Always and Forever

Phil listened to his short message then replayed it, wondering whether there was some twisted mythological fate having a good laugh over this. The only thing that could possibly be worse than a call from a collection agency demanding she catch up on her construction loan payments was a call from Jamal Johnson asking her to help him annihilate her great-great-grandfather’s house. The house that had been her family’s pride and joy...until it had fallen into her hands.

A familiar, sickening knot formed in her stomach. If she’d had any idea she would be in danger of losing the Victorian, Phil would never have used it as collateral to fund what had turned out to be the worst business venture ever.

It had been a foolproof plan. Purchase rundown houses for dirt cheap, then flip them for a killer profit. Simple. If only she’d had a crystal ball handy that could have clued her in on the implosion of the housing market.

Phil slumped onto the work stool and cradled her head in her hands.

How had she allowed her life to get to this point?

Oh, wait. Yeah, a man. It was always about a damn man, wasn’t it?

Like a fool, she’d let her ex-boyfriend sweet-talk her into partnering with him in the house-flipping venture. Except she had been the one who’d taken all the financial risks.

“I hate you, Kevin Winters. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”

He’d been a pillar of strength when she’d received that first threatening letter from the bank, promising her they would get through the crisis together. That same night, he’d skipped town, taking half of her DVD collection with him. When he’d called from Fresno a week later, Phil had told him she would call the cops and have him arrested for theft if he ever contacted her again. She still wasn’t sure if she’d meant it, and hoped to God that man didn’t test her by stepping foot back in Gauthier.

She still couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid. It was amazing what a normally intelligent woman could be conned into doing for good sex.

Phil massaged her temples. She’d had this argument with herself way too many times over the past year. She wasn’t up for it today.

She also wasn’t up to working with Jamal Johnson. Ever.

She acknowledged that her aversion to him was wholly unwarranted, and probably a bit irrational, but that didn’t change the circumstances. A burst of angry resentment flared up just at the thought of Jamal and his noble contribution to Gauthier’s budding tourism industry.

Whatever.

All he’d done was crush her dream of making up for her stupid mistakes. She had been less than five thousand dollars away from securing enough money for the down payment to buy back her family’s home when Jamal had decided he wanted to buy it, with some crazy idea of turning it into a bed-and-breakfast.

A bed-and-breakfast, for God’s sake!

The thought of countless strangers sleeping in the room her parents once shared made Phil sick to her stomach. For more than a century that house had belonged to the Dufresne family. Her great-great-grandfather had built it with his own two hands. And because of her, a bunch of strange people who probably didn’t even care about the home’s rich history would now occupy it.

She was not going to help them get there. Jamal would just have to find someone else to work with him.

Recalling the changes he’d made to that gorgeous Georgian he’d bought on Pecan Drive, Phil cringed to think of the Victorian’s wonderful interior falling prey to his so-called innovative ideas. That man shouldn’t be allowed within a ten-mile radius of a historic structure.

She exhaled a weary, bone-deep sigh, giving herself a few more seconds to wallow in the mess she’d made of this entire situation. Not for the first time, Phil was actually grateful that her mother’s dementia-laden brain would prevent her from ever knowing that Phil had lost their family’s home.

She swiped at an errant tear and lowered the safety shield back over her face. The more work she got done, the sooner she could get the monkeys off her back. Though now that there was no chance of buying back the Victorian, the motivation to work wasn’t as strong.

Phil spent the next hour removing the caked-on paint inch by inch. The rich, caramel-colored oak she unearthed was absolutely breathtaking. Who in their right mind had thought to mask such handsome wood?

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Phil’s head popped up. She shut off the sander and pushed the face shield up again as she walked to the side door of her detached garage, which she’d converted into a workshop when she’d bought this house five years ago.

As she swung the door open, a balled fist came barreling forward, straight for her head. It stopped just in time.

“Oh, sorry. Hi.” Jamal Johnson stood before her in a pair of khaki deck shorts and a light gray T-shirt. A swath of sweat made a V from his neck to his navel, and dark rings circled under the arms. Apparently, he’d been hard at work...ruining her house.

And looking good while doing it. The bastard.

“I hope it’s okay that I dropped by,” he started. “I was on my way to the hardware store and decided to drive over. Can I come in?” he asked, then moved past her and into the workshop before she could react.

“So, this is the mastermind’s laboratory, huh?” he asked, his gaze roaming the shelves she’d custom-built for the countless bottles of varnishes, paint thinners and other materials she used daily. Jamal turned to her. “I left a message on your voice mail. I wasn’t sure if you got it.”

“I did,” she answered stiffly.

His brow peaked. “So, will you be able to help? I really need it. I’m renovating that abandoned Victorian over on Loring Avenue.”

It was not abandoned! Phil wanted to yell. Even though no one had lived there since she’d had to put her mother in a special care facility three years ago, Phil had still occasionally checked on the old house. She had not abandoned it.

“I realized today that I’m in way over my head,” Jamal was saying. “This job is a bit different from the work I did on my house. I gutted most of that one, but I’m trying to preserve the Victorian’s woodwork.”

His words nearly caused her to slump against the door in relief. Phil had pretty much convinced herself that the next time she drove by the house she’d find rows of solar panels lined up like garden vegetables on the side lawn.

“I apologize for not returning your call,” she said. “But I’ve been busy today. That’s also why I won’t be able to help you. I’ve got several restoration projects lined up,” she lied. She had only one small project, to restore a wooden 1931 Crosley antique radio. She had bids on several larger projects at some of the plantation homes in the River Parishes, but not one was guaranteed.

“Tell me you’re kidding me,” Jamal said with a frustrated groan.

Seeing the anguish on his face, Phil could almost feel sorry for him. As far as she knew, Jamal had no idea that it was her house that he had bought right from under her. But that didn’t matter to the irrational part of her brain that thought of him as the enemy.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “But I can’t help you.”

Still standing next to the door, Phil opened it wider, a clear invitation for him to leave.

He brought a hand up and rubbed the back of his neck. The movement caused his damp T-shirt to stretch across his chest, and Phil found herself in desperate need of ice-cold water.

“Do you at least have a timetable of when you’ll be available?” he asked.

“Probably not until the spring,” she returned, swatting away the guilt that accompanied the lie. She knew Jamal was on a strict timetable. According to Mya, the bed-and-breakfast was already booked for the entire Christmas in Gauthier celebration, which meant he had three months to finish the house.

“That won’t work,” he said, his mouth tilting in a frown. “Damn, I guess I’m on my own.”

“Guess so,” Phil said with false sympathy. She ran another fleeting glance down his body and was once again struck dumb by the picture he created. For a man who had supposedly spent most of his days behind a desk before coming to Gauthier, he had the well-honed body of an athlete. He walked toward her on long, sinewy legs, and the sweat-drenched shirt that clung to his chest and back outlined their chiseled perfection.

Phil had firsthand knowledge of what was hidden underneath the cotton. She recalled how the solid muscles had felt as she’d held on to him during several dances they’d shared at Mya and Corey’s wedding reception.

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.