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?
Pete loaded his drill with another screw and pressed the sharp tip to the wall. “Speaking of which, I hear you’re shooting some segments with my guys tomorrow.” He depressed the drill’s trigger. “Refinishing a dressing table for the nursery and hanging drywall?” he said over the loud whirring.
Typically, switching on a blow dryer or taking the occasional turn around her apartment behind a vacuum cleaner was the closest Olivia dared come to using a tool powered by electricity. She watched the two-inch screw disappear easily into the wall. “How hard can it be?” she said, pretending not to be overly concerned.
Pete hooked the drill back to his belt and reached for another sheet of drywall. “Right,” he said, like he could see right through her. “Whatever you say, Peaches.”
A prickly burr worked its way up her spine. One minute he was warm and fri
endly, and the next, teasing her for no good reason. “Excuse me?” she chided. “It’s ‘Peach.’ And my daddy’s the only person on God’s green earth allowed to call me that. So, I’d much appreciate it if you’d refrain from now on.”
A wry smile lit his eyes with mischief. “All right,” he conceded. “How ’bout I call you Olive instead?”
Olivia knotted her arms together and held her position. “How ’bout Olivia?”
Replacing the drywall to the stack, he sidestepped until he was facing her straight on, then reached out and lifted her glasses to rest on top of her head. “No, I think Olive is better.” He hijacked her gaze with his. “It matches your eyes when you’re angry and not hiding behind those ridiculous contacts.”
“What could I possibly have to hide?” she challenged.
Crossing his arms over a set of firm pecs, Pete looked to the ceiling in thought. “For starters,” he began, “you have an overwhelming fear that you’ll never be good enough for either the career you’ve chosen or the love of a man who deserves you.”
Planting one hand firmly to either side of her, he leaned closer. “Which only exacerbates the fact that you might never have kids though there’s an ache inside you yearning for a family. But how can you heed that impulse when your mother’s happiness depends on living her own lost dreams vicariously through you?” He finished by sending her a piercing look of concern, a thread from his heart to hers. “That’s a lot of pressure, taking responsibility for someone else’s dreams at the expense of your own happiness.”
Her chest heaved up, then down, for want of sufficient breath. “I’m, um… not…” She didn’t know how to respond. She wanted so badly to lash back with a snarky retort, to disprove every assumption he’d made. But layer-by-layer, he’d peeled back her thick shell of pretense, exposing the fears and desires she’d kept securely hidden from everyone, including herself. Consequently, she didn’t know whether to slap him or throw her arms around his neck and sob into his shoulder. Her only choice left was to move, to get away from Pete and his probing eyes.
Tearing her gaze from his, she made a move to escape. Only before she got far, Pete’s fingertip touched her cheek—so soft, so powerful. Starting with her hair, his eyes circled her face, searching, questioning, and lastly softening as they lit upon her lips.
Dipping his head, his mouth inched to within a breath of hers where he waited, she assumed, for her to close the distance or pull away. She did neither. Even if she’d known which response to choose she couldn’t have moved. Her body had frozen, her jackhammering heart pumping blood faster than her muscles knew what to do with. After a long beat, he leaned the rest of the way and touched his lips softly to hers—just the brush of a kiss, and then another, and another. Gentle, and yet Olivia had never felt more consumed by a man’s touch. She wanted more, so much more.
A creaking sound interrupted whatever may have come next. The intrusion was barely audible but blaring enough to disrupt the magic.
Olivia’s nerves already on high alert, she arched back, slamming her head into the wall. “For the love of…” she cried, a string of unladylike words—the four-letter variety—following close behind. Pete pulled back as well.
“Olivia?” a questioning voice said.
Rubbing the hurt from a lump forming on the back of her head, she followed the sound of her name to the fuzzy image of a man peering through a gaping hole in the wall between the formal living room and kitchen.
She dropped her glasses back to her nose. “William? What are you doing here?”
He tucked what looked like a small camera into his blazer pocket. “I was looking for you. What else?”
A flash from a camera phone lit Olivia’s peripheral vision. She sent a shy smile over the table to William. While he appeared altogether unaffected by the attention, she felt positively giddy. Soon the world would know that Olivia Pembroke, a former nobody-special, had been out on the town with America’s Heartthrob. In the words of Pete, “Who’d a thunk?”
Pete… She didn’t want to think about him right now, or how she should feel about what had transpired between them earlier. Finding herself alone with him—kissing him—it had all been so random, had happened too fast, and she couldn’t wrap her brain around what it meant. And didn’t want to. Knowing Pete, the kiss was nothing more than his way of crawling under her skin. Seeing how much irritation he could cause.
William reached over the table and touched her hand. He looked smolderingly handsome in a black turtleneck, dark-wash designer jeans, and a wool blazer. Around them, walls paneled in a natural wood finish reached high to an industrial ceiling, mixing cozy with contemporary to create the perfect atmosphere. Tonight, the tables were filled to capacity, the restaurant founded by one of America’s most beloved Southern cooks abuzz with activity.
“I didn’t realize it would be so loud in here,” he said, his hand now subtly caressing the back of hers. “I can barely hear myself think.”
Olivia swung her eyes to the unoccupied side of the table between them. “You could always move closer,” she suggested.
William’s gaze never left hers as he said, “Why don’t I do just that?” and he swiveled his chair into position at her side.
“Evening, Mr. Blaine. Miss Pembroke,” a man’s voice broke through the heat of their locked gazes. “My name’s Timothy, and it’ll be my pleasure to serve you tonight,” their waiter said, then went on to describe the night’s specials. “Can I start you out with something to drink? And an appetizer? May I suggest the fried green tomatoes? They’re a house favorite.”
“Scotch, neat,” William said and held up two fingers.
Timothy’s smile stretched thin. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blaine, but we don’t have a bar,” he apologized.
William eyed the waiter as if considering whether or not to protest. Olivia didn’t drink scotch, or any other hard liquor for that matter. She took advantage of the pause to subtly say as much. “Iced tea, please,” she said, giving the waiter her best smile. “Half sweet, half un-sweet, with a splash of lemonade.”
“Delightful,” Timothy said and turned back to William. “And for you, sir? Might I suggest a nice white wine? We have a Montevina I believe you’d enjoy. It’s not the most expensive, but in my opinion, price doesn’t always equate to quality when it comes to a good wine.”
Without giving the waiter’s suggestion the slightest of considerations, William waved the offer away. “Not just yet. I’ll have whatever my lovely date is having for now.” He turned back to Olivia with an affectionate smile. “And an order of those tomatoes,” he added without consulting her. Her mouth had been watering since the words “fried-green-tomatoes” had exited the waiter’s lips. She and William’s connection must be stronger than she thought. It was like he could read her mind.
When Timothy had moved away, William muttered from the corner of his mouth. “Like I’ll be paying for any of it anyway.” He winked. A thrill raced through Olivia’s chest at the possibility that someday, based solely on her celebrity status, restaurants and the like might comp her bill too.
“So, where were we?” William wanted to know.
Just getting started, Olivia hoped, but didn’t dare say so out loud. “You were asking how the renovation was coming along, and I was scolding you for thinking that just because you’re devastatingly handsome, I would swoon into divulging such sensitive information. And telling you to mind your own business.” Pursing her lips, she gazed at him playfully from under the sweep of her false eyelashes. “So why don’t you tell me a little about yourself instead?” she suggested, as if she hadn’t googled him at least a half-dozen times since arriving in Savannah. According to her research, his favorite color was red. He loved sushi. Was an only child. And had grown up in Santa Barbara, California, behind the gates of a posh community overlooking the ocean. His mother was a successful realtor, his father a land developer. He’d attended one of those highbrow prep-schools, was an accomplished Polo player, drove fast cars,
dated a string of beautiful women, and had never been married nor engaged.
In contrast, Olivia was none of the above. Sure, she’d grown up in a wealthy community that boasted many of the country music industry’s rich and famous, but her life had not been privileged. And though the five-figure income her father earned teaching at one of the local universities was respectable, it was nowhere near substantial enough to comfortably keep up with the Brentwood lifestyle. Still, her mother had insisted upon purchasing a home in one of the community’s older neighborhoods, convinced that a zip code alone would ensure Olivia and her four older brothers successes. Growing up, Olivia had clipped a mountain of coupons, shopped at designer consignment stores, and driven luxury cars her father and brothers had refurbished in the shop behind their house.
Dropping his chin to his hand, William stared at Olivia, his eyes like chocolate satin, transfixed on her. “What would you like to know?”
Unaccustomed to being gazed intently upon, and by a man so utterly beautiful, she felt her cheeks prickle with fire. “Well, for starters, what kind of music do you like?” she asked. She already knew jazz was his favorite—her least favorite—but she wondered (hoped, really) he had other musical interests.
He snapped out of his trance. “Huh?” he said. “Mostly iazz. Truffaz and Parks.” He sounded rather uninterested in his own choices.
Olivia had no idea who either of those artists was. “Ever listen to country, indie rock, classic alternative?” she asked, suggesting a few of her favorites. “Elvis Costello, maybe?”
“Elvis who?”
Olivia’s chin dropped, aghast. She quickly snapped it back into place. How was it even possible he didn’t know the greatest songwriter who ever lived?
A woman with a basket tucked under her arm appeared at the table and placed what looked like a small pancake and a cheese biscuit on each of their bread plates. Both had been fried to a perfect golden brown. Olivia’s mouth watered all over again.
Home Matters (A Ripple Effect Romance Novella, Book 1) Page 4