Free Home Matters (A Ripple Effect Romance Novella, Book 1) by Julie N. Ford Page A

fallen hero, all were sheltered by the mysterious fingers of crooked branches dripping in moss.
    Her mouth watered in anticipation as she worked her way through the quaint antique and gift shops of City Market, toward the outer corner, and to the home of Vinnie Van Go Go’s Pizza. It had been three long days since she’d savored that one delectable bite, and she’d been anxiously anticipating the arrival of Friday and the week’s end of her rigorous schedule. Maybe she’d even go so far as to devour an entire piece this time.
    She stopped when she spied a vintage Sarreid sofa.
    Holding her camera at arm’s length, she snapped a shot, thinking the color and style would go perfectly with her —as in not Eleanor’s—design for the Calhouns’ formal living room.
    “Stalking furniture now, are we?” a man’s voice came at her from behind.
    Startled, her camera bobbled from one hand to the other before she reaffirmed her grip and turned to face him. “Good gracious, Pete.” She pressed a palm to her racing heart. “You like t’a scared me half to death.”
    A smile tweaked his lips. “What’s with the getup? I almost didn’t recognize you.” He gestured to her undercover attire—old sneakers, holey jeans, and a nondescript corduroy jacket over a tank top. She also had a bandana tied to hide her blonde hair, and a worn cowboy hat pulled down to her ears. A pair of aviator sunglasses shielded her eyes and cheeks.
    Her gaze hopped from one passerby to another. “Hush,” she cautioned. “Don’t call attention.” The last couple of days had been out of control, what with curious photographers and crazed fans alike following her literally everywhere she went. And it hadn’t helped that the show had been shooting around town either. “Sourcing segments” they called them. In other words, furniture and fixture shopping. Pretending to have accidentally run upon the perfect antique table or chandelier—whatever—when in fact Eleanor’s staff had been out “sourcing” these exact items for weeks now. She’d always thought it would be great to have people recognize her, to say, “Is that Olivia Pembroke? Do you think I should ask for her autograph?” but in reality, all the attention left her feeling claustrophobic. Plus, she hated the random photos, most of which were unflattering, not to mention the speculation that showed up in the tabloids daily.
    Like a striking snake, Pete’s hand lashed out, coiling back with her camera.
    “Hey!” Olivia grabbed for the camera, but Pete effortlessly held it high, and out of her reach as he scrolled through the pictures, his eyes tracking one piece of furniture after another. Sofas, tables, occasional pieces, all organized within data files, and cataloged room by room.
    “So you are a furniture stalker. That, or you have a furniture fetish.” His eyes danced with a scandalous look. “Does your adoring public know this about you?”
    Teeth clenched, she took a shallow breath for composure. So what if she was obsessed? It wasn’t any of his business, which also meant he had no right to tease her about it. “Give me that.” She snatched her camera back. “And stay away from me.” Her eyes darted from side to side again, looking for evidence of recognition. “Whenever I’m with you, William catches me up to something nefarious.”
    “Whatever.” Pete half-shrugged as if he’d already tired of his own game. “I have to get going anyway.” He hooked a thumb toward Vinnie’s. “I need to grab some pizza for the guys then head back to the site. We’ve got a long night ahead, and another two full days if we’re going to finish on schedule.”
    Olivia took a closer look at Pete. His eyes were red and saggy, his jaw unshaven. Dressed in faded jeans and a work coat over a zipped hoodie and plain t-shirt, he looked professionally disheveled. Grungy, but somehow way too gorgeous for his own good. Or hers. “Working hard these days?” she asked casually, like