Whisper Falls Page 7

  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.

  The 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 Pause 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.

  Two 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 sl
iding 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.

  Moving on to the kitchen, she explained that she was adding white to the palette to give the space light and keep it airy. “We’ll paint the walls gray and the cabinetry, tables, and chairs black. The white countertop and appliances will offset the darkness, and in this room, the red will appear only as accents—red towels, red salt-and-pepper shakers. Oh, and we’re going to use more warm reds than bright ones. And lots of light. Smart use of light is pivotal with a dark, bold color scheme—especially in rooms you spend a lot of time in.”

  From there, she proceeded to the less-detailed ideas she’d started on for his bedroom—without even blushing like a twelve-year-old as she talked about it, thank God. “For that, I’m going off the board with different colors. A simple, masculine, but rich navy for the bed and curtains will be warm and comfortable with the dark wood in there.” Then she produced some more fabric samples for throw pillows, explaining that depending on which he selected, she could draw another shade from it for a wall color. “Maybe this pale sage, for instance,” she said, pointing, “or this sandy beige.”

  Only when she finished did she finally realize she’d been talking nonstop. To her surprise, even a few years after leaving her old job, she’d instantly fallen right back into the mode of spelling out her plans with brisk clarity, something she’d learned at Posh—it was easier to lay it all out for a client, giving them the full picture before letting them respond or start asking questions.

  Next to her, though, Lucky looked a little stunned. And she suddenly feared she’d gone too far—with all of this. Maybe he’d wanted . . . less. Something simpler. Maybe he’d just wanted . . . new curtains or something. She swallowed uneasily and said, “Why do you look weird?”

  He blinked, then lowered his chin. “I look weird?”

  No, you look good enough to eat. “I just . . . can’t tell what you’re thinking. And so now I’m a little nervous.” Again. As usual. She sighed.

  To her surprise, Lucky tilted his head and looked her in the eye, appearing oddly . . . crestfallen, she thought. “Don’t be nervous,” he said. “I hate making you nervous.”

  Oh crap—he knew he made her nervous.

  So she shut her eyes for just a second, then forced herself back into the situation. She was always so adamant about being independent, handling her condition—well, she needed to handle this one, too. “If I’m nervous around you, it’s only because . . . you’re a lot different than me, and . . . have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re a pretty intimidating guy. You have death and flames all over your arms, after all.”

  And then she was mentally kicking herself for just putting it out there like that—until he grinned and said, “Sorry, hot stuff—I don’t mean to scare you with my tattoos.”

  “Well, I never said I was scared. I said—”

  “And if I looked weird a minute ago, it’s probably because . . . I’m kind of amazed.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the rooms sound . . . perfect. And, well, you seem really good at this.”

  In response, she drew back. “You really did think I would suck at it?”

  He met her gaze. “You never told me why you’re trying to build a business in a place that doesn’t need it. So it’s not that I thought you’d suck, but—maybe I didn’t expect to be so blown away.”

  She lifted her chin slightly, duly flattered. “Really? You’re blown away?” Not that Lucky would probably know bad interior design from good—yet she still liked having impressed him.

  “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Especially the bike pictures.” That was her favorite part, too—she believed every room should reflect something, great or small, about the person or people who lived in it.

  But then he changed gears when she least expected it, tilting his head, leaning a little closer to her. “So, why are you in Destiny, babe?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.” It seemed a natural question that had hung silently in the air between them—up to now anyway.

  He didn’t smile, gave nothing away. He simply pointed out, “We’re talking about you. So tell me your long story—I’ve got time.”

  Tessa swallowed. The fact was, she didn’t want to tell him—it was the topic she hated most. So maybe she could weasel out of it, talk her way around it. “I came home to Destiny to the promise of a job from someone I used to work with. She was setting up a small interiors shop in Crestview, mostly focusing on retail establishments since the area is growing so much—but unfortunately, the plan fell through by the time I got here. She lost her financing and never opened the shop.” All of that was true, but it conveniently ignored the heart of the matter.

  “Where did you come home from?” Lucky asked.

  “Cincinnati. I went to UC and then got a job there.”

  “So you didn’t like your job in Cincinnati?”

  “No, I loved it. I—” Oh, crap. Since when did Lucky talk so much or ask so many questions?

  “What?” There he went again, asking.

  And Tessa sighed, feeling angry. At her whole situation in life. She hated telling people about a condition so severe it had taken away her livelihood and sent her running home like a child. Its very existence left her feeling like someone people saw as “the sick girl,” making everything else about her secondary. But she supposed she had no choice now. And hell—everyone else in town knew anyway, so why not Lucky, too? “Well,” she began, her spirits dropping, “I have Crohn’s disease.”

  He instantly looked worried, alarmed. “What’s that?”

  “A digestive disease. Chronic inflammation of the intestinal tract. Which means, for me . . . I have a very limited diet and, um, sometimes I don’t feel well.”

  “But you don’t . . . ya know . . .” His voice softened. “Die from it?”

  She shook her head, but he didn’t look all that relieved.

  Instead, he said, “Damn, hot stuff. This a life-long thing?”

  “Well, there’s no cure.” She said it quickly, quietly. “And though I started having symptoms several years ago, the actual condition didn’t appear in my tests until recently, allowing me to be diagnosed, so at least I can take medicine for it now.”

  “So the medicine is helping?”

  She simply nodded. But then felt forced to add, “Even before that, though, it had become a ma
tter of flare-ups—it isn’t constant, like it used to be.”

  “And it was bad enough to make you leave a job you loved, huh?”

  A whole life I loved. But she only nodded once more, again hating that she was even talking about it, hating that it would surely change the way he viewed her and probably douse whatever attraction he’d felt. Her stomach churned now, not from her condition but from one more instance of it altering her life in uncontrollable ways.

  Lucky dropped his gaze briefly, then met hers again and spoke a bit more softly. “I don’t like to think of you being sick.”

  Oh. Wow. The simple sentiment, combined with the look in his eyes, moved all through her. Who knew Lucky Romo could be so nice? Sweet, even. Especially since they barely knew each other and he sounded completely sincere. She wasn’t sure how to reply—her chest grew tight with that strange mixture of desire and fear, but this time fear of . . . pity or something—so she just quietly reiterated the positive. “Well, like I said, things are a lot better than before.”

  His eyes shone warmly on her, and she found herself wondering about the many sides of Lucky Romo. Dark biker with death on his arm and secrets in his house. Wayward, long-lost brother and son. Sexy, cocky guy who flirted with confidence and undressed her with his eyes. And this man sitting next to her right now looking . . . truly compassionate. “You know,” he said, “if you ever need anything . . . I’m right here. You can call me anytime.”

  The offer caught her off guard, almost stealing her breath. Not because it was such a huge thing, but because she just hadn’t expected it. From him. Lucky Romo, it seemed, grew more mysterious by the day. “Thanks. That’s nice.” Yet . . . when had this turned into a depressing conversation about a depressing topic? She had to change that—now. “But back to the designs. Since you like them, does that mean we have a deal, that you want to hire me?”

  He flinched, probably at the abrupt change in mood, but then began to nod. “Uh, yeah.”