Always and Forever

She shook her head, clearing away the untoward thoughts that had no business taking up residence in her head. Hadn’t she learned from last year’s debacle what a fine-ass man with a pretty smile and nice muscles could lead to? A trip to the poorhouse.

“Good luck on the restoration,” Phil said. “It is a restoration that you’re performing, right?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“No, you said you were renovating the house, not restoring it.”

“Same thing.” He shrugged.

“It absolutely is not,” Phil stressed. “One means that you’re trying to bring it to its former glory; the other often means that you’re tearing up the insides and overhauling it with a bunch of modern crap that doesn’t belong in there. I just want to know which one you’re doing, a restoration or renovation?”

And wasn’t she just the epitome of smooth and detached? It wouldn’t take much for him to figure out that when it came to the Victorian, she wasn’t just an interested bystander.

His curious stare indicated he was halfway to figuring out the puzzle already.

“For the most part it’s a restoration,” he said.

“Good.” She nodded.

“I do plan to make the house eco-friendly, but I need to get the basics done first.”

A splotch of red flashed across Phil’s visual field. She should have known this was coming. From the moment she’d walked into the Georgian he’d renovated and saw all of those beautiful cypress floorboards tossed into a pile like so much rubbish, Phil had known this man would wreck any piece of property he got his hands on.

“I need to get back to work,” she said through barely clenched teeth.

“So do I. Sorry you can’t help. I could really use your expertise.”

Phil couldn’t form the words to respond. She knew if she opened her mouth she would regret it. Instead, she nodded and closed the door behind him. Moments later, she heard an ignition turn over and his truck drive away. On shaky legs she walked back to the buffet she’d been restoring. She placed the safety shield back over her eyes and picked up the sander. She didn’t even try to wipe away the tears that trailed down her cheeks.

Chapter 2

Jamal tossed a pack of screw anchors into his shopping basket and headed for the lighting aisle. He’d accidentally cracked the bulb in his hanging work lamp, which had forced him to stop working once the sun went down. He couldn’t afford to work only during daylight hours anymore, not if Belle Maison was going to open as scheduled.

Maybe he could run a special promotion: get half off your stay if you’re willing to pick up a hammer.

“Get a grip,” Jamal said under his breath.

He had contractors lined up to do most of the big-ticket items—to paint the exterior and strip and refinish the home’s original hardwood flooring. What he needed was someone with expertise in restoring some of the home’s unique elements that he wanted to preserve.

Jamal was having a hard time deciding whether he was upset or relieved that Phylicia was too busy to help. He could use her skill with a detailing chisel, but he sure as hell had not been looking forward to the cold showers that were undoubtedly in his future if he had to spend any significant time working alongside her.

It didn’t matter now, did it?

Corey had warned him that Phylicia’s skills were a hot commodity. He should have known her calendar was booked months in advance.

Jamal grabbed a replacement halogen lamp and frowned at the rows of pear-shaped incandescent bulbs stacked on the shelves. He shook his head. Were people really still using those things?

He made his way to the hardware store’s single checkout counter, where a group of older men were loitering. After several trips here, Jamal had discovered that the three men who lingered around the counter were not customers but retirees who spent much of their day shooting the breeze with Nathan Robottom.

“Hey, it’s the architect,” Nathan greeted.

“Hello, Mr. Robottom. Gentlemen.” Jamal nodded to the group as he placed his items on the counter.

“How’s the work coming on the new hotel?” Nathan asked.

“Not a hotel, just a bed-and-breakfast,” Jamal corrected him. “And it’s coming along just fine.”

“You think it’ll be done in time for the Christmas in Gauthier celebration?” a man Jamal knew only as Froggy asked in a gravelly, toadlike voice. Hence the nickname, Jamal assumed. “My granddaughter lives up in Michigan. Said she saw an advertisement for Gauthier’s Christmas celebration on the internet all the way up there.”

“It’s the same internet wherever you are,” Nathan said with an eye roll. “Why do you think they call it the World Wide Web?”

“Well, hell, I don’t fool with that internet,” Froggy blustered.

Jamal suppressed the urge to laugh. “Mya Dubois-Anderson is in charge of publicizing it, so I have no doubt word of Christmas in Gauthier will reach far and wide.”

“Gauthier owes you a lot for opening this hotel,” Nathan said. “It’s nice to have tourists passing through, but it will be even better when they can stay for a couple of days and spend some money.”

Jamal nodded. He knew just how much having Belle Maison up and running would mean for Gauthier’s local economy.

“I was hoping you gentlemen could suggest someone who could help me with the renovations. I’ve got a few guys coming out to do the heavy lifting, but I need someone who can handle the delicate woodworking without damaging it.”

“Did you try Phi—” Froggy started.

“I just came from Phylicia Phillips’s place,” Jamal said, cutting him off. “She’s booked up.”

“Yeah, Phil gets a lot of work. Did you see the job she did on the Rosedale Plantation?” Nathan whistled. “That girl is better with a wood chisel than her daddy was.”

“Do you know of anyone else?” Jamal asked. He didn’t particularly want to hear about how good Phylicia would have been. Dammit, he knew how good she would have been. Maybe if he offered her twice whatever the job she was currently working on paid? Would she consider giving it up and coming to work for him?

Jamal winced at the selfish thought. He didn’t know much about Phylicia, but she didn’t seem like someone who would risk damaging her reputation for a few extra bucks. If anyone could respect the notion of integrity and a strong work ethic over money, it was him. He could be making an impressive salary as an architect with his family’s construction business, instead of reallocating money from his savings in order to open a bed-and-breakfast. But he was a helluva lot happier, and no amount of money was worth giving that up.

“If you think of someone else who may be able to help, give me a call,” Jamal told Nathan as he pocketed his change and headed out of the hardware store.

He waved at a couple of folks as he drove down Gauthier’s Main Street. For a city kid, he’d allowed this small town to thoroughly charm him. It looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, with its brightly colored storefronts sporting striped awnings and hand-painted We’re Open signs hanging in the windows. Jamal hadn’t known towns like this still existed, especially with predominately black populations.

Moving to Gauthier had been, without a doubt, one of the best decisions he’d made in his thirty-three years. He had been slowly dying back in Phoenix, but this small town had given him a new start. Having the freedom to live life on his terms instead of being bound by the confines of the Johnson Construction legacy had changed everything. He was finally free to pursue his dreams of opening his own architectural firm, without having to face his father’s derision.

So why was his firm still just an idea on paper?

A jolt of anxiety ricocheted against the walls of Jamal’s chest. The sensation had become commonplace, rearing its head whenever his mind so much as tiptoed in the vicinity of his underdeveloped career plans.

He quieted the unease by picturing the Victorian and what it would mean to Gauthier. The men back at the hardware store had reiterated how appreciative the town was that he was renovating Belle Maison. It would be selfish to think about his architectural firm when so many would benefit from the B&B.

“Yeah, you’re all about the noble self-sacrifice,” Jamal muttered.

Renovating the Victorian was a stalling tactic, and he damn well knew it. Just like the renovations of the Georgian he’d purchased when he moved to Gauthier a year ago.

He didn’t have the time or energy for a mental debate over why he continued to avoid moving forward on his architectural firm. There was too much work to be done, regardless of the true reason he was doing it.

Despite his exhaustion, Jamal drove straight past his house, forfeiting the hot shower and food his body craved in exchange for getting in a few more hours of work on Belle Maison. Now that he had the replacement bulb for his work light, there was no reason for him to call it quits for the day.

* * *

Sitting at the bar in her kitchen after a fitful night of very little sleep, Phil sipped a cup of piping-hot coffee and thumbed through the latest issue of Antique Abodes. There was a feature on a Greek Revival in Natchez, Mississippi, that a young couple had spent the past five years restoring. She wondered if she could swing a trip up to Natchez. It was worth the three-hour drive to see the house firsthand.

If she was lucky, she wouldn’t have the time to drive into Mississippi to look at someone else’s restoration project; she would be too busy with her own. The caretaker at Evergreen Plantation had emailed yesterday afternoon, informing Phil that a decision would be made soon on the restoration job she’d bid on. It wasn’t a huge project—a bit of work on some of the plantation’s antique furniture—but it would be welcomed income. She was barely keeping her head above water, and the waterline was gradually creeping further up her neck.

Phil spotted the mail carrier in front of her next-door neighbor’s house. She set her coffee cup down and was waiting outside when Paul Ricard pulled up to her mailbox.

“How you doing, Phil?” he greeted.

“Doing okay,” she answered. “How’s Liza? Baby Number Five make an appearance yet?”

“Any day now,” Paul said, handing her a stack of envelopes and catalogs. “Liza’s at that stage when she’s not talking to me. That usually means we’re close to a delivery.”

“Well, if she still hasn’t figured out what to call the new baby, I think Phylicia is a beautiful name.”

“That it is.” Paul laughed. “See you later, Phil.”

She waved as she turned and headed back toward the house, thumbing through the mail. There were two credit card offers—her current financial state must not have reached those companies yet—the bill for her auto insurance and an advertisement for the grand opening of a dry cleaners in Maplesville.

The fifth envelope caused her heart to sputter and her breathing to escalate. Phil stared at the return address, dread suffusing her bones. A weight settled in her stomach as she reentered the house and went into the kitchen. Stalling, she tossed the mail on the bar and refilled her coffee cup.

Leaning a hip against the counter, Phil eyed the envelope from Mossy Oaks Care Facility. She already knew what it contained. She’d received an envelope just like it about a month ago, with a letter stating that the rising cost of health care was forcing the facility to increase its rates across the board. Even with the money from her dad’s life insurance policy, Phil was still paying nearly a thousand dollars out of her own pocket every month for her mother’s care. She couldn’t afford several hundred more.

But she couldn’t afford not to pay it, either.

It was nothing short of a miracle that one of the South’s most renowned care facilities for dementia patients was located just twenty miles southeast, in Slidell. It was ludicrous to even consider moving her mom from Mossy Oaks.

Phil swallowed the lump of worry that lodged in her throat as she set the cup on the counter and reached for the envelope. She opened it, finding exactly what she knew would be there. The increase had been approved by the facility’s board of directors and would take effect next month.

Where was she going to find this money?

Her cell phone trilled. Phil picked it up and recognized the number from Evergreen Plantation’s caretaker. She glanced up at the ceiling and whispered, “Thank you, Lord,” as she answered it.

But instead of answered prayers, Phil had her heart broken into bite-size chunks. The caretaker’s apologetic tone was nearly as hard to stomach as the words she spoke.

“I’m sorry, Miss Phillips, but Marshall Restoration’s bid was significantly less than yours, even with the cost of shipping the furniture to their California warehouse.”

“But aren’t you afraid the furniture will get damaged in transit?” Phil asked.

“The furniture is insured,” was the woman’s response.

As if that mattered!

It wasn’t about the money, Phil wanted to shout. It was about potentially endangering irreplaceable, centuries-old furniture. There shouldn’t be a price tag on that. But apparently there was, and it was lower than the eight thousand dollars Phil had bid on the work.

Before ending the call she asked that she be kept in mind for other work the plantation might need in the future. Phil slouched over the bar, her head landing with a thump on her forearm. The disappointment was almost too much to bear.

As much as she loved her work, Phil wished she could count on a steady paycheck. When she did get paid it was usually enough to live on for several months, depending on the size of the job. But her last big project had been back in the spring, and repairing an old radio or the occasional antique headboard was not going to cut it. She needed a long-term project, something that would provide enough income to last her until one of the other bids hopefully came through.

She knew of one job that would fit the bill, but Lord knew she did not want to take it.

“No, no, no,” she whispered, her whine muffled by her arm.

There had to be another option.

Phil glanced toward the hallway, thinking of the Hepplewhite furniture in her guest bedroom. The set had been passed down in her family for generations. Phil knew if she had it appraised by one of the antique dealers in New Orleans it would fetch a hefty sum, but after losing Belle Maison she couldn’t stomach parting with the few pieces of furniture she’d managed to retain. With her mother’s mind slowly slipping away, they were the only ties she had left to her past.

“Oh, God,” Phil moaned. She would have to accept Jamal’s job offer. She was in no position to turn down work.

She pushed herself up and drained the rest of the coffee from her mug. If it were not still midmorning she would have been tempted to refill the mug with whiskey. But alcohol wouldn’t solve anything. She’d allowed herself to fall into this hole. She would have to be the one to claw herself out.

Phil quickly changed into a pair of jeans. In her never-ending quest to hold fast to her femininity, she donned a pair of tiny butterfly-shaped earrings before scooping her hair into a ponytail. Filling her dad’s old thermos with the remaining coffee, she grabbed her keys and headed out the door.

Fingers of dread crept further up her spine with every mile her tires ate up on the road. By the time she arrived at the stately yellow-and-white Victorian where she grew up, Phil was on the verge of losing her breakfast.

This was going to be torture. Plain and simple.

No, not simple. There was nothing simple about this. It was tragic, an ironic twist of fate that would torment her for years to come. It was bad enough that it was due to her mistakes that the home no longer belonged to her family. The fact that she would now play a part in its ruination sickened her to no end.

“Nothing you can do about it now,” she muttered.

She pulled in behind a jet-black double-cab Ford F-150. Phil couldn’t help but admire the truck’s chrome package; the tire rims and front grille gleamed. That had probably set him back a few thousand dollars, she thought with a disgusted snort.

She knew architects did pretty well, but Phil also knew that Jamal’s seemingly endless flow of cash did not come solely from his profession. According to Mya, Jamal had a trust fund the size of the Louisiana Superdome, and his family owned one of the largest construction firms in Arizona.

The fact that he was a millionaire without a financial care in the world made this even worse. She’d been struggling just to raise the capital for the down payment on this house. He’d probably bought the Victorian outright with cash from his rainy day fund.

Phil stifled her irritation as she walked along the brick-laid walkway that led to the huge wraparound porch. Her heart broke a bit more with every step she took. She trudged up the porch steps, fingering the balustrade. It needed sanding and a new coat of paint. She should have taken care of this months ago, even if the house had belonged to the bank at the time.

“Phylicia?”

Phil turned with a start. Jamal approached her, wiping his hands on a tattered rag. He was dressed in shorts and another of those sweat-stained T-shirts that clung to his washboard abs.

Oh, yeah. This would be torture.

Phil pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing her eyes to concentrate on his face and not his six-pack.

Of course, his face could get her in just as much trouble as the rest of his body. His skin was smooth and light brown, his eyes a darker brown, but with flecks of gold. Phil remembered being stunned when she’d noticed the sparkling flecks as they danced at Corey and Mya’s wedding reception. Those eyes were framed by thick, beautiful lashes that any woman would envy, yet they didn’t detract from his masculinity one bit. They made his eyes richer, more seductive.

An embarrassingly swift shudder of need shot through her.

Not this guy, she told her hyperaware libido. There were other eligible men in Gauthier. She would not allow herself to lust after the one who’d bought her family’s home out from under her.

Well, she wouldn’t lust after him more than she did already.

“Can I help you with something?” Jamal asked.

“Actually, I’m here to help you,” Phil answered, pushing thoughts of his eyes, abs and everything else out of her mind. “One of the projects I thought I would be working on fell through. It freed up space on my calendar.”

His relieved grin transformed his face into a thing of even greater beauty, if that were possible.

“You have no idea how happy I am to hear that.” Jamal stuffed the rag into his back pocket. “Well, I guess a tour is in order. Let me show you around the property.”

“Oh, you don’t have—” Phil started to tell him she probably knew this house better than he did, but she stopped herself. What if his Realtor had shared that the home he’d purchased had been repossessed by the bank because the previous owner had defaulted on the loan? Did she really want Jamal knowing that much about her personal business? No, thank you.

“Sure,” Phil said with false brightness. “I can’t wait to see it.”

Chapter 3

As they entered the vestibule, Phil tried to hold back the wistful smiles that threatened as dozens of bittersweet memories sprouted to mind. When she was younger, she’d had an army of imaginary friends whom she would play hide-and-seek with throughout the massive house. She even let them win sometimes.

When she got older, she and Mya would have slumber parties. Using a special scale they had devised, they would rate the boys at school. Corey Anderson, who eventually became Mya’s boyfriend, and finally, after fifteen years apart, her husband, always scored the top rating.

Phil glanced over at Jamal. He would have given Corey a run for his money back in the day.

“This is what sold me on the house,” Jamal said, running his palm along the ornately carved banister that traveled up the staircase. “Look at this detailing. The Realtor said it was all done by hand.”

“It’s beautiful,” Phil remarked. When she was eight years old, she had broken her arm sliding down that very same banister after seeing it done in a movie. As much of a tomboy as she’d been back then, it was a wonder she’d made it through the rest of her childhood without any more broken bones.

“Why don’t we start upstairs?” Jamal said. “There’s less work needed up there. We can take a quick look around before discussing the really intense stuff.”

She followed him up the stairs, gawking unabashedly at the way the shorts fit over his butt. It was too damn firm. He was too damn fine.

Lethal. That’s the rating Jamal would have received on the scale she’d developed with Mya all those years ago. His smile, his naturally wavy hair, those sinewy muscles, his scent—clean, yet spicy. Everything about him was lethal, especially to a woman who had gone over a year without a man in her bed. Her battery-operated toys were fine for providing temporary relief, but she couldn’t snuggle up to a vibrator. She missed snuggling. She missed men.

But she sure as hell didn’t miss the heartache they caused.

That’s what she would remember when she caught a glimpse of Jamal’s gold-speckled eyes and charming smile. Kevin had nice eyes and a sexy smile, too.

“There are three bedrooms and another small room in the rear that the Realtor said was used as a sitting room, but I’m going to turn it into an additional bedroom. The biggest problem is there’s only one bathroom up here, which means if the B&B is at full capacity, I’ll have eight adults sharing one bathroom.”

“That can pose a problem,” Phil said. “I can only imagine what it would be like if you have a bunch of women staying here for a girls’ weekend.”

“World War Three.” Jamal chuckled.

Dammit, even his laugh was sexy. Accepting this job was such a bad idea.

“After growing up in a house with my mother and younger sister, I know what it’s like to fight over the bathroom,” he continued.

Phil twisted around to look at him. “You had to fight for bathroom time in the house you grew up in? I thought your family owned half of Phoenix?”

“My family doesn’t own half of Phoenix,” he said, then his smile took on a chastised quality. “Okay, so the fights for the bathroom happened at the beach house in Malibu.”

Malibu? Is he for real?

Phil managed to resist a well-deserved eye roll, but she couldn’t tamp down the bitter resentment that climbed up her throat. Jamal Johnson would never know how it felt to sweat over making next month’s mortgage payment.

He gestured with his head for her to follow him. “C’mon. We’ll discuss some of the ideas I have in mind for the house.”

As they made their way back down the stairs, Phil ran her fingers along the silk wall coverings.

Jamal glanced over his shoulder. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Everything in this house is great. I’m lucky it was still on the market.”

“Yeah,” Phil said, hoping the emotion that instantly filled her throat didn’t come through her voice. “I’m surprised Belle Maison stayed on the market for as long as it did.” And heartbroken that it hadn’t remained there just a little while longer.

“The house was in pretty good shape. I have a work crew coming in to give it a new paint job, both inside and out, and to take care of a couple of other details, but they can’t start for another four weeks. In the meantime, I’ve been working on a few things that needed to be addressed right away, like the cracks in the dining room wall.”

“The walls were cracked in the dining room?” Phil asked, unable to conceal the astonishment in her voice. When had that happened? She’d checked on this house at least once a month.

But then Phil remembered that her last few check-ins had consisted of a quick drive-by and cursory look from her truck’s driver’s side window. Too much work to do, and all that. The excuses had flowed like a waterfall, sounding good enough to her ears.