Farrah Rochon - Always and Forever

“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.

But as she took in the musty smell from the house being closed up for so long and noticed the dust that had accumulated on the walls and baseboards, the picture became clearer. And the shame it caused nearly suffocated her.

From the moment she’d moved her mom into Mossy Oaks, Phil had started to neglect this house, seeing it more as a burden than a part of her history. It took losing it to appreciate what she’d had.

Phil followed Jamal into the formal dining room. And stopped cold.

“Drywall?” she said. “You’re putting up drywall?”

“Only one section of the wall was cracked, but I figured I’d just redo the entire room.”

“With drywall?”

He measured her with a curious stare. “What do you have against drywall?”

“You mean besides the fact that it has no business in an 1870s Victorian? It also greatly reduces the resale value of the house.”

He waved off her concern. “I’m not concerned about resale value right now.”

This is no longer my house, she reminded herself. Jamal owned it; he could do whatever he wanted with it. Even if it meant putting up freaking drywall.

“Just...show me the rest,” she said.

“Here’s one of the things I’m putting into your capable hands,” he said, pointing to the pocket doors that recessed into the walls between the dining room and kitchen. “They’re pretty banged up, but if at all possible, I want to keep them.”

“Of course you want to keep them. They add too much character to this house to think of getting rid of them.”

Phil glided her hand along the smooth mud where the panels of Sheetrock met. She could not believe the man was replacing the classic plaster walls with drywall, but at least he’d done a good job.

“You did this work by yourself?” she asked.

Jamal nodded. “Have I impressed the guru?”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Why not? Everyone else does.”

“First, I’m not a guru,” Phil sad. “My dad deserved that title, not me. And secondly, I work mostly in wood and wrought iron, so I’m not the one to properly judge drywall installation.”

“That’s too bad,” he said. “I was hoping you’d be impressed.”

Phil looked over at him and was caught off guard by the sexy smile pulling at the edge of his lips. She knew flirting when she saw it, and she was definitely seeing it in action right now.

That would not be good. She could not handle a sweaty, sexy, flirting Jamal Johnson.

“So, besides the doors, what else is there?” she asked.

“I’ve got my blueprints out here,” he said, motioning for her to follow him outside.

Phil stopped short. “If you’re not doing a renovation, why did you draw up blueprints for a house that’s already built?”

He shrugged. “You work in wood and wrought iron, I work in blueprints. It just makes it easier to have a map of the house so I can pinpoint each thing that needs to be addressed.”

She accepted his explanation with the same amount of guarded skepticism in which she took everything else he told her. Outside, the blueprints were spread out on the top of a folding table, held at each corner with pieces of leftover wood. She stood next to Jamal as he pointed out various jobs that needed to be done throughout the house. She tried to ignore the combination of sweat, sawdust and man that flooded her senses. Ignoring a ten-piece brass band blowing in her ear would have been easier.

“My biggest headache right now is fixtures,” Jamal was saying. “I’d love to get something comparable to what’s in the downstairs bathroom and kitchen, but I can’t find anything even close.”

Phil ordered herself to focus on the job at hand, and not on his scent. Or the muscles rippling underneath his T-shirt. Or the way she’d clung to them when they’d danced months ago.

“You won’t find them in hardware stores,” Phil said. “Your best bet will be companies that specialize in reclaimed fixtures. They salvage pieces and sell them to people restoring older properties. I’ve got several contacts I can check for you.”

When he didn’t comment for several moments, Phil glanced over at him. That smile was back, the one that made her heart beat just a bit quicker.

“I knew I’d come to the right person,” he said. “Together we’re going to take Belle Maison in a completely new direction.”

Yeah, that’s what she was afraid of.

* * *

As Phylicia leaned over the table, studying the blueprints, Jamal studied her. He couldn’t get over just how much of a contradiction she was. She worked in a decidedly male-dominated field, yet those high cheekbones, amazingly deep brown eyes and lush, full lips could easily grace the cover of a fashion magazine.

She was tall and slim, but years of manual labor had added definition to her arms and shoulders. Jamal remembered how they had looked in the sleeveless bridesmaid gown she’d worn at the wedding.

Why had someone so sexy, so feminine, decided to work with hammers and sanders? Probably because she was damn good at it. He’d noticed several pieces of furniture in various stages of restoration when he’d visited her workshop yesterday. She seemed to spend most of her time laboring over stuff most people would write off as useless. But in her hands, what was once decrepit gained new life.

She tilted her head to the side and her ponytail draped along her neck. Jamal had the strongest urge to run his fingers through it, lift it off her neck and taste the skin underneath. It would probably get him slapped.

Yet, if he’d done the same thing the night of the wedding, Jamal was certain his kiss would not only have been welcome, but reciprocated. He didn’t understand what had gone wrong. Unless...

“Are you seeing someone?”

Phylicia’s head popped up, her stunned eyes widening. “Excuse me?”

Okay, so maybe he could have been a tad more subtle. But he didn’t do subtle all that well, and he wasn’t in the mood for playing games.

“Are you in a relationship?” he asked. “Is that why you avoided my calls after Corey and Mya’s wedding?”

“No, I don’t have a boyfriend. But—”

“Good,” he said.

“No, not good,” she returned. “It’s none of your business.”

Jamal crossed his arms over his chest and challenged her with a direct stare.

“Don’t do this, Phylicia. Don’t pretend you didn’t feel that spark between us at Mya and Corey’s wedding. We were together the entire night.”

“I was the maid of honor and you were the best man,” she said. “Of course we spent a lot of time in each other’s company at the reception. But we were not together together.”

“What about after the reception? The sun was coming up by the time I brought you home. We talked for hours that night, Phylicia, yet when I called you the next day, it was as if you didn’t know who I was.”

“Jamal, please.” She put her hands up. “I’m not looking to get involved with anyone, even on a casual basis. If you want me to work with you on the restoration, know that it is the only thing I’m willing to undertake. I don’t mix business with my personal life. Now, what exactly are you looking for from me?”