Everywhere and Every Way(38)

"Thought the meal would be amateur, huh?" he teased.

"Kind of. You just don't strike me as the cooking sort."

"More like the takeout type?"

He enjoyed the slight flush to her skin. "I didn't mean it as an insult.  Your schedule is like mine, and I'm sure there's not a lot of time to  prepare a meal every night." She gave a delicate shrug. "Plus, when  you're cooking only for one, it just doesn't seem worth it."

"My mother taught all of us to cook for survival. She also said it  impressed women, and she didn't want any of her sons thinking his wife  would be a maid."

Her lips curved. "I think I would've loved your mom."

Cal fought off the ghosts and nodded. "Yeah. I think it would've been mutual."

"I'm sorry she died," she said softly.

He wavered on telling her the truth of the circumstances but didn't want  to ruin his time with her talking about things that couldn't be changed  or made him sad. "So am I." She laid down her utensils with precision,  and he stood. "How is it going with the Rosenthals?" He began gathering  plates and napkins. "Tell me a bit more how it works. Do you check with  them at various stages or is this all your show?"         

     



 

She gave a sigh. "I work differently with each of my clients, and the  Rosenthals are quite hands-off. Usually that's exciting, but I've been  wrong a few times, and I'm not sure what's happened." Frustration curled  into her Southern accent. "I Skyped with them and got a few items  completely wrong. I'm worried about the furnishings and decor. I loved  the Barn, but I don't have the time to shop like I need. Normally I'd  fly to Paris or scour Manhattan for impulse buys, but this schedule is  too tight."

Cal considered her problem. "Hmm. You know, I may be able to help."

"Gonna hand-deliver me a warehouse to pick from?"

"I'm gonna show you something. A surprise."

"A surprise, huh?" Was it her imagination or did her gaze sweep downward  to his crotch? Yep. A guilty blush bloomed on her cheeks. Kind of hot  and adorable at the same time. He kept his grin hidden. "Don't tell me.  It's in the bedroom."

He chuckled. "Actually, it's outside. Think I just wanted to lure you to my lair?"

"No."

He winked. "Then you're giving me too much credit. You'd look good in my lair."

Morgan rolled her eyes and gathered some plates. "The wolf and Little  Red Riding Hood, huh? Do you know that fairy tale was specifically  instructed to warn young females not to get any big ideas of  independence? Veer off the path from what people tell you and get  punished. Always pissed me off."

They walked to the kitchen, and he began loading the dishwasher. "Had no  idea fairy tales could be so politically incorrect. But something tells  me you'd be the one to kill the wolf-not the woodcutter."

She tilted her head in thought. "Yeah, I would. No one's messing with my granny. Or getting my damn cookies."

He laughed. "Warning taken." She gave a cheeky grin, and they cleaned up  together in comfortable silence. "Come on, guys. We're going out." He  snagged her hand and led her to the porch while Gandalf and Balin  bounded around them with joyful abandon.

The night was balmy and full of nocturnal insects partying. He switched  on his iPhone flashlight and led her down the winding path behind the  house, heading to the brink of the woods. She stopped short. "Uh, now I  kind of feel like Red. I don't want to go in there. It's creepy."

He tightened his grip on her hand. "We have the dogs. They won't let any wolves hurt you. Neither will I."

As if they sensed her unease, Gandalf and Balin planted themselves on  both sides of her like trained guard dogs. Their upturned faces vowed  endless protection and love. Morgan patted their heads, then gazed at  the shadowy private path that disappeared into a thicket of trees.  "Okay, but I'm more worried about Jason or Freddy."

He pressed his lips together and firmly led her forward. She jumped when  some owl-type screech cut through the air, but Gandalf's warning growl  seemed to calm her. Balin led the way, stopping now and then to make  sure they were still following, and her hand squeezed his harder. Hell,  he was having fun on their outdoor adventure. Cal enjoyed the way she  pressed close to his side. He rarely saw her afraid of anything, so  knowing the dark spooked her made him want to protect her. Finally the  large storage shed came into view.

"We came out here for this?" she squeaked. Her body trembled a bit, and  she kept glancing back and forth at each noise. Cal unlocked the rickety  double doors and flicked on the light.

"Surprise."

Morgan gasped. Filled to the rafters, the shed epitomized one motto.

One person's junk was another one's treasure.

She moved through the piles of furniture and trinkets stacked in  haphazard piles. Cal knew the famous shed rivaled the antique Barn  store, but Cal's family was the only one who knew about it. Since he  wasn't into the restoration like his brothers, he saw the old shed as  more of a junkfest but was always amazed at some of the pieces that were  revamped from the items here.

Morgan stroked the surfaces of remnants of ebony pearl wood, shuddered  over the frame of a pink marble headboard, and gave a sexy moan over a  box containing a mishmash of knobs ranging from pure brass to crystal.  "How did you get all this?" Her hushed voice reminded him of being in  church. He bet Morgan thought the shed was even more holy.

"My father started collecting remnants of all our jobs and scrap  material to put into future projects. Soon, it became more of an  assortment of interesting items we didn't want to get rid of. This used  to be Dalton's favorite place. Tristan's too."         

     



 

The memories of him and his brothers hiding out in the shed to escape  their father's constant demands flowed past. They set up their own  private fort under a massive cherrywood desk and pretended they were in a  spaceship. Gathered late at night to tell ghost stories and munch on  packs of Oreos, free from the eyes of parents, bonded by blood and  circumstance and a friendship that got him through the days. He shook  off the images, his throat tight, and watched Morgan's face. Delight and  a sense of adventurous joy gleamed in her eyes. She picked her way  through the piles, pulling items out, discarding some, running her  fingers over sharp edges and broken wood, seeing something beautiful in  each part.

An intense shock vibrated through him. For such a practical female, she  held an inner sense of wonder that intrigued him. He liked the way she  saw the potential in failure, the whole in the broken. Cal wondered what  she saw in him.

"This is better than the Barn," she said. "My God, Cal, can I buy  things? There are so many possibilities. I've decided to build each room  around one special object, connecting a theme that resonates throughout  the entire house. I think the Rosenthals can appreciate the concept."  Her touch was almost reverent to a half-shattered grandfather clock with  calligraphy replacing the numbers to spell out the family name of the  one who had owned it years ago. Her nose wrinkled, and her brows lowered  in a frown. "I'm worried if it's too subtle, they'll be concerned about  not making an overwhelming visual impression on guests. They've always  been a bit more ostentatious than some of my other clients. Well, at  least I thought so before they threw me a curveball, suddenly embracing  the minimalist look."

He crossed his arms in front of his chest, studying the slight frown on  her brow. She was passionate about her job, and Cal knew she refused to  settle for merely an acceptable house. Morgan intended to deliver the  very best, every time. Frustration emanated from her petite frame. "You  can buy anything that pleases you. Look, the Rosenthals hired you for a  reason. That's why you're successful. Go with your gut. Instead of being  limited by their own viewpoint, take them in a new direction."

"If I fail, and they dislike the new direction, it will be a disaster."

"You won't fail," he said. Oddly, he meant it. He had confidence in her  abilities just by seeing her day to day on the job. She balanced a  wicked work ethic with a creative energy and a vision of the goal. Not  many people had the talent or the patience. "Have you ever let yourself  go on a project and do what you want?"

She shook her head. "Too dangerous. The moment you disregard the client and his or her specific taste, you can veer off course."

Cal gave half a shrug. "The side roads are usually more interesting than  the highway," he offered. "Maybe it's time you took a leap. With Dalton  and Tristan to help, this house could be your masterpiece. Almost like  your signature stamp."

"Maybe. I'd love to have more personal input. It's just so . . . unpredictable."

Her teeth pulled in her bottom lip and sucked. His dick wept and ached  to be part of the gesture. He caught a glimpse of sheer hunger on her  face, but unfortunately it wasn't for him. No, this house held her in  thrall, and she wanted to take it to the limit. He couldn't imagine  building house after house without inputting part of his own identity.  Wasn't she tired of limiting her creative vision? She needed more  unpredictability in her life. And what would she be like if she put all  that energy into sex?