The Right Words Read online

  Readers love the Better Than

  series by LANE HAYES

  Better Than Good

  “Sigh… I loved this book! I didn’t put it down once I picked it up.”

  —Live Your Life, Buy the Book

  “A very enjoyable book… I will definitely read more by this author.”

  —On Top Down Under Reviews

  “Better Than Good is a solid book… It takes the very real message that everyone arrives at their sexuality in different ways, and writes it in a way that’s very easy to understand.”

  —Reviews by Jessewave

  Better Than Chance

  “This was a really good, light, entertaining contemporary romance. I would love to read more of this ‘series’.”

  —Boys in Our Books

  “I am glad I read this because the plotting and characterization is especially strong, and I think most readers will enjoy it.”

  —Hearts on Fire

  Better Than Friends

  “Lane Hayes has developed a storyline with incredible dialogue, funny and smart characters, and a prose that will hold your attention from start to finish.”

  —MM Good Book Reviews

  “I enjoyed this third installment in the series… it’s a very sweet romance with a little extra angst from Curt and a whole lot of hotness from Jack.”

  —Rainbow Book Reviews

  By LANE HAYES

  The Right Words

  BETTER THAN

  Better Than Good

  Better Than Chance

  Better Than Friends

  Published by DREAMSPINNER PRESS

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

  Copyright

  Published by

  DREAMSPINNER PRESS

  5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The Right Words

  © 2014 Lane Hayes.

  Cover Art

  © 2014 Aaron Anderson.

  [email protected]

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

  ISBN: 978-1-63216-428-5

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-63216-429-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014948690

  First Edition December 2014

  Printed in the United States of America

  This paper meets the requirements of

  ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

  As always, for Bob, who understands my love of words.

  One

  Consejos vendo y para mí no tengo.

  Advice I sell and for myself have none. – Spanish proverb

  THERE WAS nothing quite as thrilling as the beginning of a new project. Transforming a sad, tired, old home into something fabulous and beyond anyone’s expectations was its own kind of magic. No matter what some might say, interior designers were visionaries. Anyone could slap on a fresh coat of paint in the color du jour and call it a day. But the true “interior artist,” as I liked to refer to myself, was a genius of perception, proportion, and harmony. Unfortunately, my flair for color and spatial equilibrium didn’t translate to my personal life.

  I was a fucking mess.

  I sat for a moment in the car I’d borrowed from my best friend Brandon and took a deep breath, hoping to steady my shaky nerves. I glanced up the steep driveway leading to my metaphorical restart. The house was barely visible through the veritable forest of gigantic eucalyptus trees, but I’d done my research and had a fairly good idea about the scope of work involved. The project was a 1950s rambling ranch-style home located on a high bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. According to my e-mail correspondence with my new client, Jamie Wilson, my job was to bring the house into the current century before she and her professional soccer player boyfriend became officially engaged. It sounded simple enough, but I wouldn’t know until I saw for myself.

  I was excited to meet Jamie after weeks of conducting business online. It was a little strange we’d never spoken on the phone, but Brandon assured me she did all her business with him online as well. He owned a fabulous home-accessory boutique in West Hollywood, and apparently Ms. Wilson had a thing for throw pillows. He shipped new ones on a regular basis to her home in Orange County, and he’d always been paid as agreed and on time. Which was good news because I was running short on cash.

  I checked my watch and quickly grabbed the portfolio I’d compiled for the remodel before opening the car door and stepping into the brilliant September afternoon. The view at the end of the cul-de-sac was breathtaking. A vacant lot across from the property and the higher elevation allowed an unimpeded sweeping panorama of the Pacific Ocean. The view from inside was sure to be killer too. I adjusted my classic Ray-Ban sunglasses as I turned toward the row of imposing eucalyptus trees at the top of the incline and the old wooden structure they closely guarded. I ignored the slight tremble in my hand as I hefted my bag over my shoulder. I wanted to chalk it up to first-meeting jitters, but I knew it was more than a client interview that had me on edge. However, I wasn’t going to let anxiety win. Not this time.

  The closer I got to the front entry, the more concerned I became that anyone lived in the house. It had an almost derelict appearance with peeling, faded yellow paint on the siding and eaves. The majestic fragrant trees added a certain rustic beach charm; however, they were in need of serious pruning. In fact, all of the foliage was a little overgrown. It didn’t appear Jamie and her man had hired a gardener yet. Or that the previous owner had done any landscaping in years. Dead branches from the tall eucalyptuses had fallen onto the old shingle roof, and the gutters were visibly flooded with leaves. I knew I was in an affluent neighborhood and probably not in harm’s way, but the house had a spooky feel that had me looking over my shoulder and checking the signal on my cell phone. I took another deep breath and knocked on the weathered front door.

  No answer.

  I rang the doorbell, thinking perhaps Jamie couldn’t hear my knock. It didn’t appear to be in working order. No buzz, no ring. No sound whatsoever besides the gentle California breeze through the towering trees and the waves breaking on the nearby shore. I stared at the ugly red door, wondering first of all, who would ever think to paint their door that particular shade of red when their house was an equally horrid yellow? And second, where the fuck was Jamie? I was on time. In fact, I was maybe three minutes early, which was amazing when I considered the traffic I sat in to get here. I felt a familiar wave of panic bubble inside me as the silence stretched. Was this all a joke? Was there no soccer player with a big bank account and a spendthrift girlfriend? My breath caught when my panic reached a new level. Was Neil behind this?

  No. Stop. Brandon, who I trusted with my life, referred thi
s client to me. He wanted me to get out on my own, away from my controlling, borderline-crazy ex. He wanted me to have the new start I craved. He would never have suggested I take on this project if he suspected foul play.

  I knocked on the door with renewed force, hoping Jamie answered before I worked myself into a full-blown panic attack.

  Still nothing.

  I closed my eyes, willing the wave of despair to recede before I picked up my cell to dial Brandon. Maybe he knew another way to get a hold of her. I’d pushed my sunglasses down my nose to better see the phone display when I heard the telltale sound of a lock being unlatched. Thank God. The door opened slowly. The shadows were dark in the entry, making it difficult to see the person on the other side, but it certainly wasn’t a woman.

  “Yeah?”

  “Uh, hello. I’m looking for Jamie. Jamie Wilson. We have a meeting today at two. Well… now.” I gave a short laugh, unsure if it was a good sign or not that the man behind the door stayed half-hidden. At least he opened it.

  “Jamie isn’t here.”

  My hand shot out of its own accord as he attempted to close the door on my face. Fuck!

  “Wait! We… Jamie and I have had this appointment set up for weeks. I know she was anxious to get started on the renovations here and—”

  “Weeks?” He let out a humorless laugh and opened the door wider.

  I wasn’t prepared for the jaw-dropping hunk leaning with deceptively relaxed ease against the doorjamb, his toned arms crossed over his broad chest. He was a few inches taller than my own five foot nine, with dark, short-cropped hair worn stylishly longer in the front and light olive skin. I had to assume this Latin god was the soccer player. He was definitely built like an athlete. I shut my mouth, hoping he hadn’t caught me drooling. One did not ogle their prospective straight employers no matter how delicious they were. I cleared my throat, making certain I could speak coherently before I addressed him.

  “Yes. Since the beginning of August. She said she wanted to get started on the work sooner rather than later due to the engagement. I understand the property is original and Jamie was hoping to do a little updating. Ring any bells?”

  He was giving me a blank but somewhat menacing stare. I didn’t know what was going on here, but I didn’t have a good feeling. Maybe they’d had a fight. Shit. What if they’d called their engagement off?

  Any interior designer worth their salt knew at some point it was a pretty safe bet they’d be called upon to play peacemaker to a couple as they underwent an extensive remodel. It started with the good-natured comfy armchair argument and ended with the designer acting as marriage counselor when a discussion about a precious antique from a previous relationship, for example, spiraled into an argument about the offending partner’s inability to let go of their past. A dose of humor and an alternate, less pricey piece of furniture was sometimes all it took to restore personal harmony. But it was damn hard work, which was why the best designers charged more and usually deserved it. I wondered if that was what was going on with Jamie and the soccer player. To be dealing with this shit on day one without a signed contract did not bode well.

  I smiled with a confidence I did not feel and wondered how best to deal with this pissed-off man giving me a death glare. I didn’t know much about him. I’d googled the basics. His name was Michael Martinez, and he played professional soccer for a Los Angeles-based team. I couldn’t remember his position. It would never register as important, anyway. I knew nothing about soccer. I paid more attention to the human-interest angle. He was thirty-three, originally from the LA area, and had dated his fair share of models. There were many photos of him with various buxom blondes, though I hadn’t found one of him and Jamie. I actually had no idea what she looked like.

  “Mind if I come in and take a peek at the space? I’d love to go ov—”

  “I’m not doing a remodel. Sorry. I don’t know what Jamie worked up, but that’s not my problem. And I’m not spending my money on crap I don’t need. Thanks anyway.”

  Once again my hand shot out to stop him from slamming the door in my face. “Um, Mr.….” I waited for him to supply his own name, but he obviously wasn’t feeling friendly. I grimaced and hoped it looked something like a smile before I tried again. “If you’re interes—”

  “I’m not. Sorry for the inconvenience. Jamie has a way of doing that shit to people. Thanks anyway.”

  “Can I please leave a message?”

  “What’s the point? Jamie doesn’t live here and before you ask, I have no idea how you might get hold of Jamie and I really don’t give a crap.”

  Oh. Fuck. Now what?

  Stall. Keep him talking. I could barely hear myself speak as a buzz of panic had my heart beating overtime. It didn’t escape my notice that every time he said his girlfriend’s name, he added a bit of venom. Not a good sign.

  “Okay, I… I understand. Um, any chance I can get a bottle of water for the road? I wouldn’t ask normally, but it’s a long drive back to LA, and I—”

  “Yeah. C’mon.” His tone was put-upon and graceless. I wanted to tell him where he could shove his water bottle, but I was racking my brain for a way to salvage this deal. I needed this job.

  He let the door fall open as he grabbed something hidden from view. I could only hope it wasn’t a shotgun. I didn’t step over the threshold until I saw that it was a pair of crutches and noticed his right knee was wrapped in a black brace. Must be why he was home in the first place. A soccer player with a bum knee wasn’t a good thing, hence his crabby mood.

  I followed my reluctant host as he hobbled down a dark hallway. He made a right turn into a small kitchen, stopping in front of a harvest-gold-colored refrigerator. A true relic from the 1970s. I gave the kitchen a sweeping glance and almost cried at the sheer awfulness of the boring square room. The most exciting piece was the ugly old fridge. Everything else was blah. From the peeling laminate flooring and countertops to the outdated wood-faced cabinetry, the kitchen was absolutely horrendous. Whether or not it was Jamie’s money to spend on a remodel, there was no doubt this place needed one.

  “Here.” I jumped at the feel of the chilled water bottle on my arm and turned back to get my first good look at the man of the house in the light.

  My first impression when he’d opened the front door was that Michael Martinez was a very handsome man. But in the light, his face was… intense. It may have been the scowl, but he looked fierce, with a dark, thick brow and his full mouth set in an angry line. I amended my initial opinion, deciding he’d be a lot better-looking if he smiled. He was wearing a black sleeveless workout shirt and a pair of matching shorts. The snug-fitting fabric lovingly showcased his muscled biceps. He was lean and finely toned, like the athlete he was.

  “What happened to your knee?” I inquired in an effort to postpone being thrown to the curb.

  “Torn ACL.” His tone was unfriendly and didn’t invite further question. He clearly wanted me gone.

  “Oh. Sorry. I hear that’s painful.”

  “Hmm.”

  I uncapped the water and turned to look out the aluminum-framed window above the kitchen sink at the view of a cinder-block wall. How? I knew for a fact this property sat on a cliff above the beach. Where were the spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean? This made no sense. I tried to keep my designer-diva instinct in check as I asked that very question. Once again I was treated to a harsh stare and a heavy sigh.

  “This way.” I followed him out of the kitchen, down the same hallway, and through a standard doorway into the living area.

  I expected a lovely view, but this was magnificent. The sweeping 180-degree vista was stunning. A bank of old-fashioned sliding-glass doors flanked the entire back wall, giving one the perception of looking out into endless blue… blue skies, blue ocean. It had to be the house’s elevation that fooled the eye, but the result was infinite beauty.

  The room itself was horrible. That part I did expect, but now I felt a twinge of outrage this incredible scene
ry was so appallingly showcased by this ugly house. It was criminal. I had enough experience to know the original architect had paid homage to the spectacular setting through his generous use of windows and the home’s precise perch on the cliff. However, I felt like I was in a time warp. Nothing, other than an enormous flat-screen television above an outdated stacked stone fireplace, was of this century. A faded orange shag carpet matted with age and certainly from 1970-something covered the floors. The furniture was definitely made up of garage sale finds. Nothing matched, nothing coordinated. I couldn’t decide if I should laugh or cry. This place needed love and I needed a job.

  My silent, brooding companion leaned on his crutches watching me with almost careful disinterest as I looked out to sea.

  “The voice of the sea speaks to the soul,” I quoted unintentionally. My eyes widened at my strange outburst. I gave an awkward smile and quickly tried to cover my odd choice of words. “The view is extraordinary.”

  He cocked his head thoughtfully. “It is. What did you say first?”

  “Oh nothing.” I walked toward the bank of windows and opened my mouth to comment again on the scenery, but he wouldn’t let it go.

  “What was it? A quote?”

  I turned around to find him staring at me with a bemused expression. “Um… yeah. It’s by Kate Chopin. Sorry. I tend to—”

  “Don’t apologize. It’s cool. And you’re right. Or Kate Chopin was. The sea is peaceful and powerful. Thankfully I don’t hear voices… yet.” He gave a half laugh and looked out on the great blue expanse.

  “Yes. And all this from your living room.” I made a sweeping motion with one hand around the room. Awkward again, but I thought I should make an effort to stay on topic and not delve into the mysteries of the ocean or literature. “You must spend all your time here.”

  He huffed humorlessly. “I do now.”

  I turned to look at him curiously.

  “Nothing but time on my hands. I’m out for the season.”