Whisper Falls (7 page)

Get back to business
,
Romo.
“Uh, normal,” he said again, trying to lose the wolf look. “More normal.”

But as their gazes met and she bit her lush lower lip, Lucky thought she was having as hard a time concentrating as he was. His body tensed with awareness as his dick went a little stiffer in his jeans.

“Um, once we square away designs for the other rooms, I’ll draw up some ideas for this one,” she finally replied, her voice still just as soft. Soft and . . . ready, he thought. She sounded like a woman who was as ready as he was.

But then she turned and left the room, and he thought,
Good
. Since it hadn’t been twenty minutes earlier that he’d reminded himself he couldn’t get involved with this girl—no matter how cute and hot she might be.

“What’s
this
door lead to?” she asked as he stepped out behind her—and as she reached to turn the knob to the only room in the house she hadn’t seen, he instinctively closed his hand around her wrist.

“You can’t go in there.” And that time he
knew
it had come out too brusque. He could feel it in his throat and he could see it in her eyes.

She drew back, both from the door and him. “Why not?”

He had no good answer. It hadn’t occurred to him that she’d have reason to be anywhere other than the living room and kitchen, or that she’d be nosy enough to go opening doors in his house—but then they’d ended up coming in a different door than he’d expected, and he’d had to go saying he might want his bedroom done, and . . . hell, he hadn’t thought this through well enough.
You’d think by now you’d be more careful about thinking shit through.

“Just . . . storage. Room’s packed. You can’t even get in the door,” he lied. It was a fucking weak explanation, but it was all he had.

And she just nodded, now looking wary, on her guard. So they were back to that, huh?

Well, as much as he didn’t like it, maybe that was best in the long run. For both of them.

T
essa walked back down the hill—no easy feat in heels that wanted to sink into the soft spring earth beneath them. She didn’t glance back over her shoulder, but wondered if Lucky was watching her go. And she suffered the strange, sudden urge to run—to just get out of sight and into her own house as quickly as possible—so she could process all that had happened in privacy. She just wasn’t used to being around guys she found attractive anymore, let alone one that completely intimidated her, too—and it made her nervous, and now, eager to be alone so she could quit worrying about how she looked and how she acted and whether or not she was blushing like a maniac.

So after she stepped in the back door and shut it behind her, she rested against it and let out a long breath, relieved to be back in her quiet little cocoon. Wow. She barely knew how to feel about him after today.

For one thing, what the heck was inside that room he’d refused to let her see? She’d begun to feel pretty comfortable around him by that point—even if undeniably aroused, too—but the bite in his voice when he’d grabbed her arm had brought back to mind how little she knew about him and how many question marks surrounded his existence. And now there were new ones. Like what the hell was he hiding behind that door?

She hugged her portfolio to her chest and bit her lip. What did bikers deal in illegally? Drugs? Guns? Oh boy. In either case—yikes! Her stomach churned at the very possibilities. Blegh.

And that aside, there were other odd questions, too. Why did he of all people want a “homey” house? Was he planning on inviting the Romo clan over or something? And even if so, would someone re-do their home to suit their visitors? No, of course not. So what the hell was Lucky Romo’s secret? Or
secrets
—plural. Since she’d begun to have a feeling he possessed a lot of them.

Lowering her portfolio to a table near the door, she moved to a window and peeked out the curtains, back up the hill. She saw nothing amiss at his house—but even just that view now, of the house, moved something inside her. It filled her with equal parts fascination and trepidation. Then she clenched her teeth lightly—that seemed like a bad combination.

And all of Lucky’s secrets probably
should
be making her run madly in the other direction away from him, and away from this job—but instead, she found herself more intrigued than ever.

Maybe because it had felt so good to be pressed against him on that motorcycle. If she’d thought the sun made her feel sensual, or that Lucky’s eyes on her made her feel sexy—well, those were nothing compared to how she’d felt by the time that ride was over.

The honest, brutal truth was, she’d wanted to rip his clothes off. She’d never do such a thing, of course—but it was what she’d desired, the urge tearing through her body like a wild storm.
This is the hazard of not having sex in a really long time. You start getting all heated up over guys you shouldn’t.

Well
,
cool down
,
sister. It was only a motorcycle ride. And you acting like a dope at the mere mention of the man’s bedroom. You can turn all that off long enough to work on his house.

And she still had every intention of doing so—despite cringing again when she remembered the door he wouldn’t let her open. Because she needed the money. And the work itself—to keep her head in the game so she’d be ready if any
other
interior work came along. In fact, the moment she’d stepped into the simple living room, her mind had raced with possibilities and she’d experienced yet another way of feeling alive again—in the invigorating wave of creativity that had come rushing over her.

In fact, she’d decided the project would be a fun challenge. In her old job, she’d worked mostly for wealthy people who lived in mansions, and the occasional business that wanted a high-priced look in a lobby or office. She’d never worked in a simple one-story home before.

And Lucky’s space was functional. He already owned a black leather sofa and chairs she could use. And his coffee and end tables were a bit beat up, but they could be cheaply refinished. She even liked the challenge of making his house feel “homey” yet biker-like—as weird a request as she still found the “homey” part. So this truly seemed like a good project for her—it would revive her in so many ways.

Of course, if she wasn’t mistaken, Lucky Romo was attracted to her as well.
Don’t think about that part.

And he had something hidden behind that door—and it could be
anything
. Another possibility struck her: dead bodies. Ugh.

But wait, no—those would smell bad. So, okay, at least it wasn’t bodies.

Of course, it still might be guns or drugs—but she wasn’t going to think about that, either. Or about how adamant he’d seemed regarding the room.

That’s how badly she wanted this job, how badly she wanted some professional fulfillment, how badly she wanted to make some money and feel she was at last taking a first step on the road back to financial security.

Or was it also . . . because that was just how much Lucky Romo turned her on?

She sighed and plopped down on the couch. One more thing to push from her mind.

T
he following afternoon, Tessa sat curled on her couch beneath a quilt her grandmother had made. The beautiful spring weather had suddenly grown overcast and chilly, and a light drizzle fell outside. She’d felt a bit unwell all day, and the pastel colors and lumpy, bumpy texture of the quilt provided an inexplicable yet serene comfort—the kind of comfort she’d forgotten all about during her career-building years in Cincinnati but which she’d rediscovered upon returning home. Sometimes it was the simple things in life that held you together.

She took still more comfort in watching today’s episode of
Ellen
. As Tessa smiled at Ellen’s jokes and let herself become absorbed in the show, it took her away from her troubles. When Ellen talked, as she sometimes did, about Dory, the character whose voice she’d provided in
Finding Nemo
, Tessa found herself reaching for the pretty journaling book on her coffee table. Amy had given it to her, and somewhere along the way, she’d taken to recording uplifting and inspiring quotes she came across. Now, she wrote down the one Ellen had just reminded her of:

Just keep swimming.

Dory, Finding Nemo

Because it was good, simple advice. And because some days, that’s all you could do. And on those days, it was enough.
Just keep swimming.

When the phone rang, she almost didn’t answer, not in the mood to talk. But then she hit the P
ause
button on her remote—to find her mom on the line. She could fool most people, yet as soon as her mother heard her voice, she knew Tessa was feeling yucky, so Tessa admitted as much.

“Want me to come over?”

“No, I’m fine, really.”

“You just said you weren’t,” her mother pointed out.

And Tessa took a deep breath. She appreciated how much her mom cared, and some days, especially when she’d first moved home, she’d really
needed
her mother’s help. But she didn’t like leaning on people—it made her feel . . . as if the disease was getting the best of her, and she refused to let that happen. And generally speaking, she just didn’t like people seeing her when she was sick, or even making them aware of it—even her mom, when she could help it. “I love you, Mom,” she said, “but please don’t hover.” They’d had this talk before, and Tessa had asked her mom to try to ease up on the caregiving a little—Tessa was committed to dealing with the Crohn’s on her own whenever possible.

After finishing the conversation and then her TV program, Tessa considered lying back on the couch and taking a nap. She was certainly entitled to that on a day like today, and the weather encouraged it.

But then her eyes fell on her portfolio on the coffee table. And her hands felt a little . . . itchy, uneasy—but in a good way, a way she recognized. They were telling her to pick up her pencil and start making notes and working up some sketches for Lucky’s house. And the very urge to do so—running so strongly through her ever since seeing the place—shot a little rush of adrenaline through her body, a little burst of energy, that overrode every other feeling just then. She could nap later. Right now, she wanted to work, to create.

To her surprise, it was three hours later before she set down her pencil, and she couldn’t have been more pleased—or more fulfilled. Looking at the sheets of paper spread around her on the table and couch, she realized she’d become so absorbed in design that she’d forgotten everything else for a while, even the fact that her stomach ached and that she hovered on the edge of nausea.

She still had more work to do to pull it all together, but the most important parts were in place and this had been among the most satisfying afternoons she’d spent in a long time—she hadn’t felt so accomplished in years. All because Lucky Romo had asked her to redecorate his living room and kitchen.

In that moment, in spite of everything, she quit asking questions about him in her mind and just felt glad he’d become her neighbor. Because without
that
, she wouldn’t feel like
this
. And feeling like
this
was priceless.

T
wo days later, Tessa took a deep breath and walked up the hill to Lucky’s house. Despite herself, she was nervous about seeing him again. Or was she still nervous about whatever he was hiding inside? Well, either way, she was excited to show him the plans she’d drawn up for his rooms—so she tried to focus on her enthusiasm, along with reminding herself again that she had a real, live, paying job here, a notion which still thrilled her, for reasons both creative and practical. Of course, Lucky could hate her ideas and decide not to hire her, but she really had no fear of that—she knew almost instinctively that he’d like what she’d come up with.

No music echoed from the garage today—and with a peek to her left, she found the garage door was even closed. So she knocked on his door and—despite herself—hoped she looked pretty, though she wore only jeans and a zip-up hoodie sweater. To her relief, she felt much better than yesterday.

The door opened to reveal her large neighbor looking much as when she’d first seen him: His long dark hair fell loose around his face, and he wore faded blue jeans with a black T-shirt—today’s sporting an AC/DC logo. And also like the first time she’d seen him, she immediately noticed his eyes, warm and brown and sliding quickly down her body before they returned to her face—so fast that maybe he didn’t even realize he was doing it. And normally, she wouldn’t appreciate being ogled by some burly biker dude, but when Lucky did it, something tightened deliciously in her stomach.

His eyes softened as he said, “Hey, hot stuff.”

She couldn’t help smiling bashfully at the nickname. “Hey.” She bit her lip, that strange, unbidden desire rippling through her again—but then reminded herself she was here on business and tried to get down to it. “I have some room designs to show you. If you’re not busy.”

“Come on in,” he said, standing back while holding the door open.

Whatever weird tension she’d felt from him regarding that mysterious unopened door the other day appeared to have faded. And of course she still wanted to know what was behind it, but had continued trying to push it aside and keep her attention on the matter at hand: Lucky had asked her to do a job for him, and technically speaking, whatever lay behind that door was none of her business. That’s what she was trying to tell herself anyway.

Together, they sat on his couch and Tessa showed him her drawings. The living room would incorporate all the colors he’d mentioned and be accented with framed, matted photos of bikes he’d painted. Though the colors and photos on their own might feel a bit harsh, she would soften the tone with patterned drapes and lots of texture, bringing in corduroy pillows, Berber carpet, and some additional fabrics to make it more comfortable and homey, as he’d requested. As she explained all this, she pulled out some paint and fabric samples she’d picked up at stores in Crestview yesterday, voicing her opinions on each but also wanting to give him some options.