“I have one more thing I want to show you,” he said. “Before I spray-painted the plywood on the front door, I checked to see how solid it was, and one of the pieces fell off.”
“There’s a shock.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, well, before I put it back, I got a look at the door. I think you might be interested.”
“I didn’t think this place had any more surprises,” I said as Landon produced a hammer from a nearby toolbox and began carefully removing the plywood from the door.
“It’s a shame about these nail holes in this nice carved door, but we’ll fix it up. This is the real centerpiece. Close your eyes for a minute.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
So I did. I closed my eyes for a few minutes while listening to him pry off the wood on the back and front of the door, while noting every creak and whisper of this enchanted haunted house.
“OK,” he said. “You can look.”
I opened my eyes. And then I opened them wider. The centerpiece of the front door was a stunning stained-glass window. It featured a coy peacock sitting on a branch, in gorgeous blue and turquoise colors, with little crystals inset into the tail feathers that spread out below. A golden trellis with gemlike green leaves and red flowers framed the peacock, with a cloud-dotted, translucent, light-blue sky as the backdrop.
“It’s — ” I couldn’t find the words.
“Beautiful,” he said simply. “Just like you.”
“I love you,” I blurted out. I’d never said that before to a man. And Landon would be the only man I’d ever want to say it to.
He dropped his hammer, pulled me close and kissed me again. When he paused, he pushed back my hair and gave me a new smile, all light and heat and something else. It wasn’t the Fireworks. I needed a new name for it. Because it felt like home.
Maybe the Hearthfire?
“I love you, too, Kayla.”
Chapter 29
By Thanksgiving, I had a lot to be thankful for. A lot more to be thankful for.
Marla called to offer me the video job with the tourism office, and I took it. Maybe I had two jobs now, but they were both dream jobs. And one of them, I was doing with Landon — fixing up Milkweed Mansion.
Or maybe I had two jobs and a passion, because I’d also started writing a screenplay about the Fountain family and the house. If I could raise funds for the house, maybe I could raise money for an indie film, too.
My mom, who’d worked with a lot of nonprofits, hinted that she’d be a great event manager for the mansion. I couldn’t have agreed more. So she was already lining up events for the new year as we focused on getting key rooms ready.
And even though our master bedroom suite still needed a lot of work, we’d just made it habitable enough to move in. Mornings looking over the river from our balcony were wonderful … and second only to the nights.
Though I still had Flora’s diary, I’d presented the Fountain family ledgers to the historical society, and Ken Motebarkle had gone on his radio show and announced that he was pleased with how the renovation of Milkweed Mansion was going. I greeted this broadcast with hard eye-rolls. He would likely freak out when he found out the auction of the tool stash was in the works, but for now, at least, I had one less enemy.
Speaking of which, Max Junior had just written me a short note of apology for his attack on our Halloween wraith. He skipped Thanksgiving dinner, but at least we were on the right track.
Oh, yeah. Thanksgiving dinner.
The Milkweed Mansion dining room cleaned up nicely. The kitchen was still in progress, so we brought in most of the food, but we had a most interesting mix of diners for the holiday: Landon, my mom and grandma, Aunt Ginny and Jay, Gary and Ez, and Annabelle and Andy and their mother, Liza. That Liza and my mother got along so well was a bit of a shock, but I just figured it was the magic of Milkweed Mansion at work.
When the delicious early dinner was over, our guests went out to the grounds to enjoy the sunset and stroll among the oaks, palms and recovering garden. A couple of the roses were blooming, and their scent tinged the air with a soft reminder of Flora’s plantings.
“Too bad your parents couldn’t make it,” I commented to Landon as we sat in the swing he’d hung from one of the trees. We had an expansive view of the house, the gazebo and the river from here.
He slipped an arm around my shoulders and pushed off with his feet so we swung gently. “They like cruising on holidays. And maybe it’s just as well. I’ve had a hard time convincing my dad that Tuscany Towers was not going to happen.”
I laughed. “Would you really have called it that?”
“It’s catchy. If you’d said that to him, I have no doubt there’d be a project right now with that name, complete with a clay tile roof and Italianate trim in carved foam.”
“More work for Gary.”
“True.”
“They seem happy.” I nodded at Gary and Ez, who’d gotten out guitars and were sitting on chairs in the gazebo, strumming and singing a tune.
“Are you happy?”
I looked up at Landon. “Do you have to ask? Is the constant grin on my face not enough for you?”
He smiled the Hearthfire smile. “That’s good. Because I plan to make you even happier.”
“The happiest woman on Earth?”
“Maybe,” he teased.
My tummy did a little flutter. It was too soon to talk about getting married, but I had this wonderful feeling of joyous inevitability when I talked about the future with Landon.
The western sun glinted off the metal roof of the house, and the wind spun its weathervanes and turbines, haunting our beautiful home. Life was sweet with Landon. And the ghosts of Milkweed Mansion were safe with us.
Want to see where it all started?
Read Sloane and Alex’s story!
BOHEMIA BEACH
The first Bohemia Beach novel
A Golden Quill finalist for best hot romance!
Alex is a mystery: Secretive. Rich. Way too hot for his own good.
I’m an artist just trying to make it as a potter, and why he wants me, I don’t know.
I’m starting over in this beautiful beach town, and saying “yes” to him is part of the adventure. Until yes becomes something more.
My new artist friends are quirky and cool. My teacher is alarmingly obnoxious. I’m working hard to get into the big juried exhibition. And I keep losing myself in Alex’s arms.
He’s insatiable. I’m addicted. But under his quietly forceful exterior is a man wounded to his core.
Can obsession turn into love? And can passion overcome the past?
Or is Alex the worst best thing that ever happened to me?
Bohemia Beach is a sizzling hot romance featuring an aspiring clay artist, a mysteriously wealthy/seductive/secretly sweet writer, and a colorful beach town brimming with passion, drama and humor. This is the first novel in the Bohemia Beach Series, each a steamy standalone romance set among a circle of artists in the enchanting Florida city they call home.
GET THE BOOK
Read more in the preview at the end of this book!
Afterword
Thanks for reading! Sign up for my newsletter to get fun original content, giveaways, news and cocktail recipes, and I’ll send you a free story. I also have a Facebook group where readers can hang out and chat about books and life — please join us in Lucy’s Lounge. And you can always find me at LucyLakestone.com!
Acknowledgments
Bohemia Chills was kind of like a surprise baby, if you’ll forgive the metaphor — unexpected but full of joy. I didn’t intend another book in the Bohemia Beach Series, but when I heard about the Common Elements Romance Project, this novel manifested in my imagination. Kayla has brief appearances in previous books, and I always wanted to write her story. This was my chance.
Thanks so much to Cora Lee for wrangling the promo for more than seventy authors’ books in the project. We all had the freedom to
write pretty much anything we wanted as long as the elements were there (a lightning storm, lost keys, a stack of books, a character named Max and a house that may or may not be haunted), but she kept tabs on the titles. Learn more about the other books at https://commonelementsromanceproject.wordpress.com.
Thanks so much to my writing pals Naomi Bellina, Karen Ann Dell, Maria Geraci and Alethea Kontis. This book is partly fueled by coffee and friendship. Shout-out to Spacecoast Authors of Romance: Y’all are awesome.
I’m incredibly grateful to friend and editor Holly Martin, who had invaluable suggestions after reading this book on a tight deadline.
Thanks also to Mr. Lakestone, who’s always supportive of my passions and who doesn’t even blink when I stay up until 2 a.m. to write one more chapter.
I’d also like to issue a good-humored apology to lovely local historian Ben Brotemarkle, who is nothing like the historian in my book. It’s just that I’ve always loved his name and thought it would be fun to turn it inside out for a character in my fictional Bohemia.
Though the secrets and architecture of my mansion are entirely invented, there really is a historic riverfront house in Melbourne, Florida, that inspired me. The real house is called Green Gables and isn’t quite as grand as Milkweed Manor. A small group of passionate preservationists is trying to save it.
I got Stanford’s first name from a recurring name in the Wells family that founded the house. The original owners, William and Nora Wells, wintered there for Nora’s health; she lived a long life. And like my fictional Flora, Nora founded the first library in the community. The Wells family also built a high school and a theater. Read more about the house’s history and contribute to its preservation at GreenGables.org.
About the Author
Lucy Lakestone is an award-winning author who lives on Florida’s east central coast, among the towns that serve as an inspiration for the hot romances of her Bohemia Beach Series, including Bohemia Beach, Bohemia Light, Bohemia Blues (winner of the Golden Quill), Bohemia Heat, Bohemia Nights, Bohemia Bells and Bohemia Chills. She’s been a journalist, photographer, editor and video producer but prefers living in her imagination, where the moon is full and the cocktails are divine. She is also the author of a novel of romantic suspense, Desire on Deadline.
An irresistible obsession…
Preview of BOHEMIA BEACH
The first Bohemia Beach novel
A Golden Quill finalist for best hot romance!
Part 1
“Who is he?” I asked, trying to be heard above the party noise — the DJ, the chatter, the occasional drunken shriek echoing through the huge, high-ceilinged oceanfront condo. All I knew was that he, the mesmerizing man across the room, was our host and that I had never seen him before. Not that I’d seen anyone much, since I’d only been in town three days.
Damien, my ever cynical cousin Damien, in his tattoos, spiky black hair, eyeliner and mismatched earrings, laughed.
“He’s the money,” he said.
I didn’t like my cousin’s tone, especially when he — whoever he was — had completely captured my attention. Tall. Wavy, dark-honey hair growing just a bit past his ears. Strong jaw and sensuous lips. A faraway look in steel-gray eyes, aloof, scanning the crowd. He had to be more than what Damien implied.
I matched his mocking tone. “If he’s the money, what are we? The moochers?”
“Oh, Sloane. Don’t be such a country mouse. We’re what makes him interesting. We’re the party orbiting around his dull axis. We’re the art scene, baby.”
Damien was already drifting, my one acquaintance from the art scene, having spied a choice young lad loitering by the sliding doors.
“You’ll be OK, won’t you?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said. My cousin was getting on my nerves anyway. I was here to meet people. To get into the scene. I was nervous, but Damien, a multimedia artist, was such a big personality that I’d never meet anyone cowering in his shadow. And I was through cowering in shadows, always the girl on the edge of the party. It’s why I’d moved here, to this small coastal city, to defy expectations, to learn my craft, to prove my worth as an artist, to take a risk on myself. On my future. I had clay under my fingernails and a restless desire in my heart. I wanted more of a life than I’d had in my quiet town in my northern landlocked state.
But I had to laugh at Damien’s “country mouse” reference. Maybe I was one, but this wasn’t exactly Metropolis. Still, it was the coast, in Florida, which for me was practically another country, with its palm trees, surfer boys and exotic accents. The coast was the edge where land and sea and imagination met. And I was on the edge, too, of seeing whether I could make a living out of my passion. I had enough money to fund six months of pure artistic devotion, and then I’d see. I was ready for adventure. Wasn’t I?
As Damien headed for his quarry, I wondered where to dive in first. I delayed my decision by scanning him. Jeans, worn to sky blue, comfortable but clinging, suggesting ideas I shouldn’t think about in public. A black leather belt. A white button-up shirt, loose at the neck, rolled up at the sleeves over strong arms. Casually elegant. My gaze slid up his body to his face to find his eyes drilling into mine.
Oh, fuck. Caught. And his eyes lit up, spectral, arresting, making me feel he knew exactly what I’d been thinking.
He started to walk toward me.
My bravery was gone. I was frozen to the spot. And, I realized with horror, Damien hadn’t told me the man’s name.
I looked around for an escape and didn’t find one, just a glimpse of myself in an ultra-modern reflective vase on a nearby table that showed me distorted and strange, my head shrunken, my long, reddish-brown hair gone from straight to round, my blue-green eyes crazed, my lipstick-stained mouth twisted and red. A great moment for my self-esteem. I snapped my head back around, and he was halfway across the room, at least until a buxom blonde in a black miniskirt and see-through mesh shirt, sparkly black bra glinting underneath, stumbled drunkenly into him and started talking in his ear. He looked annoyed. And at the moment he looked at her, I took the opportunity to slip behind a pillar and make a beeline for the kitchen.
Two female caterers in black beanies and chef jackets were hogging the vast granite island, fixing up fresh trays to bring out to the crowd. To the moochers, I joked to myself. Our host must like the moochers, must find some pleasure in them, or he wouldn’t spend so much on parties like this, right?
I grabbed a bacon-wrapped scallop and skulked in a corner beside a ridiculously large paneled refrigerator, next to a sleek, walk-in pantry of some kind with heavy, dark-wood doors. I’d seen one of the servers come out of there with wine, so I assumed there was at least a wine rack in there. And probably room for me. I could slip in there for a minute and collect my thoughts before beginning my campaign of social conquests.
The door made a tiny suction sound as I opened it and closed it behind me, and I found myself in much more than a pantry. It was a modest space, with a lower ceiling than in the main living area, but it filled my senses: windowless, unnaturally cool, lined with floor-to-ceiling wine racks in rich, dark wood. An antique chandelier and recessed lighting created subtle, glimmering reflections in the glass bottles. The walls were broken up by marble countertops and niches that displayed framed wine labels. There were a couple of ornate silver ice buckets on the counters, along with wine tools and decanters. Another niche held shallow shelves filled with delicate, clear glasses of varying shapes. In one corner rested a cello, subtly lit, a warm, russet glow under its varnish.
There was just enough room on the back wall for a small fireplace. Facing it was a plush red couch with a curvy, dark-wood coffee table in front of it. And above the wooden mantel was a colorful, modern painting of a cluster of wine bottles and, oddly, a pair of red gloves. The picture reminded me of stained glass. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, off the lines of it, the brush strokes that made it seem fragmented even while the colors shimmered as one.
“Beauti
ful,” I murmured to myself, just as I heard the door close behind me.
“That’s just what I thought,” came the resonant voice as I whirled to face the intruder.
Not an intruder. Him. If anyone was intruding, it was me.
“I — I didn’t mean to —”
“I’m happy you appreciate it,” he said, coming closer. Strangely, I felt no fear. My desire to flee had evaporated. I just wanted to hear him say something else. His voice, on the verge of deep, had a gentle trace of Southern.
I searched in vain for a response. “Some collection,” I finally said. His eyes had struck me dumb. The stupid kind of dumb.
“You should see the library.”
“You have as many books as you have bottles?”
“This is just the lot I like to keep on hand for drinking,” he said, “and a few of the collectibles. The rest is in storage.”
“You put your wine in storage?”
He laughed. “Not like one of those garages you rent when you don’t have an attic. It’s climate-controlled. Like this. Are you cold?”
I realized I was shivering. My thin, sleeveless green dress wasn’t meant for climate-controlled wine dens. And I was already feeling drunk, but not from alcohol. Hick seduced by suave wine collector, the headline would read. But isn’t that why I came to this place? To be seduced by it?
I smiled up at him. “I’m fine.”
He almost imperceptibly scanned me, his gaze lingering for a microsecond where my chilled-to-attention breasts strained against the dress, and I felt the heat of his scrutiny curb my shivers.
“What’s your name?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you before.”
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