suited for you.”

“You’re wrong! I’d be perfect for this job.”

What had gotten into her? Certainly not this guy, who obviously thought she was nuts and couldn’t handle his renovation. She
was
nuts. She had no business entertaining a design proposal on the old Victorian. She needed to focus on getting out of town as soon as possible, not find ways to make herself stay until she
had
to leave for her new job.

He shook his head in dismissal and moved to leave. Not that she blamed him, because she hadn’t said anything right since meeting him.

“Give me a shot. When do you want me?” she blurted before he reached the door.

Keith slowly turned with a half smile curling his lips. She realized too late that she sounded suggestive, or even worse…
desperate.
His gaze undressed her from the tops of her peep-toe pumps to right below her chin.

She crossed her arms over her breasts, trying to smash her ample C cups into a size B. “I meant what time would you like to meet?” she said, her voice dripping with disdain.

Again, there was that darn hesitation as his smarmy smile disappeared. Okay, smarmy might be a bit harsh…maybe heart-stopping and a little sexy would be more accurate.

“Three o’clock, today.”

“I’ll be there,” she said through tight lips.

He gave a curt nod, and as he started to head out, an old, wiry worker with thin, gray hair and a scraggly beard poked his head through the back door.

“Hey, I’m Hal. Gary sent me. You got some electrical work?”

“Wonderful. Yes, I need you desperately,” she said, clapping her hands with dramatic flair. “You can start upstairs.”

“My pleasure, ma’am. Let me get my tools.” Hal nodded and grinned as he backed his way out.

Bertie groaned.

Keith whipped his head around with a look of disbelief and then burst out laughing, which did amazing things to his harsh features, transforming him from dark and brooding to dazzling and delicious. His laugh would’ve been contagious if she weren’t so ticked-off. She gave him a huge-ass eye roll and held up her index finger.

“Don’t
even
say it,” she admonished.

Hal was missing his two front teeth.

“Holy shit.” Keith slammed the screen door to the old house he now owned and stomped toward the back of the first floor. When he reached the bedroom where he’d dumped his belongings, he pulled the purple and green business card from his pocket and read it again.
House
Dressing. Bert
Anderson, Interior Designer.
Except he noticed an ink blob or scratch over the “ie” in Bertie’s name, which explained why he went hunting for a Bert instead of Bertie. A mattress with rumpled sheets lay on the floor, and he flicked the card on top of it. Since he’d pulled into town a few days ago, he hadn’t gotten around to unpacking or setting up house. He’d been way too busy working up a good, deep depression with a boatload of anger on top. That left no time for mundane tasks like unloading boxes or bringing in furniture.

He rummaged through a piece of luggage and pulled out Dri-FIT shorts and a faded, green Wimbledon T-shirt. Aunt Francesca had gone too far. It didn’t take a PhD to figure out why she hadn’t bothered to inform him that Bert was a woman. Christ. Wasn’t it enough that he’d moved to Mayberry to live in this drafty, old house as he promised? And now Aunt Francesca wanted him to hire Betty Boop, the crazy interior decorator who thought he was gay!

Picturing Bertie Anderson in those ridiculous high heels perched on that ladder made Keith want to howl like a wolf caught in a trap. She was trouble with a triple T—as in Tight skirt, Tiny waist, and big Tits. The kind of trouble he swore he’d never get involved with again. And dammit, Aunt Francesca knew that better than anyone. Bertie Anderson had
baby
doll
bombshell
written all over her, with big green eyes that could make any male drown in his own drool. Aunt Francesca knew his tarnished track record almost better than he did. So why in holy hell would she insist he use Betty Boop as his designer?

He threw on his running clothes, laced up his latest neon Nike sneakers, and barged out the same screen door he’d come through minutes earlier. He didn’t bother warming up his muscles before he took off running as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.

Keith’s pace slowed after five miles. At the end of thirty-five minutes, he bent down and gripped the hem of his shorts, gulping for air, trying to fill his burning lungs. He squinted at the packed dirt and grass as sweat dripped off his face and nose. Usually exercise gave him a natural high, but lately, not so much.

He rose and moved closer to the shade provided by the surrounding pine trees and tall oaks. His home, with the peeling paint and broken shutters, came in view right past the grove of trees.
What
the
hell
am
I
doing
in
this
town
again?
He wiped the sweat off his face with the bottom of his shirt. Oh yeah, turning over a new leaf. Getting his life in order so he’d quit pissing it away on cold booze and hot women. Shit. Life shouldn’t be this hard.

***

With a couple of clicks on the keyboard, Keith Morgan’s striking image popped up on the screen of Bertie’s laptop. He stood with his Nike tennis hat drawn low over his dark eyes—eyes that conveyed everything from strength to fierce competitiveness to keen intelligence. Bertie studied the enigmatic figure who dominated her screen the same way he had dominated the kitchen of her client’s house earlier.

She sat in one of the colorful booths in the back of the Dogwood Bar & Grill, “the Dog” to locals. Her parents, Sarah and John Anderson, had owned the restaurant when they were alive, but now Cal ran it with Bertie’s help when she could spare the time. Cal bent over her shoulder and read the article on the computer as the lunch crowd began to trickle in.

“Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?” She scanned the caption to learn as much as possible about Keith Morgan. Why would this famous tennis player decide to grow roots in Harmony, population 11,339, of all places? The old Victorian had been in the Fleming family for decades. The parents had moved away years ago when they’d gotten too old to take care of it, and the kids had left way before that. None of them seemed interested in selling it—until now.

But why Keith Morgan? Okay, so he was a professional tennis player and probably had gobs of money and was willing to pay top dollar in this economy…but still. Bertie had always dreamed about one day living in that house. She even fantasized about converting the first floor into her very own design studio
.

Cal gave a low whistle as he read. “He made it to the semifinals at Wimbledon twice and the French Open twice. He won the U.S. Open right before he retired. He was sixth in the ATP world ranking.”

She scrolled down the page with the mouse. “Why is that such a big deal? He only won one tournament.”

He snorted and smacked his own forehead. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to be top ten in the world in tennis? He won plenty of tournaments. You’re only reading how far he got in the Grand Slams. He was a great tennis player. One of the few Americans to watch, especially on clay,” her brother spouted off. A sports fanatic, Cal knew a little bit about every sport on the planet from football to tennis to tiddledywinks.

She cocked her head. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why clay?”

“Because most Americans train on hard courts and don’t perform well on the clay court circuit, but apparently the Prince did.” He pointed at the screen.

“Because of his training?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I think he grew up privileged, training at country clubs. They’re mostly clay.”

“I want to know about his personality.” She clicked the mouse and more images popped up of Keith serving something called a kick serve. According to the article, he had one of the best, along with a classic one-handed backhand. His intensity poured off the screen, almost tangible.

Bertie had no clue what it took to qualify for a Grand Slam or anything about training, and she didn’t pretend to care. She wanted to know what made Mr. Perfect tick. She needed to know if he had an aversion to the color red or if florals threatened his masculinity. Did he prefer hardwood or carpet? Draperies or shutters? Fabric or leather? Important information that could make or break a design proposal. None of that information appeared alongside his tennis stats. Not that she had any intentions of accepting his not-so-enthusiastic offer to work on the house. Nope. She had her car half-packed and the design mecca of the South had already sent her an engraved invitation.
Hotlanta…here I come!

Cal tapped the screen. “Besides his incredible record, he made about thirty-six million in career prize money. That’s not including endorsements.”

Wow. Talk about a truckload of money. What
was
he doing in Harmony?

“The Prince retired four years ago. Apparently he was married, but his wife died a few years back. Hmmm, doesn’t say why he retired though.” Cal continued to scan the article.

“A wife? How did she die?” She clicked on the link that referred to Adriana Morgan. A smiling Latin beauty, with dark hair and darker eyes filled the screen. Bertie and Cal read the tragic story of her death in a fiery car accident on the MacArthur Causeway in Miami. Apparently it had happened early one Saturday morning, returning from a night of club hopping on South Beach. Alcohol and sleep deprivation were listed as causes of the accident.

“How sad.” She felt sorry for him. What a terrible way to die and for someone so young. Maybe that explained why he seemed a bit grim and guarded. Bertie remembered only too well how her dad had shut down after their mom had died. He mourned her up until his own death seven years later. Bertie and Cal had practically raised themselves once their mom was gone and their dad became a shell of the man they once knew.

“Yeah, and she left behind a baby girl.”

“What?” Her head snapped up and she scanned the article. “Keith Morgan has a daughter…poor baby,” she murmured. “She was only four when his wife died. So that makes her about…”

“Ten.”

“Why Harmony? You think he’s still grieving? That would explain his hesitation in wanting to hire me.”

Cal chuckled. “Sure, because his hesitation wouldn’t have anything to do with you calling him gay.” She knocked his arm with her elbow. “Hey!” He rubbed his forearm. “Look, I don’t know. I didn’t even know the Prince had a family.”

“Why do you keep calling him the Prince?” She clicked on more images of Keith playing tennis.

Cal pulled a cleaning rag from the apron tied around his trim waist and started wiping down her table. “He went to Princeton for two years before turning pro. From what I’ve heard, he’s pretty smart. I think he even finished his degree while he played. Apparently he reads a lot and handles all his own finances or something like that. He got stuck with the nickname early on.” As he scrubbed the table, a brown curl fell over his forehead. Cal always wore his thick, wavy hair a little too long, allowing it to brush the top of his collar.

“Oh. I assumed it had something to do with him being a prince of a guy with the ladies.” Bertie lifted her laptop so Cal could clean under it.

“Not unless you consider being a man ho a prince.”

“Man ho!” She almost dropped the laptop.

He grinned, flashing his straight, white teeth. “Yeah, I don’t know details, but apparently he was a pretty wild partier. You know, he got more pussy than a Kohler toilet seat.”

“Gross. I could do without the visuals.” She scowled up at her brother’s laughing eyes. “Was he a man ho while married?” That would make him pretty close to pond scum in Bertie’s book. Mr. Slimeball sounded more and more like a spoiled professional athlete.

He chuckled again. “Couldn’t say. Why don’t you open with that at your meeting?” Cal ruffled her hair like he’d done since the day he’d learned to walk, before sauntering over to the bar to help serve the lunch crowd.

She smoothed her thick hair back in place, casting an irritated look in his direction. As she sipped her Mason jar of iced tea, she looked out over the cramped dining area at the regulars in their usual seats, enjoying the special of the day. Bertie had eaten the turkey burger without the bun and the salad with the dressing on the side. She didn’t dare grab an order of the homemade fries, knowing she could never stop with just one.

Three young gals she recognized from the law firm downtown sat at the bar, flirting with Cal, a common occurrence any day of the week. Cal, one of the few good-looking, eligible bachelors left in Harmony, did not lack for female companionship. His quick wit, movie star hair, and athletic frame helped his cause, of course.

Miss Sue Percy waved Bertie over. She sat in the middle of the bar with Shirley Douglas. Both women had been old friends of her mother and Bertie had known them her whole life. They used to cluck after her as if she was their own little chick. Still did.

She snapped her laptop shut and headed over to greet the ladies at their favorite table, where they could oversee the entire restaurant.

“You’re looking real nice today, Bertie,” Miss Sue chirped.

Bertie smiled and patted her wrinkled hand. “Thanks.”

“Scott is coming into town this weekend, Bertha. I’m sure he will want to see you. I hope you’ll be free,” Shirley Douglas stated in her firm schoolteacher voice. Bertie barely refrained from cringing. First of all, Mrs. Douglas always called her by her given name, the name that had been the brunt of so many jokes growing up and was only made worse when coupled with her middle name, Mavis. Bertha Mavis, after both her grandmothers.

She loved her parents, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out why they would name their only daughter the two worst names in the English language. Thankfully, Cal shortened it to Bertie as a toddler. But ever since she’d stepped into Mrs. Douglas’s first-grade class, she’d been Bertha.

Of course Shirley would bring up Scott, her only son and Bertie’s first boyfriend…if you could call sharing lunch and holding hands near the back fence at Liza Palmer’s tenth birthday party a sizzling romance. Because that was the last time she remembered liking Scott in that way. For some reason, Scott never got the memo. He’d been actively pursuing her ever since.

She kept her smile from faltering. “All righty then. We’ll have to check our schedules. Uh, tell Scott I’ll be in touch.” Moving away suddenly looked better and better.

***

“Anyone home?” Bertie called out. The lead-glass front door sat ajar and she pushed it farther open. It was three o’clock on the dot.

She had sat in her battered but serviceable blue Honda CR-V across the street for a good ten minutes, trying to decide if she was going to keep this appointment. Her insatiable curiosity won, beating down her weak practical side. The heavy door creaked as it moved. Yep, only curiosity. Because she didn’t want this job. Really. She didn’t. She didn’t want to work for a rich, ex-professional tennis player who probably sported an attitude the size of the Pacific Ocean and an ego to match.

She stepped into the large foyer of the old home.

“Hello?” Her voice echoed in the empty grand house. Finding a front door unlocked in Harmony wasn’t unusual. Doors and gates were left unlocked all the time. She did have an appointment, but the house appeared deserted.

Her eyes wandered over the warm plaster walls. Her toes curled inside her pumps as she took in the old, wide-plank oak floors, which gleamed in the glow of the afternoon light filtering in from the dining room windows. She stepped into the glorious parlor to her left and froze as she spied the beautifully carved wood mantel that was clearly original to the house. Closing her eyes, she pictured ladies in ruffled, starched blouses, sipping tea on a blue velvet Victorian sofa. The scent of beeswax and vintage textiles hung in the air.

Bertie forgot all about her meeting and poked around for the small spiral notebook she’d shoved in her handbag. She went from room to room, snapping shots with her phone, noting the original woodwork and light fixtures, and making small sketches. She became so engrossed in her space planning that she forgot the time…and the fact that she might be trespassing an itty-bitty bit.