Miss Fix-It
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Copyright
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
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
The End
About the Author
Books by Emma Hart
MISS FIX-IT
Emma Hart
For Alexia-Belle and Cobie.
The very real inspiration behind all my very fictional kids,
but in this book more than ever.
Thank God, you’re not twins.
All rights reserved. Copyright © Emma Hart, 2017.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Chapter One
Stereotypes were a bitch.
I knew it. I’d lived it with it my whole damn life. As a child, it’d been, “Aw, it’s so lovely that Keith brings his daughter to work. So nice that she’s interested in helping him, too, even in that pretty dress!” As an adult, it was, “Huh. She’s a builder. How strange. Doesn’t she worry about breaking a nail or ruining her make-up?”
Well, screw stereotypes and your preconceived notions, you dick.
And for the record: I wasn’t so worried about the make-up, but the nail thing? Yeah. I totally worried about breaking a nail now and then. Chipping polish was just the worst.
There was a damn good reason all the advertising for Hancock Handyman Co. eliminated the fact I was a woman. When my dad semi-retired, I’d learned pretty quickly that people were willing to overlook our company just because I was a woman.
Several surprises later, word had gotten around our small, coastal town of Rock Bay, and most of the residents were no longer surprised when Kali, not Keith, showed up on their doorstep.
The people just outside of town? Still surprised. Still fun for me. Especially when wives and girlfriends and moms convinced the skeptical man of the house to give me a chance and I got to blow them away.
That would never get old.
“I got a call from the mayor today,” Dad said, absently flicking through the TV channels.
“Mhmm,” I replied, focused more on the cat article on Buzzfeed than another one of the mayor’s complaints.
“He thinks you need to make it known on The Facebook that you’re the ‘K’ in K. Hancock.”
“So he’s been saying for eighteen months. And it’s just Facebook, not The Facebook.”
“Kali, you should consider it.”
I glanced up with a, “No.”
He snorted. “Can I have him call you next time he wants to complain?”
“You can have him call me,” I said, closing the app on my phone. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll answer it. I have other things to do than listen to Mayor Bennet’s complaints.”
“Kali—”
“Dad, when he fixes the five-inch wide pothole on Main Street, then I’ll listen to him. He should be doing that instead of scrutinizing my Facebook page.”
Dad sighed, muting the television. “I should have known you’d get your mother’s stubborn streak.”
Right. Because he was the most agreeable person in town. “She obviously left it behind when she died. You got the money and the house, and I got the attitude. I need a good, strong stubborn streak to deal with yours.”
His lips twitched. “Mine is necessary. I have to field Mayor Bennet’s calls.”
“Like I said. He can fix the pothole, then we’ll talk.” I paused, tucking hair behind my ear. “Plus, everyone in town knows you’re semi-retired. The only person who forgets is old Mr. Jenkins and that’s because of his dementia. Hell, I saw him in the grocery store this morning and he called me Coral and asked me how my pet clownfish were.”
Dad opened his mouth, then obviously decided against what he was going to say. A thoughtful look crossed his mind. “At least he made the connection between coral and clownfish. That’s better than last week when he told Irma Darling that Mr. Pickles needed to be in a zoo all because the cat brushed up against his ankle.”
“Stupid name for a cat,” I muttered. “And that thing does belong in a zoo. She should have called him Mr. Prickles. Damn thing hisses at me whenever I come within fifty feet of the register.”
Irma Darling—no, really, it was her name, and she insisted all gentlemen over the age of twenty-five refer to her as such. Except she wanted to be Irma, darling. She was also as mad a box of frogs on a trampoline…and utterly delusional if she believed Mr. Pickles was as sweet, cushy, cuddly cat.
“That’s because you almost ran him over when she got him last month, sweetheart.”
I held up my hands. “I was under the limit. Don’t blame me if the dumb creature jumped in front of my truck.”
Dad offered me a withering look. “You just hate cats.”
“No, I hate that cat. There’s a difference.”
“Are we talking about Mr. Pickles again?” My step-mother wandered into the room, pasta sauce decorating the front of her white shirt. Her blue eyes scanned the pair of us from beneath thick, dark eyelashes, and her pale, pink lips curved, wrinkling at the edges. “That demon cat scratched my leg when I went to the store this morning. Irma told me not to stand on his tail, and I told her that if her cat attacked me again, I’d relieve him of the damn tail.”
Dad brought his hand up to his face, closing his eyes before he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Thank you,” I said looking at her. “The thing sold its soul to Satan, no doubt about it. Along with Mayor Bennet.”
“Oh dear,” she said. “Has he been harassing your father again?”
I nodded.
“The man needs to focus on our potholes. I have half a mind to write a strongly worded letter to the council.”
“I’ll co-sign,” I offered.
“I need a drink,” Dad said. “Portia, honey, if you write another letter to the council this year, they might…Well, I have no idea what they’ll do, but Councilor Jeffries will lose his mind.”
Mom wiggled her finger at him, the bright red of her nail a quick flash of color through the air. “You can’t lose a mind if you don’t possess one in the first place. I’ve half a mind to run for council next year.”
“Excellent,” Dad drawled. “You have half a mind to run for council, and the other half is focused on writing them a letter. Do you think you could spare a little to focus on not burning dinner?”
I bit the inside of my cheek so I didn’t laugh.
“Keith Hancock, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap i
f you keep sassing me.”
“You’d have to catch me.”
“That wouldn’t be hard, dear. You haven’t moved from the sofa for three hours.”
I burst out laughing, quickly covering my mouth with my hand. Dad shot me a look that was a cross between “shut up” and “don’t validate her.” Of course, I didn’t stop laughing—I’d stopped being afraid of that look ten years ago—and got a wink from Mom for my troubles.
“Can I help you in the kitchen, honey?” Dad asked, now all sweetness and light.
“You can lock the workshop. Don’t think I didn’t notice the door open, and you’re not sitting there until two in the morning building that coffee table again.”
“Ooh,” escaped my mouth. “Are you almost done?”
Dad’s expression brightened. “I am. Do you want to see?”
I nodded, getting up as he heaved himself out of the chair. “I haven’t seen it since you started carving the first leg.”
“The first three are done now. They just need a bit of sanding and varnishing. Come see.”
I followed him out of the room to an eyeroll from Mom, but it was a fond one. After all, she’d come into our lives when I was thirteen. She knew my father’s true passion was carpentry, and she knew that all the aspects of building and handiwork were engrained into my very soul.
And my dad? Well. He was the best damn carpenter in the whole state, and this coffee table had been his pet project for months.
My phone beeped with a notification right before I could enter the barn. I held up a finger so Dad knew I’d be inside in a minute. The notification bar showed a new email to my work address, so I clickedit to open it.
To: Hancock Handyman Co (khancock@hancockhandymanco.com)
From: Brantley Cooper (brantley-cooper@gmail.com)
Subject: re: Website Contact Form
Dear Sir/Madam,
I’m contacting you to discuss the possibility of a consultation. I recently moved to town and I would like to have someone come in and fix up my children’s bedrooms. They’re not in great condition at present.
I was recommended your company by someone earlier today. Because of the condition of the rooms, I would need someone to come by sooner rather than later. Is this something someone from your company would be able to accommodate?
If not, I completely understand, and would appreciate any recommendations for other local companies.
Regards,
Brantley Cooper
I clicked my tongue and responded.
To: Brantley Cooper (brantley-cooper@gmail.com)
From: Hancock Handyman Co (khancock@hancockhandymanco.com)
Subject: re: Website Contact Form
Dear Mr. Cooper,
Many thanks for your email. Could you provide some more information as to the condition of the bedrooms? Perhaps pictures if possible?
Best wishes.
K. Hancock
I tapped ‘send’ and headed inside to view Dad’s coffee table project. The legs were all laid out on the worktable, and one was noticeably less-carved than the others. Still, that didn’t take away from the intricacy of his carpentry, and I ran a finger over the rough surface of one of the completed legs.
“They still need sanding and treating, but I should be able to start that next week.” Dad picked up the unfinished leg and stared at it. “I hope so, at least.”
“They’re beautiful, Dad,” I said honestly. “This is going to be incredible when it’s finished.”
He set down the leg and smiled at me before he pulled me close and kissed me on the cheek. The salt-and-pepper whiskers that dotted his jaw and chin tickled my skin with the sweeping peck, but I smiled all the same.
My phone beeped again.
“That’s a lot of beeps,” he remarked. “Anyone important?”
“Potential new client. Just moved to town and wants his kids’ bedrooms looking at. Apparently, they’re run down.”
“How run down?”
I waved the phone. “That’s what I’m, hopefully, about to find out.” I dropped my attention to my phone and opened the newest email.
To: Hancock Handyman Co (khancock@hancockhandymanco.com)
From: Brantley Cooper (brantley-cooper@gmail.com)
Subject: re: Website Contact Form
Dear K. Hancock,
Please see the attached.
Regards,
Brantley Cooper
I downloaded the attachments and pulled them up on my gallery. Dad peered over my shoulder as I swiped through them. They were mostly peeling wallpaper and cracked paint, a light in need of fixing, the floors in need of decent carpeting or flooring, but the last few were the ones that held the real problem: the mold on the walls.
“That’s pretty bad,” Dad said, tilting the screen. “They might need new windows, and they certainly can’t sleep in those rooms or they’ll get sick.”
I nodded in agreement. “And it could be his lucky day. Well, he’d have to wait a week, but I can do it next Saturday and probably start the following Monday.”
“Quiet on the books?”
“Once I’m done with the repaint of Susie Michaels’ guest house, yep. That’s no bad thing, though. I could have used the break, but he obviously needs my help.”
Dad patted my shoulder and moved away. “Sure does, Kali. Want me to come and help you check the place over?”
“No, it’s fine. I’m not sure Mom would be too impressed if I dragged you away next Saturday.”
A puzzled look flitted across his face. “Why?”
I blinked at him. “Uh…Dad? It’s your wedding anniversary.”
He froze, eyes widening at my words sank in. “Oh, shit.”
I smirked, leaning against the worktable. “There’s a bunch of her favorite flowers reserved at Nova for you to collect at seven a.m., and I booked you a table at The Coastal Boulevard. Seven-thirty reservation, and yes, they already know it’s your anniversary.”
He visibly deflated, sighing out in relief. “What would I do without you?”
“Get in a lot of trouble with your wife.”
“I can’t argue with the truth. Talking of—we should go back inside before. Dinner is probably ready.”
I nodded. “Let me just reply to this email. I’ll be right in.”
Dad left me to it, and I opened my email.
To: Brantley Cooper (brantley-cooper@gmail.com)
From: Hancock Handyman Co (khancock@hancockhandymanco.com)
Subject: re: Website Contact Form
Dear Mr. Cooper,
Thanks for the photos. I can see your problem. Unfortunately, I’m booked this week, but I’m free for a consultation next Saturday. Is that soon enough?
I can point you in the direction of other relatively local contractors, but I doubt many would be able to get you in so quickly.
Hope to hear from you on this soon.
Best wishes,
K. Hancock
His response within seconds—before I’d even left the workshop.
To: Hancock Handyman Co (khancock@hancockhandymanco.com)
From: Brantley Cooper (brantley-cooper@gmail.com)
Subject: re: Website Contact Form
Dear K. Hancock,
That’s sooner than I was expecting. Does ten a.m. work for you?
Regards,
Brantley Cooper
I responded, confirming the time, and advising him to not have his children sleep in the room. I also offered a common solution to remove the surface mold on the walls and the windowsill. He responded appreciatively, so I tucked my phone away and headed back inside for dinner with my family.
***
Mom handed me a glass of wine. I had to handle it carefully thanks to her tendency to actually make a glass of wine a full glass, and I was never more thankful than right now that I could walk home from my parents’.
“Any news on the dating front?” she asked, taking the other seat on the sofa.
Dad had long retire
d to the workshop to play with his table leg, so she was able to ask me the questions she really wanted to. I was twenty-six, but that didn’t mean my father was comfortable around these questions.
“Do you mean news other than “oh, look, another date with a fuckboy?”” I replied, sipping my wine.
“At this point, honey, fuckboys aren’t news. They’re the norm.”
I groaned in agreement. “It’s all the same, all the time. And the guy I went out with on Wednesday? He just proved he didn’t read my bio at all.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Oh, dear? Oh, shit, is more like it.” The thing I loved about my stepmother: She had a potty mouth to rival a sailor’s, and while I had to watch it most of the time, when we discussed dating, all bets were off.
Besides, crapboy just didn’t sound as good as fuckboy.
“That bad?” She looked at me with sympathetic eyes.
“The worst yet, maybe.” I pushed my hair from my eyes. “First, he was late, which I forgave because he said he’d got caught in traffic.”
“In Rock Bay? Was the traffic seagulls on the road?”
“He said he lived out of town, so whatever. Even though he never apologized.” I sipped again. “Then, five minutes in, he asks me what I do. I told him I ran the family building business since Dad is semi-retired, and he goes, “Oh, you’re the secretary?””
Her eyes widened.
“I said, “No, actually. I’m the builder,” and if I could have captured the look on his face, I’d have blown it up and taped it to the side of the mayor’s building.”
“What did he say to that?”
My face wrinkled up as I said it. “He complimented me on my excellent bicep muscles and went to “take a phone call.””
“He stiffed you with the bill?”
I grinned, shaking my head. “He’d booked the table, and you know how Marcie started collecting addresses of bookers since the Coastal became the ‘it’ place?”