Right Here, Right Now Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Praise for Georgia Beers

  By the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Right Here, Right Now

  Accountant and financial advisor Lacey Chamberlain doesn’t consider herself a control freak. She’s merely a planner—orderly, neat, and content in her tidy little life. When a marketing firm moves into the empty office next door, the loud-music-playing, stinky-food-ordering, kickball-in-the-hall staff make Lacey crazy.

  Marketing expert Alicia Wright is spontaneous, flies by the seat of her pants, and lives in the moment—all the things Lacey is not. She’s also gorgeous, thoughtful, and seems determined to make Lacey like her.

  They say opposites attract, but for how long? And is that really a good idea?

  Praise for Georgia Beers

  Finding Home

  “Georgia Beers has proven in her popular novels such as Too Close to Touch and Fresh Tracks that she has a special way of building romance with suspense that puts the reader on the edge of their seat. Finding Home, though more character driven than suspense, will equally keep the reader engaged at each page turn with its sweet romance.”—Lambda Literary Review

  Lambda Literary Award Winner Fresh Tracks

  “Georgia Beers pens romances with sparks.”—Just About Write

  “[T]he focus switches each chapter to a different character, allowing for a measured pace and deep, sincere exploration of each protagonist’s thoughts. Beers gives a welcome expansion to the romance genre with her clear, sympathetic writing.”—Curve magazine

  Mine

  “From the eye-catching cover, appropriately named title, to the last word, Georgia Beers’s Mine is captivating, thought-provoking, and satisfying. Like a deep red, smooth-tasting, and expensive merlot, Mine goes down easy even though Beers explores tough topics.”—Story Circle Book Reviews

  “Beers does a fine job of capturing the essence of grief in an authentic way. Mine is touching, life-affirming, and sweet.”—Lesbian News Book Review

  Too Close to Touch

  “This is such a well-written book. The pacing is perfect, the romance is great, the character work strong, and damn but is the sex writing ever fantastic.”—The Lesbian Review

  “In her third novel, Georgia Beers delivers an immensely satisfying story. Beers knows how to generate sexual tension so taut it could be cut with a knife.…Beers weaves a tale of yearning, love, lust, and conflict resolution. She has constructed a believable plot, with strong characters in a charming setting.”—Just About Write

  Right Here, Right Now

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Right Here, Right Now

  © 2017 By Georgia Beers. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13:978-1-63555-155-6

  This Electronic Original is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: December 2017

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

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Lynda Sandoval

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design by Ann McMan

  By the Author

  Turning the Page

  Thy Neighbor’s Wife

  Too Close to Touch

  Fresh Tracks

  Mine

  Finding Home

  Starting from Scratch

  96 Hours

  Slices of Life

  Snow Globe

  Olive Oil & White Bread

  Zero Visibility

  A Little Bit of Spice

  Rescued Heart

  Run to You

  Dare to Stay

  What Matters Most

  Right Here, Right Now

  Acknowledgments

  With each book I write, I’m amazed by how many people help me along the way, whether I ask or not, whether they know it or not. This book is no different.

  Thank you to Bold Strokes Books and the staff there for making this process much easier than it could have been, especially Len Barot and Sandy Lowe, who walked me through, step by step. I so appreciate your patience.

  To my niece, Katie Benko, for answering all my questions about Philadelphia and pointing out some fun places and details. I owe you dinner, Kate.

  My books are so much better than the first drafts I hand in, and that’s thanks to my editor extraordinaire, Lynda Sandoval. I have learned so much from her over the years. Whether it’s an easy edit or a global restructuring (words no writer wants to hear, trust me), her instincts are impeccable and she’s always right. Well, maybe 95 percent of the time…Thank you, Lynda, for making me a better writer.

  To Dr. Holly Garber, who’s been my friend since we were five years old, for answering all my annoying medical questions.

  I’ve got a pretty good routine going by now with this job, but I still talk to a handful of people every day, and they still help me to relax. Thank you, Rachel Spangler, Melissa Brayden, and Nikki Little, for being around when I need you. Whether I want to celebrate with you, cry on your shoulders, or need you to smack me back into action, your friendship means a lot. I’m keeping you guys.

  I know he can’t read and has no idea what I do for a living, but I feel oddly compelled to thank Finley, my sweet and loving dog, for keeping me sane over the past year. I don’t know what I’d have done without him. He teaches me unconditional love every single day. He is my heart.

  Last, but never least, thank you to you, my readers. Your support means more than you know.

  Chapter One

  I, Lacey Chamberlain, am not a morning person.

  There. I said it.

  I never have been a morning person, even when I’ve tried (cough/college/cough). When my alarm goes off in the morning, what I really want to do is hurl it across the room so that it shatters (silently, of course) into a million pieces, allowing me to stay in the warm coziness of bed until I’m good and ready to get up. Around ten or so. Maybe ten thirty.

  Luckily for my financial well-being, I’m structured and I’m a rule follower, which means, in actuality, when my alarm goes off, I have no choice but to obey it and get my ass out of bed. I’m never happy about it, but I do it. Because I have a job.

  Leo, on the other hand, is all about the morning. The terrier mix I rescued two years ago scrambles up from the foot of the bed every morning, as soon as the second alarm begins its obnoxious ringing. He knows I always hit the snooze button. Once. That’s a
ll I allow myself. So, when the alarm goes off the second time, he sees that as his cue for morning doggie lovin’, which I live for, I have to admit.

  “Okay, okay,” I mumbled to him. I was still half-asleep as I simultaneously tried to love him and keep him from poking his tongue in my mouth. “Dude. Ease up. I love you, too. I swear.”

  This game went on for a good ten minutes, me covering my head with my down comforter as Leo scratched at it madly with his tiny paws. I peeked out just enough for him to see me and dive for my face before I pulled the covers back up. It’s our daily routine, and after a few minutes, I’m usually laughing and almost awake. Almost.

  Two hours and two cups of coffee later, I packed Leo into the car along with my messenger bag filled with client folders, and a travel mug filled with yet more coffee, and we headed off to work. The drive is about twenty minutes, and I always use it to mentally go over my schedule for the day. Whether I have people to meet or just paperwork to do, I lay it all out in my head while I drive. Leo was seat-belted into the passenger seat, his sweet brown eyes scanning the scenery as it flew by. I learned the hard way to belt him in…one day, as we sat at a red light, I thought I’d be nice and slide the window down a bit for him so he could stick his little nose out. I neglected to put the child lock on, however, and all it took was him standing on the button before the window was down far enough for him to jump out. And he did. I watched it happen in slow motion, I swear to God. I leaned to grab him, but I missed. I can’t believe he didn’t break a leg—it was a long way down for his ten-pound body—and it’s a miracle he didn’t get flattened by a car as he darted across two lanes of traffic. The beeping horns, screeching tires, and shouts from his terrified mommy were apparently enough to scare the bejesus out of him, though, because he doesn’t seem to mind the belt at all.

  It was a really beautiful, not-yet-spring day in suburban Philadelphia. The sun was shining, which always makes me happy, so I slid on my Ray-Bans, sipped my coffee, and felt pretty close to fully awake. While the nights can still get pretty cold in early March, the daily temperatures had been hitting the high fifties, and that told me spring was just around the corner. Thank God. I hate being cold. You think I’d be used to it after thirty-three years in the same city, but sadly, I’m not. I live for spring because it means summer is coming, and summer means warmth. I’m like an old lady; I really should move south.

  I swung my car into the parking lot of Dogwood Landing, the commercial building where my office has been since my father started it when he was thirty. He’d retired two years ago at sixty-five, and I took over fully, having worked side by side with him for almost nine years. As I aimed my car at my usual space, I thankfully saw a flash of bright yellow out of the corner of my eye and slammed my foot on the brake just in time to narrowly miss having my front bumper ripped off by that little bastard who works at the hardware store on the first level of the building. My nose crinkled up as I growled, causing Leo to look at me with alarm.

  “That kid and his muscle car are going to kill somebody one of these days, Leo,” I muttered, staring after him. In all honesty, it was the exact same line I muttered almost every day. His name was Kyle, but I’d nicknamed him Nascar Kyle. He was about twenty, and he’d worked for Mr. Archer in his small hardware store since before he graduated from high school. He was actually a really nice kid when he wasn’t behind a steering wheel. I didn’t know what happened to him when he plopped his butt in the driver’s seat, but I knew I didn’t like it.

  When I looked forward again, I grimaced. My good mood was fading fast. There was a moving truck in my usual parking space. In fact, it was taking up three spaces. I took a big breath and blew it out slowly as I maneuvered my car into a spot I never parked in.

  “I don’t know, Leo,” I said, as I slipped the gearshift into park. “I am not in love with where this Monday is going so far. Are you?”

  Leo cocked his tiny brown-black head, his mismatched ears pricking up as he listened to me, and I couldn’t help it. I grabbed his face and kissed it. Several times. Loudly. “You are my love,” I told him, the first of about fifty-seven times I’d mention it that day.

  I threw my messenger bag and my purse over my shoulder, clicked Leo’s leash onto his harness, locked my car, and headed in.

  The building is old. Hell, it was old when my dad started his business here thirty-seven years ago. But it’s not run-down. The management company does a really good job taking care of it, and they respond quickly when there’s a problem. The rent is reasonable, and the location is terrific, so I can’t complain. There’s also a security code to be entered in order to get through the door, but that door was propped open by a box. I’m usually a stickler about security, but I couldn’t realistically expect the movers to punch in a code every single time they needed to carry something up, so I let it slide.

  My office is on the second floor, and as Leo and I hit the stairwell, we were met by two burly men pushing a handcart. They grunted greetings as they passed. I reached our floor, went through another propped-open door, and stopped in my tracks.

  Boxes.

  Boxes and boxes.

  Everywhere.

  Leo and I maneuvered our way around them like we were working an agility course until we got to our own door, which was open, just the way Mary likes it.

  My office is actually two. Sort of. There’s a smaller area immediately inside the door. Sort of a reception space. That’s where Mary’s desk is, along with things like the printer/copier/fax behemoth, the coat rack, and four chairs for people who are waiting to see me. I don’t think more than two chairs have ever been occupied at once. In the corner is a small coffee station and a mini fridge. Clients can use the single cup Keurig to make themselves some coffee. I also keep bottled water in the fridge and a selection of tea bags for the crazy people who don’t drink coffee. Beyond Mary’s desk is a doorway that leads to my larger office.

  “There’s my little munchkin,” Mary said, immediately bending down in her chair so she could lavish attention (and too many treats) on Leo. He, of course, ate it up—figuratively and literally. He’s no dummy, that boy of mine.

  “Yeah. Hi there,” I said, with a little wave, when Mary finally looked up at me.

  “Oh, hi, Lacey. Are you here, too?” she asked with a smirk. Mary Kirk worked with my father and has known me since I was a kid. When my dad retired, she wasn’t ready to, and it seemed nothing but super smart to keep her around, as she knows the ins and outs of many of the clients better than I do. She’s in her sixties, her bob a chestnut brown that she gets touched up every four weeks like clockwork. She’s small, friendly, and frighteningly efficient. I’m reasonably sure the office would crumble around my ears if I didn’t have her. Especially at this time of year, I thought, as the phone rang.

  “Chamberlain Financial,” Mary said, in the almost musical tone she uses when she answers the phone. “How can I help you?”

  I headed into my office, Leo opting to stay with Mary and the treats. Not unusual. She has a little dog bed under her desk that he loves to nap on. He spends more time with her during the day than with me, greeting the clients and keeping away burglars, I’m sure.

  Things were starting to get really busy, well on their way to the chaos that is late March/early April for me and every other accountant in this country. The fact that I was there before nine was a big clue, as I prefer to come in closer to ten or eleven and work until six or seven. But when April 15 is closing in fast, I can find myself working fourteen- or fifteen-hour days, and then taking work home and putting in a couple more hours in my jammies. I had nine client visits lined up that day, plus a huge pile of returns to complete and file.

  I took off my coat and hung it in the tiny closet in my office, the tiny closet crammed with pamphlets and supplies and a change of clothes (I’ve been known to fall asleep at my desk). A glance out the window showed me the movers working hard, this time a large drafting table being carried between them. Back out in Mary’s a
rea, I asked, “Were the movers here when you got here?”

  “They were just starting, I think,” she replied, her eyes never leaving her computer screen. Leo was curled up in her lap. “They’re going into the office next door.”

  “Really?” My eyebrows rose. The office next door had been empty for over a year. It was about three times the size of mine, maybe more, and it had its own full bathroom—the only reason I ever considered maybe moving one door down, but I couldn’t justify the rent increase, and I didn’t really need that much space. Now the option was no longer available, which was probably for the best. I could stop thinking about it. I had, however, been enjoying the quiet of having nobody occupy it. “So much for the silence, huh?”

  “We’ll see.” Mary shrugged. “Might be nice to have some neighbors, though.”

  “Maybe.” I moved to the doorway and watched the movers carry the drafting desk past. I could hear a male voice from inside the other office telling them where to put it and I was tempted to go say hi, see exactly what was happening over there, but the phone rang. A glance at Mary told me it was a client, so I headed to my office and began my day.

  * * *

  The music started up just after lunch.

  I was in the middle of talking with Mr. Robichaux, a man older than my father who was very hesitant to let a woman do his taxes when my dad announced his retirement. I’m not exactly sure what he said, but Dad got Mr. Robichaux to keep his business with us, and I’ve done a pretty good job, if I do say so myself. But “Single Ladies,” much as I and all the world love Beyoncé, wasn’t a terrific soundtrack for Mr. Robichaux’s tax filing, and the disapproving look on his face made that pretty clear.