They left, and Morgan drove to the hotel, looking forward to Wednesday night.

“I’ve died and gone to HGTV heaven.”

Morgan looked around the massive space and swayed on her feet. A bit woozy from the excitement, she spun around, head back, smile on her face, and let herself revel in the glory of such a find. The Barn was a giant red farmhouse with creaky double doors and a tiny sagging sign at the end of a winding gravel path situated close to the woods. She’d been doubtful at first, feeling as if she were stepping onto the set of a horror movie.

Until she got inside.

The two-story loft was filled to the brim with furniture, mirrors, signs, rugs, and endless accent pieces. Some were antique, some seemed new, and every taste and design was represented. There seemed no organization to it, and paper tags were attached to each item with a handwritten cost. One battered desk held an old-fashioned cash register. The back room contained old wood and various pieces that needed to be refurbished. It was a complete gold mine.

Sydney laughed. “Now you’re starting to scare me. It’s just stuff.”

“Glorious stuff. Stuff that may save my job, because I’ve been stuck on this one. I know the general look I want to achieve, but they threw me off during our last meeting. They’re new Hollywood, not old money. The Rosenthals want people to come to their house and be impressed but not be able to explain why. It can’t be about a room full of expensive furniture or antiques. It has to look effortless, like throwing on a shirt and jeans, yet the outfit is so perfect, everyone stares.”

Sydney blinked. “Wow. You’re good. I never thought furniture and decor could do all that.”

“Oh, it can. You won’t be bored, right? I think we’re going to spend some time in here.”

“I have a toddler at home. I go to the grocery store and have breakdowns in Target. I’m good.”

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

Morgan fell into the place like a woman fell in lust. Violently hopeful, voraciously needy, and hungry for satisfaction. She found a chaise lounge set reminding her of old-time Hollywood, the graceful carved wooden legs and velvet texture worn and faded. Beaded pillows in jeweled colors and hand-stitched afghans. Beveled glass mirrors so heavy, she could barely lift them. A mahogany dresser and matching nightstand with peacocks hand-carved into the wood. A jewelry armoire with double doors and ripped burgundy interior. Vivid watercolor paintings on canvas with chipped frames, sculptures of Greek goddesses in marble, and rugs with golden tassels in rich, swirling patterns that reminded her of medieval castles.

Her head spun with possibilities. Between Dalton’s, Tristan’s, and her own expertise, she knew she could furnish a good chunk of the house with finds from the Barn. They needed love and renovation, and each piece told a story and would be the focus of the room.

Usually at every step she would question whether each pick would fit the personality and lifestyle of her client. But this time she seemed off. Maybe it was best to go with a different approach. Trust her gut instead of the couple’s last feedback. What if she designed this home by allowing the furnishings to dictate the theme? One outstanding piece would pull the room together. Then she’d build the Rosenthals’ flavor and style around the centerpiece.

She’d Tim Gunn it and make it work.

Morgan set up a revolving account with Mr. Reynolds, the owner and seemingly only worker at the place. She tagged her buys and made arrangements to come back later in the week to go through the rest of her list. Once she mentioned Caleb and his brothers, he relaxed and seemed willing to work with her on finding more pieces that might fit her vision.

When they finally reached the bar, Morgan slid onto her chair, exhausted but replete with satisfaction. Sydney shook her head and laughed. “You look like you just had sex.”

Morgan didn’t even have the strength to blush. “I feel like it. Maybe this is why I love my job, too. I’ve become a professional shopper.”

“Braggart.”

Morgan grinned and looked around. This was definitely not the type of bar-restaurant boasted about in the village of Harrington. It was a massive open space with a huge potential for greatness, but it needed some TLC. The rustic raftered ceiling, scarred wood floors, and eclectic art pieces made of odd assortments of wood screamed vintage. The bar must’ve been impressive years ago, with a huge brick wall setting off the endless bottles and glasses displayed with pride. The old mahogany was stripped and dull, and the surface needed refinishing, but if it were ever restored, it would be a mighty presence. The shadowed interior kept things intimate, encouraging secrets to be shared. The pool table and dartboard in the back contributed to the atmosphere of casualness, and the booths and chairs were simple wood with red vinyl padding. Knickknacks exploded from shelves and corners: bobbleheads, festive shot glasses, pictures, and interestingly shaped mirrors. Two big-screen televisions took up the corners. The scents of burgers and fries drifted in the air, and an impressive line of drafts was set up to satisfy a range of beer tastes.

“Whatcha drinking, ladies?”

The bartender had long coal-black hair that curled wildly around her face, inky dark eyes, and a badass manner. A diamond glinted in the side of her nose, and her nails were long and scarlet red. She wore jeans and a leather-fringed tank top and had a tattoo on her shoulder of a knife glinting with blood at the tip. Fascinated, Morgan leaned in. “White wine. Chardonnay. I like your tat.”

The woman gave her a hard stare, as if trying to decide if she was being mocked. Finally she nodded. “Thanks.” She turned to Sydney. “You?”

“Harp.”

Her movements were lightning quick and graceful, and in seconds, their glasses were in front of them. Sydney and Morgan shared an impressed look. Sydney spoke up. “You’re new here, right? Heard they got a new owner.”

The woman cocked a hip, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and scowled. “I’m the owner.”

Sydney grinned. “Awesome. We needed some new blood in this place. Do the burgers still rock?”

“They’re better.” The woman paused, then seemed to make a decision. “I’m Raven.”

“Sydney. This is Morgan—she’s new in town, too.”

Morgan nodded at her. She wondered if Raven was more Caleb’s type. She definitely didn’t wear white, or scream relationship, or seem like a control freak. The thought depressed her.