Everywhere and Every Way(57)

The words startled him. Reached deep into his gut and spread through his  body like fire, warming him from the inside out. Nothing really  mattered without Morgan. The idea of being with another woman was  impossible. She was his soul mate, his other half. They completed each  other, dammit, and he'd been stupid enough to walk away when she was  most vulnerable and hurting.

"You're right," Cal said. The words tore out of his mouth. "My God, I  got so freaked out, I couldn't see clearly. I choose her. I'd choose her  every time, because nothing else matters."

"See," Tristan said. "We told you."

"Heart-to-hearts are good once in a while," Dalton said. "Can we go  inside and watch the play-offs now? And order chicken wings so no one  has to cook?"

"Sounds good to me. Let's go," Tristan said.

They got up and walked back inside the house, leaving Cal alone with his  lightbulb moment and his heart pounding and the need to tell Morgan  he'd never let her go.

It was late. She was probably sleeping and didn't need any revelations  from him right now. He'd let her get some rest and tell her everything  tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he'd set everything right.





chapter twenty-two







Morgan escorted her clients out of the limousine and stood on the  pathway. Petra and Slate looked tanned and relaxed from their cruise,  and both seemed excited about seeing their new home. They'd been able to  take an earlier flight in, but Morgan hadn't called Cal to let him  know. He thought they were meeting at the property at two p.m., but  Morgan didn't want to see him yet. She could handle the reveal by  herself, and then if there were any issues, they'd be able to meet with  Cal later.

Morgan barely slept, her mind sifting through every word they'd  exchanged. Her heart ached and she'd cried for too many hours, but she  made sure that her Vera Wang tailored cream suit was flawless and that  her makeup hid the dark lines under her eyes. She dressed for battle and  presented a confident, experienced, professional designer who was about  to rock their world.

Inside, she felt like throwing up.

Petra gasped as her gaze ran over the elegant lines of the house.  "Morgan, it's stunning," she said. Genuine pleasure shone in her violet  eyes, and her white teeth flashed in a smile. "Darling, I adore the  columns. Take us around the property."

Slate nodded as she gave the full tour. Miles of acres spilled out on a  perfectly manicured lawn, and the gorgeous reds and golds of fall were  in full bloom, mixing with an aqua-blue sky shimmering over the marina.  Morgan guided them through the gardens, over to the hot tub and sauna  and past the covered deck.

Petra ran a finger over the thick carved beams. "What type of wood is this, darling?"

"Teak."

"Stunning. The outside is exactly what I wanted. I can't wait to go in."         

     



 

Relief and satisfaction flooded her body, but she kept her face polite  and impassive as she showed them the extent of using the remotes to open  the doors and uncover the hot tub. Petra chattered excitedly to her  husband as Morgan circled them back around to lead them through the  mahogany door. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Peace settled over her as she gazed at the house so lovingly created.  The unease in her gut settled. This was a home worthy of greatness and  full of heart. There was no way the Rosenthals wouldn't love it.

Morgan launched into her speech. "You'll see the central staircase and  floating balcony, so you have an open concept space for entertaining.  I've worked with a green palette as a base and mixed in Tuscan neutrals  to give the kitchen a cozy Italian feel, yet glamorous enough to host a  huge dinner party in." Her heels clicked over the Italian tile floors as  she listed the various furnishings, appliances, and decor. Morgan led  them from room to room, enthusiastically embracing the theme of each.  The grandfather clock; the brass bed in the master bedroom; the gorgeous  marble structure of an ancient goddess on her knees begging Zeus; the  fabric chandelier in the bath; the restored pool table in the billiard  room; the gold-tassled curtain in the film room. Each room had a story,  and Morgan told each one, her voice filled with joy and pride as each  floor was uncovered like a massive present.

When they arrived back in the central living room, Morgan finally realized they hadn't really said a word.

Petra gazed around with a puzzled look on her face. Slate's lips pressed  together in a strange expression of concern and irritation. Tamping  down a brief tide of panic, Morgan faced them.

"Welcome to your new home," she said simply. "I worked hard to  incorporate your vision with my own expertise in design, and I truly  hope you love it."

Petra bit her lip. "Where's the red and black?" she asked. "Where's the  minimalist lines I specifically told you I wanted, Morgan?" Her honeyed  hair swished over her shoulders as she shook her head. "Tuscan has been  done to death. I'm bored with it, and so are all my friends. The brass  bed is simply horrific and reminds me of Ikea."

Morgan fought not to flinch and remained impassive as her client spoke.

Slate jerked his hand toward the hallway. "The film room is way too  small. And what the hell is that grandfather clock doing on that wall?  It must be from the 1800s."

"The theme of the room is time," she explained patiently. "It's been  restored and is priceless. And the balcony and extra private booths give  the film room a bit of the exclusive, which I thought would work better  than just space."

Slate frowned, not happy with her argument. Her gut lurched. Her skin  grew hot. The panic temporarily held at bay began to flow through her  body like a flood, and Morgan desperately tried to fight the rising  tide. Showing fear would be the end of her.

"Petra, Tuscan style is coming back in a huge way. I understood your new  interest in minimalism, but I used the concept through some of the  rooms to give you a taste, but honestly felt you'd grow bored too soon.  Believe me, classical mingled with a bit of the wow factor will have  everyone talking."

They weren't buying it.

Petra picked up a few throw pillows, then strolled around, studying the  items Morgan had carefully picked out to give the room creativity and  warmth. Morgan kept talking with pure boldness, knowing she needed to  sell this concept as hot or fail.

She never failed.

She demonstrated the high-tech gadgets, the customized appliances, the  Italian tile, the Parisian paintings, and the specialized furniture and  cabinetry Dalton had worked so hard on.

Finally she stopped.

Waited.

Petra walked over to her. Gazed straight into her eyes. Morgan noticed  again how perfect she was, her beauty an almost shimmering presence in  the room.

"I hate it. There is absolutely no way I can live here."

Slate shook his head with banked fury and glared. "You disappoint us,  Morgan. We trusted you. You're supposed to be the best. Now what the  hell are we going to do?"

Morgan stood in the middle of the home she loved more than anything while her future shattered around her.

It was over.


Cal tried not to panic.

He couldn't get ahold of Morgan. He planned to go by the site before  their appointment but she wouldn't answer his messages. So he'd jumped  in his truck and driven there with the intent of forcing her to listen  to him.

She wasn't there.

He'd checked with Sydney and his brothers. Nothing. At two p.m., he  waited at the Rosenthals' new home, ready to enjoy Morgan's success when  her clients saw what she'd created for them. He waited till three p.m.  and no one showed up.         

     



 

After another round of frantic calls, Cal headed to the Hilton and knocked on her door.

No answer.

He was just about to lose his shit and call the police when he heard a  dull thud inside. "Morgan!" he yelled frantically, pounding on the door  like a madman. "Are you in there? Open up, baby, I'm freaking out. I  need to know you're okay."

Palm flat against the wood, he waited.

Nothing.

"Morgan, if you don't open up right now, I'm kicking it in."

The knob turned.

He knew something was wrong immediately. Her usual impeccable appearance  was gone. Barefoot and clad in sweatpants and an old sweatshirt, she  looked back at him with a dullness in her blue eyes that scared the crap  out of him.

He stepped inside and closed the door.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you our appointment was canceled," she said  politely. Morgan walked over to the bar and poured clear liquid into the  glass. Whoa, that wasn't water. Or wine. Hell, that was straight vodka  over ice. "I had a bit of a problem."

Cal assessed the situation. Slowly he sat down on the couch and watched  her. Something bad had happened. He kept his voice light and  nonthreatening. She seemed to be a bit in shock. "Is your mom okay?"

She seemed startled by the question. Good, that dragged her out of her  hell and reminded her things could be worse. "No, she's fine. I showed  the Rosenthals the house."