Home Matters (A Ripple Effect Romance Novella, Book 1) (5 page)

Olivia followed Tristi’s heavily-lined gaze past the cameraman and his crew to where she saw Pete standing, a mischievous smile trained on her. Dressed in ratty cargo shorts, he wore a grease-smeared tank that exposed a set of sculpted shoulders and hugged a rolling set of washboard abs. He had a frayed ball cap turned backwards on his head. And he was covered, head to toe, in some sort of light powder or soot. If he’d been anyone other than Pete, she might have thought he looked hot. Well, in that blue-collar-fantasy sort of way.

Olivia turned away, brought the latte to her waiting lips, and sipped. A shiver worked its way up her spine. “I thought I sensed an evil presence. Should have known Pete couldn’t be far,” she said, stealing another glance in Pete’s direction. He’d disappeared. “Trying to ‘help me,’ he claimed,” she muttered, the perturbing memory of her screen test still fresh in her mind. “My snowy white backside. I tell you what, that man’s a menace.”

“Nah,” Tristi said, clearing the idea away with a shake of her head. “Pete’s harmless. A real sweetheart.” She mimicked grabbing something with both hands. “I’d like to get my claws on those rock-hard glutes of his.” She dropped her arms, defeated. “Only he doesn’t date much. Apparently, he lost his fiancée a few years ago to some debilitating cancer. He started a nonprofit project in her name to help others suffering from similar diseases.” A dreamy look softened her eyes. “So tragically romantic, don’t you think?” she said, then continued to yammer on about Pete’s charitable endeavors. Only by this point, Olivia wasn’t paying much attention. All she could think about was what Pete had said and how there were more important ways for her to spend her time than in the pursuit of fame. Then, how the show’s executives seemed to think her worth as an actor began and ended with her pretty face. Only what did any of that matter when her life was finally on track? Or was it?

From behind, a pair of hands slipped around her waist. The waft of cologne that followed told her who the appendages belonged to.

A smile threatened her lips, but she held it back. “Shame on you, William.” She feigned disapproval. “Are you spying on our design?”

His lips moved to her ear. His breath tickled her skin. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

The warmth of his palms permeated the silky fabric of her blouse, sending a shiver of delight up her spine. All thoughts of Pete, what he’d said, along with any issues regarding Eleanor’s design, evaporated—a wisp of smoke carried away on a sudden breeze.

Pulling out of his grip, she turned her back to the film crew’s curious eyes. “Apparently the only duties I’ve been tasked with for the next week and a half are to woo the homeowners and flirt shamelessly with my cohost, all while looking ‘absolutely fabulous,’” she cooed.

The right side of his mouth lifted into a crooked grin. “Then we’re in luck. You can accomplish two of the above while having dinner with me,” he offered, his soft lips closing seductively around every word. “Say, eight o’clock?”

Live oak branches mingled together to form a giant canopy, a web of green mesh screening a slate blue sky. Spanish moss, like tufts of grey unruly curls, swayed on a breeze dying with the setting sun. Savannah was famed as the most haunted city in America. But to Olivia, enchanted seemed like a more accurate description.

Pushing her tortoiseshell glasses higher on her nose, she knew it was time to get moving. Only the balmy twilight air was pleasantly dry, the park around her peacefully shutting out the world beyond, and she decided to linger a few minutes more. She’d forgotten what it felt like to live life at an unhurried pace. To stroll instead of rush. To call out a casual “hey” to a random passerby. To have a stranger offer a hand, or nugget of advice, unbidden. To live the Southern culture. And though the Caribbean architecture and coastal landscape of Savannah was very different from the rolling hills and country lifestyle of Nashville, she felt more at home here in Georgia after only four days than she had in all of her five years living in LA.

Getting to her feet, she shouldered her messenger bag and headed south through Forsyth square, past the roaring fountain and on, walking the block and a half to the Calhoun mansion. Just like last night and the night before that, Pete and his crew had left the site for a two-hour supper break. Then they’d be back to work, toiling to bring Eleanor’s design to life, late into the wee hours of the night and on into the weekend.

Sketchpad in hand, she removed the flannel shirt she wore over a white Henley, climbed onto a wood plank resting atop two sawhorses, and crossed her legs in front of her. Setting a box of pastels, along with a few sharpened charcoal pencils off to the side, she repositioned her glasses on the bridge of her nose and took a long, sweeping study of the demolished kitchen. Like a carcass stripped of its skin, the walls and cabinets had all been removed, exposing the wood slats underneath and beyond to the pipes, wires, and inner workings of the home—a blank palette.

Closing her eyes, she waited as the bare bones melted away, and a new vision, piece by piece, one element at a time slid in to cover the void. Center island with sink; stove where the sink had been; French door to replace the lost sunlight; and then on to the backsplash, wall color, and furnishings—all coming together to form a new whole. When the concept had taken shape, she reopened her eyes, pressed charcoal to paper and lost herself in what her mind had created.

A sound. A movement. She didn’t know which, but something outside of herself jockeyed for her attention. Adrift somewhere between her art and the real world, she looked up to see that someone was watching her. Their gazes locked, held a surreal instant, before reality slammed into her like a bucket of icy water.

“Oh, good gracious,” she gasped. How long had she been working? “What are you doing here?” Had it been two hours already?

Pete shuffled a couple of steps forward, picked up a drill, and inserted a cord into the handle. “I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d come scare the bejeezus out of you.” He smiled. Olivia did not. “What? I work here,” he said as he hooked the drill to his tool belt and came closer still, picking up a plastic bucket of screws on his way. “The real question is: what are
you
doing here?”

Olivia flipped her sketchpad closed. “With Eleanor falling deathly ill and all, we wrapped early today,” she said, slipping her glasses off and back on again. Something irritating had settled under her contacts, and figuring she wouldn’t run into anyone she knew, she’d given her eyes a much-needed break.

Pete lifted a sheet of drywall and positioned it over the exposed wall next to where Olivia had perched. “I see, and what do you have there?” He nodded to her sketchpad.

She pressed the pad tight to her chest. “It’s nothing, really.” No way was she showing Pete her art. It was just a rendering of the kitchen and a few other rooms, but still, allowing him a glimpse was like baring him a piece of her soul.

Pete secured the sheetrock to the wall. Then he looked her over, his eyes taking in the pastel rainbow coloring Olivia’s hands and smearing the sleeves of her white shirt. “Playing hard to get, are we?” he said. She looked down at her dusty fingers and wiped the color away on her jeans. “Come on, Peaches, I stood there a good two minutes before you noticed. For being up to ‘nothing,’ you seemed rather engrossed.” He held out a hand and added a smile that made his eyes twinkle. “Come on, let me see.” He wiggled his fingers. “Come on now…”

Olivia looked into his eyes, transparent and, oh so blue. If she wasn’t careful, she could trip, fall into that gaze, and become lost forever. Maybe she already had.

“Fine,” she heard herself agreeing. “But don’t you dare poke fun.” She started to hand the pad over, but pulled it back.

Pete dropped his jaw in pseudo surprise. “Who, me?” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I would never.” Olivia held tight to her sketchpad, hitting him with an unwavering stare. Pete assumed a penitent expression. “Okay, I would. But for the next thirty seconds, I promise to be the perfect gentleman.”

Part of her warned her not to trust him, while another part urged her to share, to show the creative side of herself that she both admired and protected, and to prove she wasn’t just a pretty face. She loosened her grip.

As if stealing a coveted piece of meat from a sleeping grizzly bear, Pete reached out with wary anticipation and slid the sketchpad from Olivia’s grasp.

Twirling a lock of hair around her finger, Olivia’s teeth cut into her bottom lip as she watched him sift through the pages, rotate the pad one way, then the other, appraising each rendering with a critical eye. As he did, the look on his face slowly changed, growing more serious by the moment.

A bolt of panic ripped through her chest. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her confidence meter taking a dip into the negative. “You hate them, don’t you?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry.” Pete looked up, shaking the wooden gape from his face. “It’s just that these are really…” he paused, his lips working as if trying out different responses before committing to one. “Amazing,” he decided. “I thought you were lying at your screen test when you said you’d had design training.” He tapped a finger to the open page. “But clearly, you weren’t. You’re very talented.”

White-hot pride broke through the uncertainty shading her ego. “Really?” It shouldn’t have, but his opinion mattered. Pete nodded, his focus still pressed to one of the images she’d created. Then, for reasons unknown, she didn’t want to lie anymore. “And, you’re right. I fibbed at my screen test. I
did
major in art, but
not
design.”

Pete looked up and sent her a questioning look. “Then how did you do this?”

She shrugged. “I close my eyes and watch as the room takes shape in my mind. Once I begin to sketch the design, the details and colors start to materialize. The more I layer, the more ideas I get, and the room just comes together.”

Pete flipped back to a previous page. “Well, Peaches, training or not, you have a gift.” He drew a finger lightly over the drawing. “I like the way you used half-walls and pillars to define the formal dining. And, included the portrait of Great Aunt Iona. I thought Eleanor had something new in mind for over the mantle.”

Expelling a longsuffering breath, Olivia thought about how Eleanor seemed determined to ignore every request the couple made regarding their home, insisting that she knew better. “She does. I get that Aunt Iona was a beastly looking woman, but she’s still the Calhouns’ kin,” she said. “I think we should respect that.”

Pete pressed a paint-splattered hand to his chest as if stilling a missed beat. “Wow, she does have a heart.” He sent Olivia a quick wink before turning another page to reveal a different room. He pointed to two spots on the page. “I like the way you kept these niches by the front door. Back in the old days they put candles in these nooks for light.”

Straightening her back, Olivia stretched for a quick peek at her design. “I didn’t know that,” she said and settled back. “But what I do know—thanks to Eleanor—is that it’s not called a ni-
t
-ch, it’s a n-
ee
-she, and don’t you dare pronounce it wrong.” She imitated a look of superiority. “And don’t even think about accidentally calling her a ‘decorator’ instead of a ‘designer.’”

A knowing smirk played with Pete’s lips. “You didn’t.”

Olivia’s face grew warm, reliving her faux pas. “Oh, I did,” she admitted. “It’s like designers have their own brand of political correctness or something.”

Pete circled the front page around, closing Olivia’s sketchpad. “Tell me about it. I’ve had to deal with her attitude, and that of her minions, a lot longer than you.” He set the pad on the plank and opened his arms to the room. “Nothing’s a kitchen, or den, or whatever.” He made air quotes with his fingers. “It’s a ‘living space.’”

“Yeah, and simply saying ‘sunlight’ is so passé,” Olivia added flippantly. “‘Natural light’ sounds so much more sophisticated,” she said, her expression turning thoughtful. “But what I don’t understand is, if light from the sun makes ‘natural light,’ then why isn’t light created by electricity referred to as ‘unnatural light?’”

Snapping his fingers, Pete pointed at her. “Good question.”

“But what really bothers me is when the writers insist the homeowners use the lingo too,” Olivia continued her rant. “Regular folks don’t say, ‘outdoor living space.’ They say ‘yard’ or ‘patio.’”

Pete held back a smile. “You
are
aware that there’s very little ‘reality’ in reality TV, right?” he asked, rushing to elaborate. “Take today’s show, for example. Surprise! Your turn-of-the-century mansion has foundation and electrical problems,” he said, referring to the segments they’d filmed earlier where he’d informed Olivia of these exact issues followed by a dramatic scene with her telling the homeowners they wouldn’t be getting a larger master bath. But if Eleanor had listened to Olivia and chosen to keep the kitchen fireplace, they wouldn’t need a support beam, and thus would have enough budget to complete the bath.

Pete made a dopey face. “Who’d a thunk?”

A thick case of the giggles bubbled up from Olivia’s gut, but she pressed the laughter back down. Did she really want Pete to know how much she was enjoying his company, not to mention the ease in which she’d been able to share her art, and now her misgivings, regarding the show with him?