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

anyone with half a brain would paint in this get-up.” Olivia circled a hand over her clothes. “And what’s with these jeans? It’s January. No matter how many times the fashion industry tries to say that it isn’t, wearing white in the winter will always be an oxymoron.”
    Tristi adjusted the off-the-shoulder sweater she wore with a pair of distressed jeans and black Converse sneakers. “That oxymoron applies to some of us year ’round.” She turned and made for the exit. When Olivia didn’t follow, she stopped and looked back. “Aren’t you coming?” She consulted the clock on her phone’s display. “You have exactly fifty-five minutes to pretty-up so you can go sweat it all off, working out with William.”
    Olivia knew she should follow her assistant and leave so she could start getting ready for another training date with William, but she couldn’t seem to muster enough interest to move. Why? She didn’t know for sure, but her feet were immovable, like they’d been nailed to the floor.
    “Why don’t you go, take the rest of the day off?”
    Tristi’s eyes worked the room as if considering the possibility. “You sure?” she asked while hustling for the door.
    Alone in the quiet of a house, Olivia pondered what was getting her down. She should be happy. Only one full week on the set and her agent was already fielding multiple calls from movie producers and screening a pile of scripts. She’d spent every free moment of the last four days with the man of her dreams. And Eleanor had been hospitalized with the flu. Bad for Eleanor, good for Olivia to not have the designer’s condescending eyes watching her every move one minute, completely ignoring her the next. So, what’s wrong with me? she asked herself again, though she had a good idea. This discontent was all Pete’s doing. Ever since he’d suggested that her life so far had been lived in pursuit of someone else’s dreams—her mother’s dreams—she’d had this befuddled aura hanging over her.
    He’d been dead wrong, of course.
    But still…
    Picking up her messenger bag, she fingered the sketchpad waiting inside. Knowing that art tended to soothe her, to clear her mind, she considered pulling it out and sketching a while before heading back to the hotel. Only today, drawing alone didn’t seem like enough. She needed more. Then she noticed the empty wall in front of her. Like a precursor to inspiration, to answers sought and issues resolved, the blank expanse beckoned to her.
    She’d only begun moving the roller up, then down, in even, sweeping strokes when one of Pete’s guys—Sean, if she remembered correctly—pulled back the giant piece of plastic that partitioned off the formal living from the dining room, and stuck his cap of red hair through.
    “What-up, Bull’s-eye?” he greeted Olivia.
    Annoyance whipped with embarrassment to form a venomous froth inside her chest. She’d had a few mishaps yesterday while shooting her DIY segments. One in particular involving a hand sander had earned her the title Bull’s-eye.
    She turned to him, roller in hand, and smacked him with a look that said she was sick of all the teasing. “Not funny,” she insisted. “And, it wasn’t my fault. Someone should have warned me that nasty little bugger had a mind of its own.”
    He raised his arms in faux surrender. “Whoa, that roller’s not loaded, is it?”
    Pete stepped around Sean. “Olivia?” He wore a disagreeable look on his face, which lately had become a regular occurrence. If tension and drama was what viewers wanted, they’d sure gotten a healthy dose from the segments she and Pete had filmed together. For the camera, he’d informed her, in no uncertain terms, that due to additional, unforeseen structural issues, more of the Calhouns’ “deal breaker” items had to go. Off camera, he looked right through her. And she was none too happy about either behavior. First, she kept thinking about how if Eleanor hadn’t spent so