And she was so damn fine that Jamal had counted at least four times he’d nearly been caught staring at her ass when they had both stood as attendants two months ago at Corey and Mya’s wedding.
He didn’t know what had come over him, but after too many torturous hours of stealing glances at the way the satin bridesmaid gown had curved over her backside, his hand had taken on a mind of its own. He’d felt himself losing control, his palm inching forward to grab her behind. If the photographer hadn’t called the wedding party for more pictures at the precise moment that he had nearly made contact, Jamal figured he’d still be sporting a black eye, courtesy of Phylicia’s right hook.
If he closed his eyes, he could recall every detail as she’d walked up the aisle of the church—from her hair, entwined with peach and white flowers, to the tips of her toes, peeking from underneath the gown’s satiny hem. He’d been caught off guard, seeing her in a dress. Her usual attire was jeans and a T-shirt, often littered with wood shavings and other remnants from whatever project she was working on.
Phylicia Phillips was one of the most sought-after restoration specialists in this entire region. Earlier this year, he’d hired her to restore the banister in his house on Pecan Drive, and he still marveled at the job she’d done. She was the go-to woman when it came to finding old things and making them new, which was why he needed her for this job.
Jamal tipped his head back and expelled a strained sigh.
This would be so much easier if the woman didn’t confuse the hell out of him!
He’d felt a spark from the first moment he met her, but she had never given him even an inkling that she felt the same way. Jamal thought everything had changed the night of Corey and Mya’s wedding. After the reception, Phylicia had suggested they go out for coffee. They had gone to a twenty-four-seven donut shop in neighboring Maplesville and spent hours talking about every topic under the sun.
Then nothing. Absolutely nothing.
When he called Phylicia the next day, she’d acted as if he were a stranger—one she didn’t want to be bothered with. He would never understand women. And now he had to work with the most complicated one he’d ever met.
Could he survive working so closely with her?
“You don’t have a choice,” Jamal reminded himself. Even though he was updating the house with cutting-edge green technology, the 1870s Victorian had valuable woodwork that needed to be preserved. There was only one person who would give the amount of care and detail this project demanded.
He dusted bits of drywall from his clothes as he headed for the black Ford F-150 he’d bought when he first moved to Gauthier—yet another stark change from his old life back in Phoenix. He’d driven a Lexus since he was a teenager. Every member of his family would probably fall away in a dead faint at the sight of him behind the wheel of a pickup truck.
Jamal popped open the glove compartment and retrieved his wallet. The card for Phillips’ Home Restoration was tucked behind his license. He punched the number into his cell; after a few rings, the call went to voice mail. He hesitated a moment before speaking.
“Hi, Phylicia, this is Jamal Johnson.”You know, the guy you talked to until the sun came up a couple of months ago, and then totally ignored?“I’ve got my hands full with this house I’m renovating and could really use your services. Give me a call as soon as possible. Thanks.”
Okay, so that hadn’t been so hard. Now all he had to do was survive being around her without succumbing to a death brought on by mind-altering lust.
“Piece of cake.” Jamal snorted.
Hunched over a scarred buffet table she’d found at an estate sale a few weeks ago, Phylicia Phillips glided the orbital sander over the wood with painstaking gentleness. She had learned from experience that sacrificing attention to detail to save time usually resulted in a piece of unusable material. Phil wasn’t sure what she would uncover once she sanded through the layers of paint coating the buffet, but she wasn’t willing to compromise the wood to find out.
The trill of an old-style rotary telephone wafted from the chest pocket of her denim overalls. Phil set down the sander and pulled out her cell phone. She pushed the plastic face shield up and stared at the unfamiliar number, suppressing the tremors of unease that climbed up her neck whenever she didn’t recognize an area code. She’d made an art form out of dodging the bank’s phone calls, having memorized their numbers. She figured it was only a matter of time before they sent her name to a collection agency.
She waited for voice mail to pick up the call, then sucked in a fortifying breath and dialed into the messaging system. She braced herself for a terse tirade from a collection agency representative, but was startled at the sound of Jamal Johnson’s warm, unmistakable voice.
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 intoherhands.
A familiar, sickening knot formed in her stomach. If she’d had any idea she would be in danger of losing the Victorian, she would never have used it as collateral to fund what had turned out to be the worst business ventureever.
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. Exceptshehad 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 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 Blu-ray 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 setting 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.
