Curveball (6 page)

The perfect opportunity to end the interview. Psycho motioned to Janelle. “We’re done here.”

“Not quite,” Janelle pressed. “I have a few more questions. A reliable source hinted you’re the silent partner behind Street Sweepers. You’ve invested millions to clean up your old neighborhood, providing affordable housing, free clinics, food banks—”

He set his jaw. Silent partners remained silent. “No truth to the rumor,” he stated. The interview was over. He pushed himself off the lawn chair and escorted the reporter to the door. There she snapped six quick pictures of him leaning against the frame in nothing but his towel.

The door closed and he returned to the living room. He found Keely bent over, bottom in the air, as she hooked the metal tip of the tape measure to a floor board, then slowly backed up. Barefoot, he crossed to block her path. She didn’t notice him. Not until her sweet ass bumped his groin.

“Move, Mr. McMillan.” Her voice held a breathless catch that drew his smile.

“In this position you can call me Psycho.” He curved his hands over her hips, his long fingers meeting over her belly. “I’m not moving until you explain the mystery man.”

Keely straightened. Her slender shoulders pressed against his broad chest, her round little bottom snug against his thighs. Her body was soft even though she was so thin.

Blushing, she elbowed him in the gut. He released her. Looking toward the older gentleman, she said, “This is Franklin Langston, an architect
I’ve drawn out of retirement to restore your Colonial.”

The restoration would take a decade at the speed Langston shuffled across the room. Up close, Psycho noticed the smell of whiskey on the man’s breath and a slump to his shoulders. His hair was white blond, the color of Keely’s faded T-shirt. His khaki shirt and slacks were as wrinkled as his face. Psycho heard the flush of money down the toilet.

“Keely’s told me all about you,” Franklin said. “Though we can’t fix your attitude, I’m inspired to restore your Colonial to its original beauty.”

Inspired, was he? Psycho hated the fact that Keely had hired an architect without consulting him. He cut her a look. “Kitchen.”

She handed the tape measure to Franklin, then followed Psycho through the portal to the dining room and on into the kitchen. They faced off across the island counter. “I’d have liked to meet Langston before you hired him.”

“You were at the ballpark when Franklin became available. Should I have called in the middle of the game?”

He could have taken a phone call. He was warming the bench, not playing ball. “What if I had someone else in mind?”

She rested her elbows on the countertop. “Did you? Or are you just being difficult?”

He raked one hand through his damp hair. “Is Langston qualified? Is he licensed?”

“Franklin’s the best there is.”

There had to be someone better. “The man drinks.”

“He had a shot of whiskey with lunch. Doesn’t make him an alcoholic. Franklin’s son is a contractor. Quinn specializes in restorations.”

Psycho grunted. “A family package.”

“You won’t be sorry.”

Her words held a soothing promise that satisfied him. For all of ten seconds. “I want to meet the son.”

“You’ll meet Quinn when you sign the contracts and cut a check.”

“Check?”

“Half to start the project, half at completion.”

“You should have taken bids. Not settled on the first architect and contractor you interviewed.”

“You hired me and I hired them. I’m satisfied.”

He wasn’t. His gaze narrowed. “Stop taking over my house,” he said forcefully.

She took two steps back. He didn’t like scaring her, but she was moving too fast. He’d lost control over his life. Guy Powers’s suspension and Keely Douglas’s restoration were taking everything out of his hands. He wasn’t happy. He needed to regain control.

Circling the counter, he cornered Keely by the walk-in pantry. Her eyes went wide as he caged her with his body. “Don’t get so far ahead of me that I lose sight of what’s going on. I’ve got a lot on my mind. Coming home to a houseful of new people—”

“Franklin’s one man.”

“—makes me question hiring you.”

He felt her body go stiff. Watched the blood drain from her face. Saw the deep blue of her eyes go even darker. “Am I fired?”

He’d had no such plans, but he felt guilty that she’d drawn such a conclusion. “I like my privacy. A houseful of workers gives me a headache.”

She exhaled slowly. “You thought the restoration would be accomplished with the wave of a magic wand?”

He’d sure as hell hoped so.

“Once the architectural plans are drawn up, there will be workmen here constantly,” she said. “Hammering and drilling—”

“Not while I’m in town,” he said. “Plan the noise around my road trips. On Friday the team travels to Atlanta for a three-game series, then to Miami. I’ll expect silence when I return.”

“Fine, we’ll work around your schedule.”

“My schedule includes your moving into the house while I’m away. I need a pet sitter.”

“Live here?” She didn’t look all that taken by his suggestion.

“You can oversee the restoration and keep an eye on the pups.” Still, she hesitated. “I’ll pay you to keep Boris and Bosephus out of the cemetery and off the neighbor’s lawn.”

“It’s not a matter of money. I’d watch the boys for free,” she told him, “but the house is a lot of work—”

“Hire an assistant.”

She looked so startled he grabbed her shoulder to steady her. “I’ll contact my bank manager. He’ll extend a line of credit for you to draw on while I’m away. Start the restoration, write yourself a paycheck, but don’t empty my account in one week.”

“Franklin should have the initial sketches drawn up before you leave for Atlanta.”

Franklin…he couldn’t imagine the old man moving that quickly on any project. Psycho still wasn’t certain he was the best architect for the job.

He looked into Keely’s face, saw certainty in her expression. He didn’t understand his willingness to trust her. He’d never trusted another soul. And it made no sense to trust this blonde with the ability to lie as easily as she drew breath.

“Work until six,” he told her. “Dinner’s on me; then we go to your place and pick up what you need. I want you moved in before I head out of town.”

“It’s Sunday,” she reminded him. “You don’t leave until Friday.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m free tonight to haul your suitcases, boxes, and any furniture you might need to make yourself comfortable.”

She shook her head. “You’re too impulsive. Once you return, I’m back in my apartment.”

Stubbornness tightened his jaw. “Move in for the duration of the restoration.”

“Live with you?”

“It’s not a death sentence.”

“I like my apartment.”

“My Colonial’s better.”

“If size counts.”

A cocky smile curved his lips. “Bigger is better. In houses, home runs, and doing the dirty.”

Her face flushed. “I’ve a yearly lease. I have rent to pay.”

“I’ll pay your rent for seven months. Stay here until the restoration’s completed. You’ll save on gas and travel time.”

Keely Douglas clenched her fists. The conversation had shifted from her moving in during his road trips to setting up house. The man didn’t understand her need to keep her own place. However small, it was her home. She had her independence, could come and go as she pleased. Even if it meant a two-hour commute.

“It would put my mind at ease if you were here full-time,” Psycho said.

“What about
your
privacy?”

“I’d hardly notice you. You’re small and blend into the woodwork.”

He saw her as paneling? Not much of a compliment. “I’d notice you,” she said. “You’re a nudist.”

“Notice me all you want.”

She bit down on her bottom lip. “How about I hang a bell around your neck so I can hear you coming?”

“The bell wouldn’t hang from my neck, sweetheart.” Untying the knot over his hip, he let the towel drop. “I’m going to work on my dirt bike. Avoid the dining room unless you want a second peek. See you at six.”

Keely watched him walk away. All lean and buff, a man of roped muscle and hewed sinew, he was self-confident about his body. Her stomach took a free fall and her breathing hitched. She’d only seen him from the back, yet it took several minutes for her to recover. Her heart couldn’t take a full frontal.

The rest of the day passed quickly. Skirting the dining area, Keely and Franklin continued to measure the rooms. They discussed lighting and plumbing and a new staircase. On the second floor, Franklin stopped to check the window casements while Keely located Psycho’s bedroom.

His room was easy to find. A sleeping bag lay on the floor amid scattered dog toys. Dozens of boxes lined the walls. A garment bag hung near his closet. The closet held plenty of empty hangers, but no clothes. Restless energy pulsed through the air, as if McMillan’s presence was captured in the walls.

Across the room, an enormous black-and-white framed photograph grabbed her attention. She crossed for a closer look. Man and dirt bike were captured in a bold portrait of Psycho McMillan clearing a treacherously steep hill. He rode all out. Charged and unafraid. The camera caught him airborne, suspended in time, a risk junkie flying without a net. Concentrated power arced his body. His expression was hard and honed on winning. It was obvious that for Psycho, losing was never an option.

His explosive energy unsettled Keely. A
woman with any sense would run when she saw him coming. Yet the photograph held her. She reached out, traced her fingers over his visorcovered cheek. For a split second, she connected to the bad boy most labeled a wild man.

A part of her understood his need to live on the edge. Psycho was a thrill seeker. He’d never settle down. A wife and kids would be far too tame.

She felt suddenly sorry for him. Sorry he’d never find peace and comfort in the restored Colonial.

Ten minutes before six, Keely stood in the entry hall with Franklin Langston. They’d measured, calculated, and evaluated every room in the house, including the dining room—after Psycho slipped on a pair of athletic shorts and took off to play with the Newfoundlands. A whole lot of barking had followed, including howls from Psycho himself.

Inside, Franklin had filled a notebook with figures and sketches. He’d assured Keely the house would again be a credit to Colonel William Lowell.

Relief made her sigh. The restoration had begun. She had faith in Franklin and his son Quinn to make the necessary structural changes. It was up to her to fill the Colonial with timeless antiques. She trusted and believed in herself. Research and Rebecca Reed Custis would keep her on the right track. She could do this—

“Hungry, Keely?” McMillan’s deep voice startled her.

Her nose scrunched up and her eyes narrowed
as she cautiously turned, uncertain whether he would be clothed or not. She immediately breathed easier when she saw that he sported a
Play Naked
T-shirt and jeans. At least he wasn’t taking her to a clothing-optional diner. His black hair curled over his ears and along his neck. His dark eyes looked a bit wild, his high slanting cheekbones and blade of a nose prominent in a face too cut and rough to ever be handsome.

Yet she was drawn to him. That attraction made her as crazy as he was. Maybe even more so.

“I’m ready to eat,” she finally answered.

“I’m heading out,” Franklin Langston told them both. He put his hand on Keely’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Ms. Douglas-Lowell.”

Keely saw Franklin out.

Once the door was shut, McMillan closed in on her. “Douglas-
Lowell
? You’ve started hyphenating your name?”

“The family name has opened a few doors.”

“Reality check—you’re not related to the colonel.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “Lowell got us Franklin Langston.”

“The man’s a prize.”

“He’ll prove himself.”

“He’d damn well better.” He sounded angrier than was warranted.

Keely blinked. “You think I’m out to screw you?”

“Screw me?” He was no longer talking restoration. The sudden curl of his lip was as sensual as it was dangerous. One badass smile.

Tense and restless, he had energy to burn. Nine innings of baseball would have taken the edge off, yet he’d warmed the bench for three long days. He was feeling wild and reckless.

Neither working on his dirt bike nor playing with the dogs had given him physical release. The tension between them excited him like foreplay. Thick and tangible and very, very hot.

Keely suddenly needed air. Cool, fresh air. She made a grab for the door handle, but Psycho cut off her escape. He flattened her against the wood, his palms pressed on either side of her head. His breath fanned her lips. Warm with a suggestion of mint. His gaze focused on her mouth. His smile faded. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Her own breath backed up in her throat and her mouth went dry. “What about my furniture?”

“We’ll move it after—”

“After
what
?”

With unsettling slowness, he slanted his mouth over hers for a single heartbeat before saying, “After you stop being afraid of me. I’ve had a bad week. I’m wound tight, but I’m not about to take you against the door. You’re not my quick fix.”

Quick fix.
Raw physical intimacy. Images of naked skin and body friction had her ducking under his arm. She pulled the front door wide. “I’m not afraid of you,” she lied. “Nor am I attracted to you.” An even bigger lie. The light-as-air kiss had turned her on. Her palms had gone as damp as her panties. “I just think you’d better conserve
your energy. My daybed weighs a ton. It took three deliverymen to shove it through the door.”

“I’ll manage, Keely,” he assured her as he followed her out the door.

No matter how fast she walked toward his black Dodge Ram, the man’s heat stole up behind her like stroking hands. Big, strong, callused hands that knew where to touch and to pleasure her.

Such thoughts brought heat to her cheeks.

Her blush brought Psycho’s knowing smile.

Jacy’s Java made the best turkey and cranberry wraps Keely Douglas had ever tasted. She moaned low in her throat with each bite, drawing Psycho’s gaze more than once.

Psycho had explained Jacy’s Java originated in Frostproof, Florida. Once Jacy and Risk Kincaid married, Jacy franchised the coffee shop, opening a branch in Richmond.

Avante-garde, and amazingly bright, the eclectic shop allowed coffee drinkers to sip their gourmet drinks amid a kaleidoscope of color. The walls were vividly decorated with splashes of paint; beneath Tiffany lighting, wicker blended with chrome, Retro with wrought iron, in a diverse pattern of tables and chairs.

Carnations floated in egg cups. Freshly baked gourmet cookies scented the air. A news stand set up with free magazines and newspapers invited customers to linger over their coffee.

Keely savored every aspect of the place as she
sipped her raspberry mocha latte from an English Rose teacup. She wished she could stop at Jacy’s Java every day of the week. Unfortunately, her budget wouldn’t allow the extravagance. One fancy latte here cost as much as a generic grocery store can of coffee that would make twenty cups. But instant coffee didn’t have the flavor of a latte topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings.

They’d been fortunate to score a table without a lengthy wait. Avoiding the line that wrapped the restored historical landmark, Psycho had flagged down a slender woman with emerald-green hair that matched her off-the-shoulder blouse. A purple and orange gauze skirt brushed the tops of red cowboy boots stitched with pink roses. A most original look.

Psycho had kissed the woman on the cheek, then introduced her as Jacy, team captain Risk Kincaid’s wife.

Keely liked Jacy immediately. Warm and outgoing, the coffee shop owner greeted and seated every coffee or tea drinker who walked through the door. She’d located a table with a wide window view of the busy street and the shoppers passing on the sidewalk.

“Pistachio tea cookie or coconut lemon square?” Jacy now stood beside their table, offering dessert.

Keely took one of each.

Psycho passed on both. “No Rice Krispies treats?”

“You haven’t been around to make them,” Jacy
reminded him. “Feel free to stir up a batch anytime.”

Keely’s eyes went wide. “You trust Psycho in your kitchen?”

Jacy smiled. “Several years ago, I broke my ankle at a charity softball game in Frostproof, Florida. The Bat Pack ran my coffee shop during my recovery.”

“I was manager,” Psycho boasted.

“You managed to drive everyone crazy,” Jacy corrected him.

“A good crazy,” he returned. “No fights broke out. Customers remained happy.”

“Speaking of happy”—Jacy looked toward the door—“wonder who put that smile on Romeo’s face.”

Keely turned to look as well. The sexiest man she’d ever seen entered the coffee shop, all tall and blond and advertising sin. Spotting Jacy, he crossed to their table.

“Hello, darlin’.” He kissed Jacy full on the mouth.

Jacy flattened her palm on his chest, pushed him back a step. “Pretty daring, Romeo.”

“Risk isn’t in the building. I checked,” Romeo told her. “I wouldn’t want the old man to come down on me for stealing his wife.”

“Squeeze play,” Jacy explained to Keely. “Romeo had a hand in Risk proposing. He prides himself on matchmaking.”

Romeo feigned disappointment. “Sadly, Kincaid makes her happy.”

“Who’s making you happy?” queried Jacy. “Why the smile?”

Keely caught Romeo’s surprise. “I was smiling?”

“Like a fool,” Psycho noted.

“How many women are you meeting?” Jacy asked. “Last week you entertained four for an hour.”

“Those four have come and gone,” Romeo informed her. “I’m only seeing one tonight.”

Psycho raised a brow. “The reporter?”

Romeo nodded. “Another interview.”

“Considering you once ran from the press, you’re surprisingly available to Emerson Kent.”

Ignoring Psycho, Romeo turned his smile and full attention on Keely. “Romeo Bellisaro,” he introduced himself.

“Keely Douglas.” She shook his hand, then caught him checking her out, as much interest as curiosity in his eyes. Romeo was polished and perfect and amazingly hot. Yet a part of her found Psycho’s dark, rawboned edginess more appealing than Romeo’s All American good looks.

“You’re the designer.” He looked from Keely to Psycho, then back at her again. “Once you’ve wrapped up Psycho’s Colonial, perhaps you’d consider decorating my town house. I could use—”

“Someone besides Keely,” Psycho said, cutting Romeo off. “She’s with me for seven months, maybe longer, depending on her progress.”

The two men exchanged a look that excluded Keely and Jacy. Psycho’s hard stare drew
Romeo’s shrug and slow grin. “I’ll scan the Yellow Pages,” Romeo said.

“Let your fingers do the walking.” Psycho stretched his long legs beneath the table, shifted low on his spine in a chrome chair with a high curved back. “Another cookie, Keely?” he asked.

Keely swallowed hard. Psycho had caught her eyeing the cookie tray. Sweets were scratched from her grocery list. Staples like bread, peanut butter, and toilet paper always came first. The coconut lemon square she’d sampled had melted in her mouth. She would love a second.

Still, she hesitated. “Maybe one more…”

“Box up those left on the tray, and include a dozen from the display counter,” Psycho said to Jacy. “Don’t forget a few black-and-white cookies and several banana cream éclairs.”

Jacy’s surprise was evident. “You don’t eat sweets. You fast twice a week. You—”

Psycho’s narrowed eyes stopped Jacy’s chatter. “Cookies coming up,” she announced, turning on her cowboy-booted heel and heading toward the front counter.

Romeo escaped behind Jacy. Catching sight of a pretty brunette sporting red glasses and a tailored gray suit, he retraced his steps to the door, greeting the woman with a most charming smile.

When the woman returned his smile, Romeo’s gaze lit on her mouth. He bent close to whisper in her ear. The brunette blushed becomingly. Keely was fascinated by the exchange.

“Take our table,” Psycho called to Romeo.

Romeo returned with the brunette. His hand was pressed possessively to the woman’s back as he guided her between tables. “Emerson Kent, meet Psycho McMillan and Keely Douglas.”

Keely smiled and Psycho stared. “You finding Romeo late-breaking news?” he asked the reporter.

Emerson stared right back. “Romeo is my go-to guy for the season. Guy Powers approved weekly articles from the players’ perspective.”

Psycho scratched his stubbled jaw. “Warming the bench and counting losses sells papers?”

His sarcasm drew Emerson’s smile. “I’d be happy to include you in the series, Psycho. Any time you want print space, call the
Banner.
”

“I’ll let Romeo have the print space.” Psycho got to his feet just as Jacy arrived with the boxed cookies. He pulled several large bills from his money clip. “Tips all around.”

Jacy nodded. “The coffee servers love you. I wait on you and they split your tip. All the girls buy groceries for a week.”

Psycho hooked his arm around Jacy’s shoulders and squeezed. “Catch you after Miami.”

Keely noted the concern in Jacy’s eyes. “Stay sane, Psycho. I know the suspension is hard on you.”

Psycho looked at Romeo. “I’ve been on my best behavior.”

“The stadium’s still standing,” Romeo returned.

Psycho nudged Romeo on his way out. “Don’t spill all the Rogues’ secrets to Emerson. No need to let her know Chris Collier wears women’s un
derwear or that Ryker Black pats on baby powder after his shower. Or the fact Dane Maxin paints his toenails red.”

“Can I quote you?” asked an amused Emerson.

“Be sure you get my name right.” Psycho paused. “It’s
Kincaid,
Risk Kincaid.”

Jacy groaned, Emerson grinned, and Romeo shook his head.

“Time to fly.” Psycho snagged Keely’s hand and tugged her up beside him. Skirting the tables, he drew her to the front door. Holding his hand felt natural. Hers fit perfectly inside his grasp. His calluses pressed against her soft, sensitive palm.

Once on the sidewalk, he stopped and looked down on their hands. Surprise darkened his eyes that he’d initiated the contact. Before he could apologize or make an excuse, she pulled free and moved to the passenger side of his Dodge Ram.

Seated inside the truck, he set the cookie box between them. “Happy birthday, Keely.”

She bit down on her bottom lip. “It’s not my birthday.”

He curved his big hands over the steering wheel. “Birthdays should come every day. Especially when you missed so many as a kid.”

She sat up a little straighter. “How did you know I missed birthdays?”

“I think we’re a lot alike. You grew up as poor as me. I hit with baseball; you’re still struggling.”

Pride stiffened her shoulders. “I’m not struggling.”

“I’ve seen the rusty beater of a station wagon
you drive. The way you feast out of my refrigerator at lunch. I know you pack half a sandwich to take home with you for dinner. That’s not spelling success.”

Her throat worked. “Gloss Interiors—”

“Started with me, Keely. I’m not stupid.”

“I’m good at what I do.”

“You’ll have to actually restore my Colonial to advertise your greatness.” He started the engine. “I’m interested in seeing your apartment. It should reflect your talent for decorating.”

“You live in a flea market,” Psycho announced as he took in her tiny basement apartment. “Look at all this junk. You’re a pack rat.”

Her deep blue eyes went soft, her tone softer. “Not junk, Psycho,
treasures.
”

Definitely treasures. Circling the room, he stopped before a sculpture designed from rusted bicycle parts and machine gears. It was odd, yet definitely eye-catching. A swooping swan-neck lamp curved over a low red vinyl sofa. Visible tears scored the cushions. Old seascape paint-by-number pictures hung behind the couch, some of the numbers unpainted.

A glass-front curio cabinet held antique army buttons, tin soldiers, and two leather-bound books, along with yellow-edged rolled maps. Behind a panel of broken glass he spotted fake corsages sprayed with glitter dust. Old brooches and gaudy theatrical jewelry. And an angel cookie cutter.

He shook his head. If her apartment reflected her ability to decorate, his restoration was in deep trouble.

“A glass of water, Psycho?” Keely called from the tiniest kitchen he’d ever seen. She could barely turn around without knocking an elbow or a hip. “Your lips are pursed. You’re looking parched.”

Not so much parched as sucking air. “Water’s good.”

He crossed to where she stood, behind salvaged tennis court netting that divided the living room from the kitchen. An assortment of chipped china cups and saucers decorated glass shelves above the sink.

“Nothing matches,” he said.

She smiled, pleased he’d noticed. “The divorced teacups are remarried to unmatched saucers,” she told him as she ran tap water until it turned cold, then filled a jelly glass. “Secondhand pieces have the most soul.”

The most soul.
Psycho downed the water in one gulp and set the glass down. Two wobbly bar stools and an antique high chair flanked the counter. He raked his hand through his hair. He’d given his promise to trust Keely, yet he wasn’t feeling the faith. They had to talk. “We need to—”

“Get the daybed?” She jumped ahead of him. “Down the hall, first door on the right. I’ll help you.”

She walked ahead of him.

He followed more slowly.

Along the short length of the hallway, clothespins hooked to an old washing line displayed a collection of silhouettes and black-and-white photographs. Psycho paused before a photo of a gray-haired man with thick jowls and a hawk nose seated beside a prune-faced woman in a high-collared dress. The couple looked unhappy with each other and the world at large. “Who are these people?” he asked.

Keely shrugged. “I haven’t a clue, but I’ve adopted them. My relatives didn’t amount to much, so I bought old family albums at garage sales and claimed the photographs as my ancestors.”

“Do these people have names?”

She looked at the photograph he’d been studying. “Wilbur and Imogene Grant from Norfolk. He was a banker; she, a homemaker.”

Psycho pointed to a redheaded boy on a pony. “What about him?”

“Sammy Mason. The picture was taken when he was six.” She tilted her head, calculating. “He’s eighteen now. Enlisted in the army.”

He leaned against the opposite wall. “You have a vivid imagination, Keely.”

She looked at him then, straight on and serious. “My mother was sixteen when I was born. Her parents disowned her. The boy she expected to marry claimed he wasn’t the father. Single parenting proved tough. My mother handed me off to her older sister to raise. After a year, that sister gave me to a great-aunt, who died when I turned
six. Passed like a saltshaker, I lived with nine relatives before I hit legal age. Then I was on my own.”

She sighed. “Don’t put me down, Psycho, for creating the family I wish I’d had.”

“I’m not putting you down,” he assured her. “You’ve branched out from Marshal Lowell to scrapbook people. Interesting family tree.”

Curiosity drew him to her bedroom. The woman had a fascination with feathers. Peacock eyes, white ostrich, golden pheasant, dyed orange and pink turkey quills. They filled decorated vases, jars, antique flour sifters, and wicker baskets. He’d never seen so many feathers in his life. Then came the boas, bright red and neon green, draped across the foot of her bed.

He cocked a brow. “You have a feather fetish?”

Her blush did not surprise him. Plucking a peacock feather from a basket, she stroked the plume. “Have you ever felt anything so soft?” she asked. “Like satin.”

The woman with a hard childhood needed softness in her life. He gently ran a finger along its edge. It fanned out, closed. “Soft as a woman’s inner thigh.”

Keely’s blush deepened. She quickly returned the feather to the basket while he took in her bedroom. All in one glance. The room was the size of a walk-in closet. A single bed with a headboard built out of an old garden gate lay to his left. A small garden bench served as a bedside table. Beneath a patchwork of wallpaper samples stood an old gym locker.