by Marina Adair
She was homeless, carless, phoneless, fiancéless, and unwillingly attracted to a man who was too smooth, too pretty, and smelled like sex.
Josephina Harrington didn’t do sex. Not anymore. Post-lingerie-landing debacle, she had decided to give up on the penis-carrying members of society indefinitely. Unless they wore a tool belt and knew something about indoor plumbing.
“I’ll take that scowl as a, ‘Why yes, Brett. I’m just fine. Thanks for asking.’” Brett rose to his feet, extending a hand and a slow, sexy smile that had the ability to melt panties off women everywhere.
“You know what?” Ignoring his hand, and that smile, she pushed to her feet, making her way up the porch to peer in the window. “I’m fine.”
Fairchild House might be one strong breeze away from falling apart, but at least it wasn’t hiding anything. Josephina bounced on her toes, trying to get a better look inside. All she could see was sheet-covered furniture and cobwebs. Lots of cobwebs.
“Really? ’Cuz you look a little pale.”
“I’m fine,” she said reassuringly, wanting to punch him but settling on searching the front porch for the table with the key, which was where Letty hid it. If she found the key, Brett could leave and she could settle in for a good cry.
“I have a headache.” She briefly eyed him. “Probably from the music. All that twang made my ears bleed.” She went around one side of the wraparound porch. No table. “Or maybe the cologne. It’s a bit strong.” The other side. Nope again. “Maybe a combo.” She stopped by the front door, Boo slamming into her ankle with a yip. “Where the hell is that key?”
Josephina realized she was about to cry and spun to look out at the scenery. She needed a distraction, and an oak tree surrounded by rusty appliances seemed about as good as it was going to get. Her aunt Letty’s hollow promises somehow hurt worse than Wilson’s betrayal. Any hope of reconnecting with that something she’d lost faded about as quickly as the girl who’d snorted when she laughed, baked cookies in sneakers and pearls, and woke up every morning loving her life.
She had been looking to renovate Fairchild House as a way of getting back to that magical place—rediscovering her inner awesomeness. Too bad she was so busy looking she didn’t see what was really in front of her: a condemned life with a rodent problem.
Swallowing back panic, she looked at the money-pit in front of her and considered doing something irrational. Like setting Wilson’s car on fire. Then demanding that her parents explain how they forgot to tell her that her fiancé accidentally slipped and fell into bed with another woman, so they could call her overdramatic and somehow blame her for the failed nuptials.
A small little whimper sounded, followed by a wet tongue laved at her ankle. Apparently Boo was panicked, too. She didn’t blame him. She had ripped him out of his plush Manhattan high-rise and forced him to drive cross-country, only to find out that home was a two-story litter box.
But it was her two-story litter box. More important, it was eight hundred miles from Manhattan. Eight hundred miles from friends calling to say that Wilson was a jerk; that they never liked Babette; which meant they knew about Babette. Even Mr. Wang’s delivery guy had known, which made her idiot numero uno.
Made—past tense.
She straightened her shoulders. “You guys get takeout way out here?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Good,” she said, ignoring the “ma’am” and making her way down the front steps.
Rounding the passenger-side door, she extracted the nine-iron from inside and went back up to face the window to the right of the front door, club swinging dangerously.
“Hold up, sugar,” Brett said, snagging the club a second before impact.
“Give it back.”
“You’re thinking too much like a city girl.” Brett raised the nine-iron above his head, palming hers like a basketball and holding her immobile when she began jumping up to steal her makeshift house key back.
With one last, failed attempt, she settled on slanting him a really hard look. “It would’ve gotten me in.”
“Along with every mosquito and critter in the county.” Damn. She hadn’t thought of that. “Seems to me, you need someone to show you how things are done here in the South.”
“Oh, and let me guess. You’re just the man to show me.”
“All right, I’ll show you, since I hate to hear a lady beg. But my expertise doesn’t come cheap.”
“I am not sleeping with you.”
“Sugar, sleeping is the last thing we’d be doing.” He slid her a wink. “But seeing as I barely know you, and I’m not that kind of guy, I’ll grant you one kiss.”
Josephina looked at the door and knew she was going to cave. Because if a kiss was the only thing standing between her and getting inside that house, then she’d pucker up and take it like a woman. She wasn’t sure what was on the other side of that door, didn’t even know what to expect, except that if she failed to get inside, this moment would mirror the last fifteen years of her life. And she was tired of failing.
“Fine. Get me that key and I will give you a kiss guaranteed to rock your hillbilly world.”
Big words for a woman who had rocked the world of exactly zero men in her life. Whereas Mr. McGraw was not only reported to leave members of her sex panting his name in ecstasy, he had a video with fifteen million downloads to prove it.
Grinning, Brett reached around her, grabbed the knob of the door, twisted, and there, sitting on the entry table, dangling from a life-sized bust of Kenny Rogers, was the house key.
“Kenny Rogers?”
“Letty loved her some gambler,” she mumbled, staring at the key, and purposely averting her eyes from the white envelope with her name on it. “And who puts a key inside an unlocked house?”
“Better than putting a key inside a locked house,” Brett said, walking closer, each click of his boots on the wood porch making her quiver. He deliberately invaded her space, forcing her to step backward, until she came flush with the door frame.
“You keep forgetting, you aren’t in New York anymore, Jo,” he drawled, purposely dragging out the O. “Round here people respect their neighbors.”
“Josephina,” she clarified, swallowing hard when he slid an arm around her lower back, his fingers grazing the skin at the waistband of her skirt.
Finally he whispered, “Now about that kiss.”
Yes, that kiss, she thought, her eyes sliding shut. If this was the southern way of respecting one’s neighbor, then she might legally change her name to Joie-Beth-Marie and get herself some big hair and a gun rack, because his lips looked amazing.
Scratch that. Was she seriously considering kissing a stranger just three weeks after ending a four-year relationship? Nope. Definitely not. Even if the only recent tears she’d shed had been over a bruised ego, Josephina Harrington did not go around locking lips with random guys.
“Yes, about that kiss,” she whispered, resting her palms on his incredible pecs and pressing him back against the other side of the door frame. “You have to close your eyes if you want to see the fireworks.”
Brett’s eyes went heavy, the side of his mouth hitching up into a crooked grin, but he followed orders. Making sure his eyes were shut tight, she bent down and picked up Boo, who delivered a hot, wet, doggie kiss guaranteed to rock his world.
“What the…” Brett spat.
Boo growled.
Josephina made her way back down to the truck, giggling to herself the whole way. Ignoring the two males glaring at each other on the porch, she pulled a suitcase out of the truck. Then another.
After making a big show out of wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand, Brett stormed after her. “What in the hell was that?”
Boo, equally offended, snapped at his heels the entire way, barking him out.
“Come on, you didn’t really expect me to kiss a complete stranger?” He looked dumbfounded, as though he’d expected just that. “I don’t know what kind of women you’
ve been dating.” His right eye twitched at her comment. “But where I’m from, a kiss usually follows dinner and a night of dancing under the stars.”
“Under the stars, huh?”
He was making fun of her for sounding like some naive schoolgirl. A reaction she was used to. But for some reason, this time, it made her smile.
“Yup, the stars and the moon and the city lights.”
“Okay.” Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on the bed of the truck. “How about dinner then? You, me, and a million fireflies?”
“You want to go on a date? With me?”
“A date? Why, Jo, I’d love to.”
“Sorry, I don’t date bald guys.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
Tearing off his hat, he smacked it across his thigh. Boo barked hostilely. Josephina rolled her eyes at the pathetic display of bruised egos and—
Sweet mother of God. Her mouth went dry. Which was the exact opposite of what was going on in her panties.
Brett McGraw had thick, dark waves that her fingers itched to dive into and explore, especially the unruly curls that were slightly damp and licked at the base of his neck. And those eyes, no longer hidden beneath the brim of his cowboy hat, caught in the sun and were the most intense shade of blue. It was unnerving.
Slipping his hat back on, he smiled, a small dimple dotting his right cheek, and Josephina felt her happy parts stand up and cheer.
This is how it starts, she warned herself. They charm you, use your family connections, and then bang. Yup, they bang their head of business development, who ends up wearing the bracelet you picked out last spring in Italy. Then they come home tired and ready for bed, making you feel about as appetizing as a can of Spam.
“Little curly for my taste.” She set her last bag on the ground. “But, hey, thanks for the ride.”
He blinked. Several times, and it took everything she had not to laugh or give herself a much-deserved high-five. Apparently, Brett McGraw didn’t get turned down—ever.
His brows furrowed. Then he grabbed one of her bags, holding it hostage while examining the house. “Okay, you’ve seen the house. It’s a heap. Where am I taking you? The closest motel is two towns over, so I’m guessing—”
“What makes you think I’m not staying here?”
He gave an amused snort and tossed the bag in the back of the truck, grabbing for another.
“What are you doing? Let go of my bag.” She yanked the suitcase free and slammed it on the ground, narrowly missing his foot. Boo barked his support.
Brett took off his hat and looked at the sky as if asking for divine intervention. Her dad did that a lot around her, too.
“Look, you don’t have a phone or a car, and I doubt this place even has electricity.” Facts she was well aware of. “If you give me a minute to stop by my grandmother’s, I can take you to Atlanta.”
Josephina’s stomach fisted into a painful ball. She didn’t want to go to Atlanta, or anywhere else for that matter. She wanted to stay here, in Sugar, and forget everything that had happened.
“Just think, in two hours I can get you checked into a fancy room with a view of the city. A nice bubble bath, a little room service. Then tomorrow you can book yourself a flight—”
“I don’t need room service. And I’m not going back!”
“Who knows what’s crawling around inside?”
“I can deal with a few rats.”
That seemed to amuse Brett. “You know, everything’s bigger in the South.”
“Are you referring to your penis?”
“No, I was referring to the size of our rats, which could carry your kissy-boo dog to their lair. But since you brought it up—”
She held up a hand. “No. And I believe it’s Texas.”
“Texas?”
“Yes. The saying, it’s everything’s bigger in Texas. Georgia is the peach state.”
Brett’s grin widened and a wicked twinkle flashed in his eyes. “Now who’s talking dirty?” When she didn’t laugh, Brett seemed to soften. “I’m just saying that you need to be realistic.”
“What I need is for you to get the hell off my property.”
“Christ, I’ve never met such a stubborn woman.” Brett rubbed at the back of his neck. “Wait? Your property?”
“Yes, my aunt Letty left Fairchild House and all of its giant-rat glory to me.”
“Holy shit. Joie?” No one had called her that since, well, him.
“Josephina—”
“I know who you are. The little blonde pixie who claimed to be able to fly, but I had to rescue from that big old oak tree.”
“I never said I was a pixie.” She’d said fairy. “I said that I was merely working on my levitation skills.” And she had been. In her head.
“You still afraid of heights?”
“No.” Kind of. “And since we have established who I am, that would mean you’re the one trespassing, Bart. Maybe I should call the sheriff.”
“Brett,” he corrected. “And you’d need a phone to do that.”
She shrugged, grabbed one of her bags, and dragged it up the stairs, smacking each step in the process, hoping he’d take the clue and leave.
“Fine,” he hollered after her. “At least let me bring in your bags, check the electricity, and make sure there aren’t any bears or squatters hiding inside.”
“Bears? Do I look stupid?”
“No comment,” he grumbled, picking up four bags at once and, with ease, setting them in the foyer before stomping through the house, mumbling derogatory things about the opposite sex.
Josephina walked into the entryway and forgot to breathe. The outside might need a nip here and tuck there…or possibly a complete facial transplant, but the inside was just as she remembered it—magical.
The entryway, circular and whimsical, spanned the full two stories. Its hand-painted ceiling highlighted the enormous crystal chandelier that hung between two staircases, which hugged either wall, meeting in the middle and creating a freestanding walkway.
When she was little, Josephina used to lie on the entryway floor and stare at the ceiling, trying to imagine how many fairies it must have taken to create such a beautiful home. Because behind the gilded crevices of the ceiling was where fairies lived, Aunt Letty would say. And if you looked hard enough you could see their wings flutter, spreading their magical dust.
“What are you doing?”
Josephina opened her eyes to find Brett’s gaze locked on her, a strange expression on his face. She realized what she must look like with her arms outstretched, palms up, eyes closed. She’d been twirling.
There were a million intelligent and worldly explanations she could have given, and a few minutes ago she would have. But instead she smiled and said, “Trying to catch fairy dust.”
To her surprise, Brett smiled back. Not that his smiling was all that surprising, given that it was the international calling card of womanizers everywhere. But this smile was not contrived or given for maximum impact. It was a natural curling of lips that happened when someone was experiencing joy.
The lights flickered overhead and Josephina realized that the power was on. “Guess I’ve got electricity.”
Brett walked down the stairs, stopping in front of her. “Running water, too. Though I’m not sure I’d drink it until it was tested.”
“No bears?”
“No bears.”
“Great. Then I guess I’d better get started setting up camp.”
“Is that your way of telling me that you’re tired of my company?”
“Pretty much.”
* * *
Fairchild House sat on the banks of Sugar Lake, nestled among eleven acres of overgrown pecan plantation. As when she was young, her heart caught as the fading afternoon sun filtered through the wind-blown willows, casting a canopy of mottled shadows over the surface of the lake.
The estate, equally majestic, was made up of the main house, a detached garage, five servants’ quarters,
and a small wooden dock that was one storm away from sinking. Josephina’s goal was to turn the house into an inn, the servants’ quarters into private guest suites, and the dock into a place where people could check out small boats and fishing gear.
After Brett left, she quickly unpacked and changed into work clothes. Her goal was merely to dig a path between the porch and the garage before sundown, hoping to find her aunt’s old clunker. Ten minutes in and she’d become distracted by a single yellow rose peeking out from beneath the ragweed. When Josephina had visited, she and Aunt Letty spent hours tending to her roses. Somehow being knee-deep in the dirt made her feel connected to her past and her aunt.
Desperate to uncover the beautiful rose garden that she knew hid beneath, she’d started pulling weeds. That had been about three hours ago. The muscles in her arms and thighs burned, and she was certain she could cook bacon off her shoulder blades. Fading or not, SPF five thousand was no match for a hot Georgia sun.
Josephina was on the losing end of a stubborn fistful of ragweed when she heard a phone ring. Standing up, she dusted her hands off and listened. It was coming from inside the house. She trudged up the steps and pushed through the screen door, the hinges squeaking on their axis, protesting a century of openings and closings.
The ringing came from an old rotary phone, which sat on a table next to the front door. Pushing the hair out of her eyes, she picked it up and gave a tentative, “Hello?”
The only response she got was the rustling of pearls in the background.
Josephina closed her eyes and sighed. “Hey, Mom.”
If this conversation went anything like the one she’d had a few days ago while driving to Georgia, she’d need a seat—and a strong shot. Which was why she picked up the phone, dragging the extra-long cord outside, and plopped down on the porch swing.
“How was Paris?” Josephina tried again, this time forcing a smile into her voice.
“You would know if you had bothered to come. Rosalie said you didn’t even want to stop by the house before you took off.”
“I needed time to think.” To figure out who I am without Wilson—and without you.