Farrah Rochon - Always and Forever

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.