Excerpt of A Heart Is A Home: Christmas in Texas by K.E. Saxon

CHAPTER ONE

One (Is The Loneliest Number)

Adam wandered from room to room the first night he arrived. A photo album in one hand, and a glass of wine in the other. It was a big house. Built in the 1920s, it was the center house on the north side of Magnolia Avenue. Number 510, to be exact. 510 Magnolia Avenue. How many times had he said it, written it, in his life? Too many to count, he figured.

There was a time, in his younger years, when he couldn't wait to leave the place. Fly away to new adventures in larger towns, in more exciting locales. His father told him on the day he left for college, "Son, just remember, no matter where you go or how long you are away, this is still home."

That was the last time he'd ever seen his father alive. Two days later, the man was dead. Killed while he was on an electrical pole.

The company determined it was an accident. His father had mistakenly touched a live wire.

His grandfather told Adam that it was a quick death, there wasn't a lot of suffering, but sometimes Adam wondered how much truth there was in that. It seemed to him that death by electrocution, no matter how short a time span, must be excruciatingly painful.

He'd put his grandpa in the ground today. Eighty–five years, plus three days since the man came into this world.

And now, all Adam had were memories, a few photos, and this house.

The realtor would be here tomorrow morning. It hadn't been an easy decision to put the old girl up for sale. Especially after walking her halls again, smelling the down–home must of her, hearing her aged bones creak as he moved across her dark–stained oak floors. No, the ache of losing her, losing his last attachment to his past, his family—what there had been of it—had come as a big surprise to him.

After all, he'd strained at the bit to leave, to spread his wings, to EXPERIENCE life, and he hadn't looked back either. Not once. Not in all these years. Until he'd come home this last time to bury his granddad.

He set his wine glass down next to the circa 1970s stereo console—his grandpa's pride and joy—and slipped an old Dean Martin album out of its careworn sleeve. After turning the silver dial to "on", he gently slid the record onto the spindle, swept the arm over and carefully settled the needle on the first cut. A few hisses and pops followed before Dean's smooth croon came through the gold and tan, heavy–woven cloth that covered the speakers. "Ain't That A Kick In The Head". Seemed appropriate, so Adam took up his glass and, waving a finger in the air in time to the music, half–danced over to the frayed brown couch from the same era as the console, and sat down, resting his head on the back of it.

That was where he woke up several hours later, still dressed in his funeral suit, a sharp crick in his neck and the residual audio buzz of the console speakers serving as a back–up band to the syncopated ringing of the doorbell, followed by conga–beats of bare knuckles rapping on wood.

He looked at his watch as he leapt up. Nine–thirty already?

He peeked through the beveled glass in the front door. The woman on the other side didn't match the voice he'd spoken to a few days ago. That woman was at least fifty, he figured, and a real drill sergeant to boot. Someone, in other words, with lots of experience and efficient enough to take this chore in hand and allow him to get back to his real life in Houston.

He flipped the lock and opened the door. "Hi, are you Joyce Pettigrew's assistant?" He craned his neck to look further down the line of the painted gray porch and nearly gave himself a charley horse in the already abused body part. Slapping his hand over the sharp twinge and giving it a hard rub, he brought his body back into alignment.

The girl thrust out her hand at him. "You must be Mr. Taylor. I'm Ms. Pettigrew."

The handshake she gave him was firm and self–assured. Now that his eyes and brain were a little more awake, he could see that she wasn't quite as young as she'd first appeared to him. She was still much younger than he'd expected, but she was no teenager. More like twenty–six, twenty–seven, he'd guess. Medium height, blonde hair tied up in some tight bun–thing, blue eyes, slim, but proportioned nicely. At least he thought she was. It was hard to tell through the layers of dark blue suit.

"May I come in?"

"Oh—oh, yeah, sure. Sorry." He stepped out of her way and held his arm out in a gesture of welcome. "Come on in."

She looked all around, up at the ceilings, down at the floors, and then scratched a quick note on the lined pad of her clipboard with the blue pen she was carrying.

"Would you like some coffee? I'm just about to make some."

She didn't even glance at him as she moved past him. "No thank you. I'll be through here in no time. If I have any questions pertaining to the house, I'll come find you." She stopped walking and turned to face him. "Oh, I will need you to fill out some papers for me before I leave." She glanced at her watch. "I'll meet you over there"—she pointed to the front sitting room—"in forty–five minutes. I'll go over them with you then, if that suits?"

Now this is the woman he'd spoken to before. "Certainly. I'm an attorney, though, so I'm used to legal documents. You won't need to explain them to me."

"Oh yes, you mentioned that in our previous conversation. Fine then." She scooted a few forms out of the sleeved black cover of her clipboard and held them out as she walked toward him. "Perhaps you could fill these out while I'm making my notes on your property?"

For some reason, her calling it a "property" and not a "home" really bugged him. "Maybe I should take the tour with you." He took a step toward her. "You know, so I can point out all the great things about this old girl—maybe you could even use some of them in your sales pitch."

She bristled, which surprised him. "I assure you, I do not pitch. I inform and I match people with their perfect property. I am no hack salesman."

"Sorry, no offense intended." He needed coffee. "I think I'll just fill these out first while I have my first cuppa joe. I'll track you down when I'm done." He was in the kitchen in two shakes. Angry drill sergeant women were not his forté.

After brewing the coffee, he settled at the Formica–topped chrome table in the kitchen and perused the documents she'd given him. Pretty straight forward, nothing he wasn't expecting. He filled in information where needed and signed and dated where indicated. He was done in ten minutes. He took a quick peek at his watch. He'd only been in here fifteen minutes.

He heard the floorboards creak above his head and looked up. She must be in Grandpa's room now. The wrestling match with his better judgment lasted less time than it took to count it. He lifted his hot mug and strode up the back kitchen stairs to the second floor landing and then, with even more purpose, directly into the room she was in.

The window sheers made the sunlight streaming in twinkle and shimmer as it illuminated floating fairies dancing around her blonde head. His heart tripped. Lovely. Why hadn't he noticed how pretty she was before?

When she looked at him, he read a flash of irritation in her eyes before she quickly shuttered them with a blink. Upon opening them again, the cool professional was firmly back in place. "Hello, Mr. Taylor. Finished with the documents already?"

"Yes. I thought I'd just see how the inspection was coming along. Are you finding any problems that will need to be remedied before you can put the house on the market?"

She nodded. "Yes, a couple. But nothing too drastic."

* * *

Adam Taylor had turned out to be just as dark–haired and goodlooking—though much more mussed and sleepy—and oh–so charming, as all the gossips in town had been buzzing about since his grandfather's passing last Saturday. And the bedroom–eyed look she'd caught him giving her just now only confirmed her already heightened suspicion of him as a player and good–time Charley.

Why, he'd merely—and literally—phoned in his own grandfather's funeral arrangements. He hadn't even cared enough about the man to see to them in person. What kind of grandson did that? A selfish, egomaniacal one, surely. With effort she ungrit her teeth and relaxed her jaw. But. She needed this sale if she was ever going to finally afford her own means of transport, so personal feelings aside, she must carry on as any good professional would.

"There's a crack in the window pane in the small bedroom down the hall."

Adam Taylor's lips twitched then tipped into another one of his irritating grins. "Grandpa still hadn't fixed it? Pop and I busted that window the day I loaded up my old Trans Am and headed to U.T. on a baseball scholarship. We were horsing around with the ball and, well, it got a little out of control, if you know what I mean."

"Yes. Well. At any rate, I think it would behoove us to get that replaced prior to the open house I'm planning for Christmas Eve."

For the first time since meeting him, Adam Taylor's brows slammed together in a show of true chagrin at the same time his hand came up, "Whoa, there, Nelly."

Nelly?? Her spine shot ramrod straight. "I would appr—"

"Open House? Christmas Eve?" His head started shaking to and fro. "I don't recall anything in our previous conversation about an open house—and certainly not on Christmas Eve. For one thing, that's only a week–and–a–half away, and secondly, I don't want strangers traipsing through my family home on my Grandfather's favorite night of the year."

It took everything in her not to blurt what she thought of his too–little–too–late sentimentalities regarding his grandfather, but somehow she managed to say coolly, "Actually, Mr. Taylor, it's genius if you want to sell this property quickly, as you've assured me several times now that you do. In fact, I was thinking of doing a week–long open house, with the finale being the festivities on Christmas Eve."

* * *

Why Adam's libido chose that moment to kick into overdrive, he didn't know, but it did. He figured it had something to do with the flags of ire that flamed her creamy–smooth cheeks to passion–red, made her bright blue eyes darken and sparkle, reminding him of starry indigo nights in Martinique, and sent her raspberry–silk tongue darting over her full lower lip, making him crave to feel it over his own. His heart, already beating a tempo or two faster than normal with the blast of anger–adrenaline her announcement had provoked, shot into race–mode, making him sweat. He took in a slow, deep breath and held it a second. It was only when she crossed her arms over her chest that he realized where his gaze had drifted.

"I think it would be best if I refer you to a male broker. There's another brokerage in the area I could recommend," she said on a turn toward the window, "as it's clear you and I don't see eye–to–eye."

"No, that won't be necessary." He took a step toward her before he could stop himself, but froze when he saw her shoulders tense. Eye–to–eye. Damn. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt his own cheeks flush. "I'm sorry. I...I don't know what that was all about. It won't happen again. I think, maybe, it's some bizarre reaction to everything that's gone on this week and my lack of sleep. I've come across as some kind of masher or something, and..." Oh, God. What was he saying? He was probably only making things worse, but still his mouth wouldn't shut the hell up, "...I mean, you know Julie Jörgensen pretty well—she wouldn't be friends with a total deviant, right? I mean...." Shut up, dude! Shut the hell up and stop backpedaling so hard. It only makes you look more guilty.

It was with no little amount of surprise and relief that he saw her relax, turn around, and, well, not exactly smile, but her lips softened. "Yes, yes, of course," she said and he pulled his gaze and his attention off her lips and moved them to her eyes, as requested. "You've had a very traumatic few days, and as you say, Julie would never have referred you to me had you been someone of weak character."

At last, she uncrossed her arms and she looked once more at her notes. It hadn't escaped his notice that she'd been clenching the clipboard in her hand as she'd centered her gaze on some point outside the window these past minutes. "Now, shall we continue discussing the issues I found with the property before we continue on to the contracts and the preparations for the open house event?"

"Yes, that would be fine."

With a nod, she moved past him in the direction of the door and a pleasant scent of citrus followed in her wake. He briefly wondered how he'd missed that earlier when he'd held the front door open for her, but it fled when she said, "The other issue I found is in the hall bathroom. The sink has a drip, so the fixture may need replacing."

"Or, maybe it's just a worn washer. I'll check it out."

She turned a surprised gaze on him. "You know how to plumb? "

He grinned at her. "I'm no master at it, but I can do most of the basics myself, if need be."

One of her blonde sable brows lifted slightly and he heard a soft "hmm," escape her throat.

Want. It hit him like a sumo–wrestler's shoulder, right in his solar plexus. Again, his heart started its mad tattoo, and again, he had to take in a slow breath. Okay. This was getting way out of hand. "I think I need that second cup of coffee. Would you like me to bring you a cup into the sitting room so we can go over those contracts now?" He needed a little space, a little distance, a little breathing room. Just for a second. Just long enough to get his equilibrium back.

With relief, he watched her give him a nod of agreement as she continued to make whatever note she'd begun on the heel of his plumbing confession. In the next second, he was trotting down the backstairs and racing into the kitchen. After grabbing a 16–ounce bottle of water from the fridge, he stood over the sink and gulped it down like the sex–crazed, trauma–dazed, schoolboy crush–hazed man that he was.