Find My Way Home (Harmony Homecomings) (3 page)

A screen door slammed, and her head shot up from the wood floor pattern she’d been copying. For the first time, she actually saw her surroundings. She stood in the middle of the one room that looked occupied throughout the empty house. The king-sized mattress on the floor with the rumpled sheets was a dead giveaway.

Oh my
gawd.

Panicked, Bertie dove for the first door to her right, in the nick of time—a closet jammed with packing boxes and men’s clothes hanging in a disorderly fashion. She crouched low behind a cardboard box stuffed with books seconds before she heard Keith come through his bedroom door.

“…yeah, it’s a regular Mayberry, complete with an honest-to-God barber shop on Main Street,” Keith said in a low voice.

She tried not to gasp for air as extreme fear and ultimate embarrassment crept its way up from the tips of her toes to her constricted lungs. The smell of cedar and old books tickled her nose. She could hear him on his cell loud and clear as he moved about the room.

“The house is actually great, but my aunt is trying to pull a fast one with this interior decorator.”

Interior
designer, you dummy.
She had a degree and a license to practice. Decorator implied a bored housewife who only dabbled.

“…I know…my aunt led me to believe it was a guy. Yeah, which I could’ve handled no problem. Uh-huh. She wants me to work with Betty Boop.”

Excuse
me? I am not Betty Boop.

His voiced died away as she strained to hear more. He must’ve stepped into another room. She needed to get out of this closet and out the front door without being discovered by Mr. Insensitive. As she attempted to uncurl her body and stand, his voice rang out.

“…hair like Jessica Rabbit, but she’s short and curvy like Betty Boop, with round, green eyes and exaggerated, curly eyelashes.”

Make up your mind. Betty Boop or Jessica Rabbit? There was a huge difference. And for the record, her eyelashes were not exaggerated. Sounds of him rifling through a box of clothes reached her ears. Her knees burned from crouching so low, and she stifled a yelp as her hair caught on a wire hanger.

“Yeah. The town is quaint and quiet. The perfect place for me to get away and settle down. But I don’t need my aunt riding my ass and I certainly don’t need her hiring my interior decorator from the cast of Looney Tunes characters that live here.”

Cartoon characters? The nerve. And who the hell was his aunt? Bertie wanted nothing more than to set Keith Morgan straight on a few things, but then she remembered she was hiding out in his closet next to his assortment of designer shoes, basically trespassing or breaking and entering—both crimes. Not good.

“Betty Boop is showing up any minute…” His voice became muffled again. Bertie edged closer to the door in her stooped position, straining to see through the slight crack to determine where Keith went. She heard water from a tap, which meant he was probably in the bathroom. She fished out her cell and punched in Gary’s number.

“Hey. I need your help.”

“Bertie? Why are you whispering?” Gary asked.

“Because I’m hiding in Keith Morgan’s closet and I need you to get me out.”

“I’m sorry, but it sounded like you said you were
hiding
in Keith Morgan’s closet.”

“I did. Don’t start. Just get me out of here. And don’t tell Cal. I’ll never hear the end of it,” she whispered feverishly. She could’ve sworn she heard Gary mumble, “this time you deserve it,” but she couldn’t be certain and she didn’t have time to argue.

“We don’t have much time. Come to his house and knock real loud on the front door while I sneak out the back. When he answers, tell him I’m running late, but I’m on my way.”

“This is nuts even for you. You know this is a really bad idea.”

“I’m begging you. You have to help me. I can’t be caught hiding in a closet. He already thinks we live in Mayberry. He’ll probably have me arrested and…I’ll get thrown in jail. And even worse…I’ll never get out of Harmony,” she wailed in a quiet voice.

“You’re talking crazy. Calm down. I’m on it. But I want a raise and—”

“Shhh.” She heard Keith’s shower go on. “Wait…” She listened as the water ran. “I think he’s taking a shower so I can sneak—” Her words lodged in her throat as the closet door swung open and she looked up at a half-naked, marble-sculpted Greek god standing with fists on his hips, looking a lot like an enraged Keith Morgan.

“Never mind,” she said in a small voice as she stared up at his granite-like jaw. The icy blast of his gaze froze her to the spot. “Busted. Uh…if you don’t hear back from me in exactly fifteen minutes, call the police. And be sure to check the freezer for cut-up body parts…mainly mine.” She punched her cell off, her eyes never leaving his fierce face.

“What do we have here? Barney calling Goober for backup?” he said in a chilling tone.

“Uh, okay, here’s the thing…” She scrambled to stand and in her haste tripped over a pair of black Gucci loafers. She felt herself falling forward, right into Keith Morgan’s glorious chest of sculpted steel.

With quick reflexes, he grabbed her by the hips before she managed to plow him over. All good. Until she realized her breasts were smashed against his bare chest.
Oh my!
He smelled musky and sweaty…a tantalizing combination. She inhaled his scent deeply. Overcome by the surrounding hotness of Mr. Perfect-Please-Be-Mine, Bertie wobbled on her four-inch heels and appeared to be molding herself to his hard, warm body. Nothing could be further from the truth. Okay, well, maybe it was a little bitty close to the truth.

Whatever
you
do, don’t look down.

She glued her gaze to the dark stubble covering his stern jaw, fearing that if she did look down she’d see his low-slung towel, hanging even lower and revealing something pretty darn spectacular, if what she felt pressed against her stomach was any indication.

Something she hadn’t seen in a very long time. Or felt.

Something she didn’t need to see now. Or feel. Because she could almost guarantee that she’d gawk and then do something really stupid, like beg him to take her.

***

Keith witnessed Bertie’s expressions go from fear to shock to sexual awareness in a matter of seconds, even though she never lowered her sea-green eyes past his chin. He wasn’t completely sure, but he could’ve sworn there was an ongoing conversation taking place inside her head. Her generous, plump breasts were pressed up against his chest, and her soft, round hips were burning holes in his hands. He wondered if it would feel as nice if he slid his hands from around her hips to her curvaceous ass.
Okay, now I’m acting nuts.

Bertie’s big eyes went from the color of the sea to dark forest green as they grew wider and more dilated. Then it hit him—
gardenias
. He’d smelled gardenias when he’d stepped into his bedroom earlier and thought it must’ve been a blooming bush outside or something. But no, that would be too simple. Betty Boop smelled like gardenias and it was kind of making him a little crazy.

Shit. This was bad,
real
bad. So bad it felt fucking great. Keith’s knees almost buckled as he felt Bertie take an unsteady breath, making her gorgeous full breasts expand, pulling her closer. Her delectable lips parted and he didn’t think. He just acted, swooping down for a crushing kiss before she could start talking crazy and break the spell.

***

Bertie froze like a statue, Keith’s lips rocking over hers in a kiss so mind-blowing that he literally took her breath away. She had no idea how long she leaned into him, allowing him to kiss her, before she realized she wasn’t participating and was missing some really good stuff. Since she didn’t want Mr. Perfect to think he was kissing a total fool, she ran her hands up his strong, defined arms and locked them around his neck as she stood on tiptoes. Not wanting to miss out on probably the best kiss she’d ever experienced, her tongue tangled with his until the kiss became hotter and deeper and more drugging.

Suddenly his large hands were everywhere. One cupped the back of her head, tilting it for better access; the other massaged her bottom until she heard a deep, throaty moan. It took a few seconds to realize it came from her. She couldn’t remember the last time a kiss elicited any kind of emotion from her, much less a deep-throated moan. A thunderbolt shot clear to the soles of her feet. She pressed even closer and gave in to the sensations pouring through her.

Keith jerked back, dropping his hands and ending the best kiss in the whole universe. “Goddammit!” he growled as he retied the loose towel around his lean hips. Bertie clutched her throat with a shaky hand.

What had she done? She needed to dig her way out of this steaming heap of humiliation. She was a professional designer, not a bimbo who hid out in hunky sports celebrities’ closets like a stalker.

“Uh, okay, here’s the thing…your door was open and I wandered in and then I got so absorbed in the bones of the house that—”

“Enough.” Keith stepped even further back, as if Bertie had leprosy, and indicated with a sweep of his arm that she should precede him out of the bedroom. Now. Bertie moved through the door on shaky legs.

“But, I need to ex—”

“Don’t elaborate any further. Look, Ms. Anderson, I’m sure you’re a capable decorator—”

“Designer,” Bertie interrupted as her heels clicked down the hall, making a hollow sound in the vacant house.

“Whatever. This isn’t going to work out,” Keith said behind her in a strained voice. “Let’s forget the whole thing.”

She stopped in the grand foyer, blocking the door while Keith reached around, careful not to touch her as he yanked on the doorknob. “Okay, but the thing is—” Bertie attempted to explain again, her face flushed from embarrassment.

“Thank you for your time, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…you know…kiss you. It was a mistake.” Keith held the door open for Bertie, looking not at her but at some fascinating spot over her head, standing as if he were Prince Charles and not a half-naked stud who’d been feasting on her lips only minutes ago.

“Right. A mistake. Well, good luck.” Bertie bolted from the house and down the porch steps as fast as her high heels could carry her. What a hot mess, emphasis on
hot
. She couldn’t reach her car fast enough. The minute she slid into her seat, she banged her forehead against the steering wheel. “Fudge. What did I just do?”

She was dazed and disoriented, not from beating her brains out, but from sharing a life-altering kiss with a guy she barely knew. She lifted her head and with a shaky hand shoved the key in the ignition. Her reaction to Keith Morgan was appalling, especially since he clearly couldn’t stand the sight of her and was probably disinfecting with Listerine at this very moment to remove the taste of her from his mouth.

“I am
so
leaving in three weeks,” Bertie said out loud as she started her car and peeled away from the curb. “A herd of rampaging bulls couldn’t make me stay.”

***

“Shit!”

Keith watched Bertie accelerate down the street like she’d reentered the Indy 500 from a pit stop. He felt the same way. He needed to get out of here, out of this town. And stay out. He couldn’t do this. Stomping back to his bedroom, he retrieved his cell phone from the bed. He almost called his former coach and best friend back, whom he’d been speaking with earlier, but instead punched another number and lifted the phone to his ear, rooted to the spot where he’d been kissing Bertie Anderson like a sailor on shore leave.

His insides got prickly and hot, and his heavy groin throbbed, helpless against the onslaught of uninvited thoughts—thoughts of Bertie’s lips pressed against his. He now knew she tasted a little like cinnamon and a lot like desire. He knew the texture of her thick, mahogany hair as it curled around his fingers. And the smell of gardenias still hung in the air.

No struggling or pushing him away. Her active participation had made lust burn low in his gut. He’d barely stopped before palming her perfect breasts. Thank God he remembered why he was really here.

“Hello?” Francesca Balogh, his aunt, spoke, her voice pouring through the line.

Keith unclenched his back teeth. “We need to talk. What time are you free?”

“Cocktails are always at six. Please be on time.”

“Count on it.” He hit the off button, tossed his phone on the unmade mattress, and headed for the shower.

***

Keith stood in Aunt Francesca’s buttery yellow living room, staring at a photo in a silver frame of his aunt and his mom posing on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence. The picture had been taken about two years ago, when Aunt Francesca traveled to Italy to visit her sister. Keith’s mom had lived abroad for the last twenty years, winning the prize of absentee parent year after year.

Keith moved to the antique bar supplied with ice, crystal high balls, and a brand-new bottle of Mount Gay. His favorite. The idea of downing the entire bottle was tempting. Instead, he poured himself a plain ginger ale and took a healthy gulp, hoping to ease the tension building inside his gut and working its way up to his throat.

Keith had packed up his entire life in Miami and moved to Harmony a week ago, and the culture shock couldn’t have been any stronger if he had moved to a village of huts in Zimbabwe. But he hadn’t done this for himself. He’d done it for his daughter, Maddie. And as Aunt Francesca had pounded into his foggy, alcohol-soaked head, she would not allow him to fuck up Maddie’s life. Well, she didn’t drop the f-bomb, but Keith got the message all the same.

For Maddie, he’d made the right decision. Absolutely. One hundred percent. He had moved to Mayberry, USA, to give her a better life. Sure, he’d always miss hot Miami with its loud, colorful cultures and wild nightlife. Living in Miami had been like living inside a nightclub 24/7—an expensive nightclub with warm sand, cool water, majestic palm trees, and nights as hot and steamy as the women who trolled Ocean Drive. Not an environment conducive to molding an impressionable young girl.

And yet, all that partying until the wee hours of the morning had taken its toll on Keith. One morning, he’d woken up in more ways than one. After he’d ushered the nameless woman he’d spent the night with into a waiting cab, he had stared at his hollow eyes in the bathroom mirror and hated what he saw. He couldn’t remember the day of the week or even the month. The inside of his mouth had felt as dry as packed sawdust. Keith had studied the broken image of himself for what felt like hours until he’d decided that he’d had enough. He wouldn’t fight Aunt Francesca any longer. If he continued down this road of self-destruction, his daughter would lose her only surviving parent to another stupid, avoidable accident.