Everything You Need (2 page)

Brice mentally shifted gears. The last thing he
needed was for his mother to give him the “where did we go wrong?”
speech. Yes, they were disguised as family dinners of antipasto
with
pancetta
, and tortellini covered in heavy, fresh
marinara sauce.

His parents usually waited until the second refill of
wine before they started in on him. His sister’s, Maria, birthday
was coming up, and that dinner would be the perfect opportunity.
The least Brice could do was act like losing this job hurt him in
some way.

“I don’t take rejection well,” Brice started. “I try
not to get…too emotional.”

Brice winced at the clipped sounding words. But what
could he say? “I took this job to get the last of the money I
needed to succeed on my own? That too could get back to his family
and his family meddled. It was the last thing he needed.

“Good.” Joe took the bait, probably because the man
was glad to see the last of Brice. The older man started to nod his
head. “With your track record, getting hired somewhere else will be
a problem, and I just can’t give you a reference.” Joe paused. “I
never understood why you didn’t work for your father?”

Joe posed it as a question Brice had no intention of
answering. “Do you have my last check? I need to get going.”

He stood, trying to make his point without being
obvious. He failed, but Joe stuck his hand out. “Nice working with
you while it lasted.”

In the other hand Joe placed a blank envelope. Brice
left, fighting the sudden urge to skip on his to the car. Too soon
to celebrate.

Joe’s next phone call would be to Brice’s father
where the cocky comment, “I can do this job better than Joe
blind-folded” would be relayed. Then his father would call in an
attempt to brow beat Brice into the family business. His father
would scoff at the plan—renovate the beach house, sell it and start
a business of own. Tension rose up his shoulders at the thought.
His plan had to work. If it didn’t, he’d be sucked into the family
way. The absolutely last thing he ever wanted.

Chapter 2

Things started to look up the moment Hazel entered
the beach house on Palmer Island. It wasn’t decorated in bright
colors nor pastels, but neutral tones of tan, peach and green.

Still, she dropped the duffel by the door, opened the
bag and found her running gear on the very top. The choices were
run or rearrange furniture to open up the room. She wasn’t supposed
to work. She was supposed to find her creative muse, slap it and
tell it to give her fresh ideas. At this point, Hazel was convinced
it’d take a miracle.

Not going any farther into the house, she tossed the
duffel bag on the couch and turned back outside. Her tennis shoes
sank into the sand, but she started at a steady pace.

Ten steps in, her breathing became heavier, and a
sharp pain pierced her stomach. She pressed a hand to her side to
help ease the growing ache. It’d been awhile since she ran. She
used to run every morning, before work got in the way. She pursed
her lips, trying to remember the breathing exercise from eons
ago.

Take my mind off the pain. Work. Got to get back to
work.

Knots formed in her stomach at the thought. Her
breath heaved out—work had gotten in a way of a lot of things, so
why would she want to think about it? At some point work had
stopped being a labor of love and had become a labor. She lived and
breathed it and then…

A pain shot up Hazel’s calves, her legs gave out. She
went bust first into the pale, grainy sand and cursed with relish.
She couldn’t complain. The fall had gotten her mind off work at
least. The thought of work could lead to why she’d worked so damn
hard in the first place to become a success. A road she didn’t want
her thoughts to go down, not so soon after being cut off at the
knees.

Hazel blew out a breath and quelled the memories at
the same time. Glancing to the left, her eyes zeroed in on the
high-stepped porch. Not bothering to brush off the sand, she limped
up the walkway.

Closer to the house now, she could see its poor
condition. From experience the wear of the salt sea air would only
affect the exterior. At one time the house might have been white.
The now yellowed paint curled back and patches of the wooden frame
showed through.

By the time her feet hit the planks she had
identified the damaged wood. The house still had good bones. And
maybe the owners liked the house to look lived in and forgotten.
She let out a breath as the pain in her left calf subsided.

“This isn’t a squatters’ convention,” a voice
bellowed above her.

Hazel gaze flicked upward and then her mouth dropped
open. A man, an Adonis stood on the edge of the roof. The morning
sun kissed golden, taut muscles. A tool belt was slung over narrow
hips and, because of it, the denim jeans rode dangerously low. She
followed the line of hair leading down to the edge of the jeans.
The sight of him wiped out any depressing thoughts.

She wet her lips, imagining what lurked beneath those
denims. Her eyes made it past his chest to his face. Eyes the color
of emeralds stared down, and all she could do was stare.

Work had also taken up her love life, which was the
only explanation she had for not biting this man’s head off in
reply. She closed her mouth, cleared her throat. Why hadn’t he said
anything else to break the moment?

“I was just resting.” She cleared her throat again,
putting more authority in her voice. “Didn’t think anyone lived
here.”

“I do, and I would kindly ask you to get off my
property.”

Her head jerked back at his tone. “Well, sorry. It’s
not my fault the house looks like it should have been re-painted a
century ago.”

He didn’t speak, but snarled unintelligibly. He might
as well have had one eyebrow, a hunch in his back, and talked in
monosyllables, from the way he acted. Thank God she listened to her
head more often than her hormones.

“Excuse me,” she said, but hoped it sounded like up
yours. A rotted shingle could soon be the end of him anyway.

The snarl turned to confusion and he squinted at her.
The reaction made her wonder if he had split personalities. Kind of
like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, rude one moment and nice the next.
She wasn’t sticking around to find out.

She started to walk off, but whirled back around at
the loud thud behind her. The man had climbed down and then dropped
to the porch; he had to be insane. She was more surprised, though,
that the planks hadn’t gave under the unexpected weight.

“What?” She still had to tilt her head to meet his
gaze. “You forget to say something rude?”

“What’s your name?”

Hazel snorted and marched down the walkway. His
footfalls sounded behind her and then a warm, rough hand brushed
her elbow. She sucked in a breath. “What?”

Close up he had those smoldering eyes people talked
about. A strong jaw line, two eyebrows, and lips that made her toes
curl in her shoes, picturing what he could do with them.

“I’m sorry,” His voice held a small accent Hazel
couldn’t place. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

His pocket started to play a Frank Sinatra tune.
Following the line of hair again, she glanced down. His stomach
muscles looked cut from stone. The man closed his eyes for a
moment. “I’ve been on the edge.”

“So, I looked like a good candidate to yell at?”

The tune continued to play. “Let me make it up to
you. Drinks at the local bar. It’s kind of an upscale place, not a
dive. On me. I think they even serve fresh lobster.”

She pursed her lips. Borderline personality. Had to
be. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.” She started to turn.

“Wait.”

He slid his fingers across her elbow, and then
released the hold. Hazel couldn’t be sure if he touched her like
that on purpose, but her body responded as if he had. An old
familiar tingle spread from her ears to her core. When was the last
time a man had touched her with such tenderness?

He put his hand out. “Brice Creed.”

She frowned at the outstretched limb. Borderline
personality with some manners, at least. With reluctance Hazel took
the hand. “Hazel Garvey.”

A smile pulled at his lips. “I’m single, free of
disease, and after the two days I’ve just had, a glass of expensive
wine with a pretty woman will definitely make up for it.”

“Good line.” Her criticism only made the smile
widen.

Hazel eyed him again, but own their own accord went
to the hairline on his chest. She followed the line down until it
disappeared beneath the tool belt. A physical paradise lay there.
She knew it.

“Ok,” Hazel conceded. “I’ll see you at eight. At the
bar.”

“I can pick you up.”

She tore her gaze from the disappearing hair. “No,
I’d rather meet you there.”

It’d discourage her from going home with him. She
nodded to him and turned before her eyes could return to staring at
his crotch.

*****

Sweat dampened Brice’s palm as he ran a hand over his
face. Hazel Garvey dropped on his doorstep and he’d almost gotten
rid of her. Given the past two days, he deserved a little divine
intervention. Frank Sinatra started singing again. If he hadn’t
paid so much for the phone, he’d have tossed it into the ocean,
sparkling like sapphires beside him.

He hadn’t answered the phone since getting fired, but
none of that mattered. His big plan had rotted planks on the porch,
shingles deteriorated by time and the sea-salt air. The big plan
also had paint chips older than his grandparents, full of lead and
only God knew what.

Most of the renovations were cosmetic, but just as
time consuming. He’d considered only for a moment selling it as a
fixer-upper, but he needed at least $150,000 more than what he had.
More sweat beaded on his forehead.

He squinted to see Hazel’s silhouette more clearly.
She’d make his big plan possible. The photo in the magazine had
made her seem larger than life, much less approachable, a true ball
buster. Frank Sinatra started to sing again.

It didn’t matter. He had to convince her to decorate
the house. He’d called the company and found out she was on
vacation. He didn’t want anyone else and that’s what he told her
PA, Charlotte. No one else could bring in the money Hazel would
just by having her name attached to the project. He had to convince
her before his family drove him insane.

When Frank Sinatra went into his fifth rendition of
“Luck be a Lady,” Brice pulled the phone out of his pocket and
answered it. “Hi, Pops.”

“You don’t have reception out there on the island
with that fancy phone of yours?”

How Pops knew his location Brice didn’t know. “It’s
sketchy. How’re you doing? How’s Mom?”

Brice glanced once more down the beach to Hazel’s
fading silhouette, and turned his attention to the
conversation.

“You’d know if you called more often. She’s ailing
and she wants to see you.”

Brice had seen both his parents five days ago. His
mother had been racing his nieces and nephews on the front lawn,
and she’d been winning.

“I’ll be there on Sunday for Maria’s birthday.”

There was silence on the other end. Then his father
spoke again, “Why’d you make Joe fire you? He’s a family friend. Is
your life’s intent to make me look bad?”

Brice sighed. “It’s not about you, Pops. And you
don’t even work with Joe anymore for the same reasons I made the
comment that got me fired. I can do his job blind-folded. The man
is disorganized. Cheap and greedy. Money comes before quality.”

By now Pops had the minute details of his life for
the past five days. There wasn’t any point to lying about what had
initiated the layoff. In moments like this he sometimes wondered if
his family did have
connections
, or at least FBI underlings.
He disregarded the notion because both could learn a thing or two
from his family.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve got a job lined up for you
here. It’s always available.”

“Thank you, but—” He glanced at the house, a headache
brewed between his eyes. “I’m tied up doing something else.
Something I need to get back to right now.”

“Your brother is on his way out to help you with that
raggedy house. You can’t fix it up on your own.”

Brice bit back the retort. He’d never be old enough
that talking back wouldn’t bring consequences. “I can do it on my
own. I promise to call when I need the extra hand. Okay?”

Pops grumbled something in Italian under his breath
that Brice didn’t ask him to repeat. “Well, Tony still might drop
by.”

Which meant Tony was on his way as they spoke. “Well,
Pops, got to go. Tell Ma I love her.”

“No, you tell her yourself on Sunday. Are you sure
you’re coming?”

With the threat of having every blood relative
descend on him if he didn’t, there was no contest. “Yes, I’ll be on
the mainland Sunday.”

He switched off the phone again. Yes, his big plan
had to work or he’d be sucked into the family business forever.

*****

Hazel looked at her pitiful collection of dresses.
With the red one she might as well find a ho stroll and solicit her
services. The black one? She might have worn it last to a funeral.
She squinted at it. God, she might have, and that was more pitiful
than her choice in dresses, because it told of her non-existent
social life. She still had an hour to get ready and it wasn’t
enough time.

A knock sounded at the door. She glanced at the
clock.
Brice?
She strolled to the door, wrenched it open,
ready to give him a nice lecture, but it wasn't the stubborn
Adonis.

Golden eyes, set in a heart shaped face, gazed back
at Hazel. The woman at the door lips curved, but it didn’t actually
look like a smile.

“I'm from
Everything You Need.
I'm here to
make sure you have every accommodation.” The woman let out a
breath. “I'm sure you got this speech when you made your
reservations, but like the company says we provide everything you
need.” Finally she took a breath, but added, “How long are you
staying here?”