Exactly what I’d hoped for…yet I’d stalled. To fulfill my resolution, I had to become a better person, which meant making amends for my glorified-pimping job. “If you’re right, I need to get my ass in gear. I only have six months left.”
“Miracles happen all the time.”
“True. There was that time my brother got laid.”
She snickered. “No way. That chick took pity on him. It was for sure your housewarming gift.”
“I’m an excellent sister.” Who’d framed a condom with the tagline “In case of emergency break glass.”
“You can do this, Ainsley.” Rachel’s soothing tone slid over my tense shoulders. “Regardless what you wished for, I’m guessing work stress is getting you down. A friend of Jimmy’s volunteered at Habitat for Humanity. I know I’ve mentioned it before, and I’m not sure if he’s still there, but he liked it. Doing something focused on helping others might make you feel better. Whatever you decide, I believe in you.”
That made one of us. “I’ll consider it.”
“That’s the spirit. Oh—and Jimmy went to the city last night to meet some restaurant people. I’m joining him tomorrow. I have to see my family and spoil my niece, but we’ll squeeze in some girl time.”
“Roger that.”
I hit End and stared at my dashboard. The fact that Rachel sensed my wish without me breathing a word of it was a testament to our friendship. I was also a step ahead of her. I’d made a list of Ainsley-tailored volunteering:
Doing makeovers.
Helping fashion victims.
Saving discarded haute-couture items, one Dior at a time.
Soup kitchens involved touching meat. Animal shelters made me sneeze. Working with the elderly reminded me of my grandparents; I’d probably spend my time bawling on some granny’s flower-print lap.
That left the Habitat build. Last time Rachel had mentioned it, I’d been too anxious to sign up, but if Rachel—who’d held more jobs than a multiple-personality Millennial—could fulfill her resolution and stick with a career, I could wear sneakers and dirty my hands. Plus I didn’t need experience to work on a Habitat project, and I’d be helping put a roof over a family’s head. Something I was already familiar with, but paying my parents’ mortgage wasn’t bettering society. It was taking care of my own. Just like the framed condom.
Confidence growing, I turned my ignition and pointed my car away from Nob Hill’s Victorian homes. I headed for the address I’d driven past too often this month. Each drive-by had involved me slowing down, my heart revving up, and I’d peel past the construction site. It was ridiculous. I was an adult. Doing something new, by myself, shouldn’t have reduced me to a Stage Five stalker. Still, each time I’d contemplate stopping, I’d be transported back to high school and the last time I’d stepped outside my element.
That shit show had involved a Chucky’s Chicken paper hat, enough grease to drown a small country, and me praying to the porcelain gods before my shifts. Each yack fest was followed by a thousand screw-ups, then co-workers would lob insults my way, like they were spectators watching me die a glorious Roman Gladiator death, cheering for blood.
But I was done creeping the building site. I wouldn’t drive by out of fear again, or put off volunteering by claiming I’d sign up online. No. This time I would force myself out of the car. I would put the “con” in contractor and fake it until I made it. I would study my dictionary app and learn every construction term there was. I wouldn’t make a fool of myself, circa 2006. (The Chucky’s Chicken Maggot Incident was responsible for my vegan ways.)
By the time I parked at the curb, it was late afternoon and the Habitat build was winding down. When construction had begun a month or two ago, people were always scurrying about. Today there were only a few volunteers around, most looking ready to leave, but I wouldn’t let that stop me.
According to their website, twelve two-bedroom townhomes and eighteen three-bedrooms were being built. Affordable houses for the less fortunate. Serious karmic opportunity. The orange hardhats were a concern—not my greatest color—but wearing one would be my first sacrifice.
I looked down at my cleavage and frowned. Walking up in my Michael Kors dress would have me labeled Pampered Princess next to the dirty T-shirts and ripped jeans worn on site. The museum-worthy fingernails and Blahniks wouldn’t help, either. They’d assume I dished out thousands on my wardrobe and appearance, when in reality I could sniff out sample sales better than a Chanel-trained bloodhound, a handy superpower when bartering for manicures and haircuts.
If I didn’t look volunteer-ready, I would at least sound it. I scrolled through my dictionary app and studied up on construction terms.
Boom. Brace. Framing. Fuse. Infiltration.
The latter sounded more special ops than volunteer work.
Hammer. Circular Saw. Drill. Screw. Nail.
I laughed at the last one, horny-coverings quite the focus of my day today. English hadn’t been my best class in high school, but the language had become a fascination since playing my crossword games. One word could have so many definitions. I even watched spelling bees and loved the part where they’d have to use the word in a sentence.
My manicured nails deserved a two-page Marie Claire spread.
I would hammer nails like a regular Bob the Builder.
As I gripped my door handle and prepared to earn my Girl Scouts’ Good Samaritan badge, I looked up and saw an unfamiliar man on the site. Or, more precisely, an apparition in the form of a dirty, sweaty, panty-melting hunk. If this were a music video, mist would be floating up from the ground, the sun setting, this man wiping his brow as Faith Hill sang about bare feet, country nights, and skinny dipping in a rambling river.
In worn jeans and work boots, he looked part cowboy and all rugged. His ratty white T-shirt clung to his broad chest, biceps bunching as he lifted wood planks. He didn’t talk to anyone. Just went about his work. The pinched lines of his face hinted at a broody nature, and I liked me some tormented heroes.
My hormones sparked to life, Aazam’s recent rejection and my dry spell fanning the flames. A new definition popped into my mind, sending a smile skipping across my face.
I wanted to nail that man.
To pre-order your copy of STUD, click HERE!
If the pre-order links aren’t active yet, join my newsletter, and you’ll be the first to purchase a copy!!
Need more smart, sexy romance in your life?
Check out Kelly Siskind’s Over the Top series and her stand-alone wanderlust novel Chasing Crazy by clicking on the below titles!
Praise for Kelly Siskind’s books:
Chasing Crazy: “With an endearingly awkward female protagonist, a swoon-worthy male love interest, and Siskind’s superb storytelling, this is one of the best New Adult contemporary romances I’ve read to date.” ~ USA Today Bestselling author K.A. Tucker
My Perfect Mistake, Over the Top #1: “This has easily soared to one of my favorite books of the year and has earned itself a place on my all-time favorites shelf.” ~ The Sisterhood of the Traveling Book Boyfriends
A Fine Mess, Over the Top #2: “Delicious, sizzling chemistry that leapt off the page! Lily and Sawyer will absolutely win your heart.” ~ USA Today Bestselling Author Jennifer Blackwood
Hooked on Trouble, Over the Top #3: “Add this to your TBR and experience the romance, the sexy times, the heartbreak, and the swoons…you can thank me later!!” ~ The Book Hookup
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, I’d like to thank Chardonnay. I took my research for this book very seriously, dedicating many hours to learning the intricacies of wine. No bottles were harmed during the writing of this novel, but many were consumed. And enjoyed.
Aside from copious amounts of “research,” writing this novel allowed me to work with amazing fellow writers I’m also honored to call my friends. Brighton Walsh, your continued guidance and expertise has been a lifeline. Your insights are invaluable, and your cover-designing s
kills are the bomb. Esher Hogan, your eyes were the first on this piece. Your enthusiasm kept me writing, even on those blood-from-a-stone days. J.R. Yates, my partner in crime, your time and friendship mean the world, and your ability to catch pesky errors has saved my ass more times than I can count.
Jamie Howard, if it weren’t for your spot-on notes, Rachel wouldn’t have learned how to ride a motorcycle or have gotten that sexy piercing. Jimmy and I both thank you. Kristin B. Wright, aside from your always insightful feedback, you convinced me to rewrite the start of this book. It’s miles better for it. Heather Van Fleet, beta reader extraordinaire and awesome person—our chats get me through tough days, and your wisdom smooths out the rough patches in my work.
Jennifer Vipond, expert sommelier and all-around awesome person, I love you more than Chardonnay, which is saying a lot. Thank you for reading this book and imparting your knowledge. You helped take the authenticity of the novel the last mile. Tammy Cole—from day one, you have been such a supporter of my work. I can’t thank you enough for cheering in my corner and reading an early draft of LEGS. Your honest feedback was indispensable.
Tamara Mataya, your top-notch editing skills brought this puppy together. Liz Lincoln Steiner, having your eyes on the final pages eased my mind. And a big thank you to Shelly Hastings Suhr for helping me out in a pinch.
To the Happily Ever Always gang: you ladies make every day fun and never cease to put a grin on my face. There isn’t a better Facebook group around. To my fellow troublemakers in The Den: you give me a piece of sanity in this crazy business and make navigating the ups and downs bearable. I’d also like to send hugs to the Life Raft ladies, the Golden Heart Dragonflies, and my Pitch Wars family. I never expected to meet so many amazing people on this writing journey.
I owe my love of wine to my father, whose excitement over every opened bottle still infects me. My parents’ unending support floors me to this day. I love you both. To my husband, thank you for keeping our wine fridge stocked, and for putting up with my crazy. I couldn’t do any of this without you.
To the bloggers who promote my work: you humble me daily. You are all such an important part of this process. Thank you a million times over. Last, but never least, to my wonderful readers: thank you for taking the time to live in my world. You are the reason I write. You are the reason Jimmy and Rachel exist. If you ever wonder if you should leave an online review, the answer is YES. Those are the little things that keep us writers going. Reading your thoughts means more than you realize.
A small-town girl at heart, Kelly Siskind moved from the city to open a cheese shop with her husband in northern Ontario. When she’s not neck deep in cheese or out hiking, you can find her, notepad in hand, scribbling down one of the many plot bunnies bouncing around in her head. She laughs at her own jokes and has been known to eat her feelings—gummy bears heal all. She’s also an incurable romantic, devouring romance novels into the wee hours of the morning.
For giveaways and early peeks at new work, join Kelly’s NEWSLETTER. (www.kellysiskind.com)
If you like to laugh and chat about books and your favorite heroes, join Kelly with Jamie Howard and Heather Van Fleet in their Facebook group, HAPPILY EVER ALWAYS.
Connect with Kelly on Twitter and Facebook, and never miss an inappropriate post!
Twitter: @KellySiskind
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorKellySiskind/
Legs (One Wild Wish, #1) Page 26