Fixed Infatuation

by Stacy Borel

  The next morning after a quick search online and a trip to the hardware store, I hopefully had a remedy in hand. Mothballs and bungee cords. I walked to the side of my house and put everything down. I grabbed my first bungee cord and held it up. Oh crap, I think I got the wrong size. I started placing the hooks on one edge and stretched it across the top. It bent and strained under the colorful threading, but to no avail. It wouldn’t go the whole way across. I tried again. Nope… wasn’t happening. Jesus! I didn’t know they sold these in different lengths. I thought they were like resistance bands at the gym. All the same around, just different thickness for the job. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I snapped the one I’d been tugging on, off the lid and tossed it on the ground. Maybe there was a longer one in my bag. I began rummaging around when I heard someone clear their throat behind me.

  I stood quickly, whipping around. My hair slapped me in the face. I blew a few strands out of my mouth in a non-graceful like way, a little bit of spit flying in the air. The cord fell out of my hand, and the man I’d stared at a few more times than I cared to admit through my window was currently standing five feet away. Any thought of raccoons and rubber cords left my head.

  “Lady, is there a problem?”

  Blake Whitmore was an extremely intimidating man. I couldn’t resist my eyes traveling up his long, lean frame. His six-foot-two stature made even larger by his tan work boots. He was wearing dark wash jeans that were splattered in different-colored paint and small tears in one of the knees. He had a dark green T-shirt on that stretched snuggly over his broad chest. The cotton of the sleeves had nothing left to give, covering biceps that looked like he was smuggling large balls underneath them. But his face, it was a face that once you saw it, you never forgot it. When you fantasized about a gruff manly man, this was the face that would pop into any woman’s head. It was everything I remembered it to be. His photo online didn’t do the intenseness of his eyes justice. They were dark chocolate, with some lighter flecks of brown. He had a hint of darkness under his eyes, making him appear exhausted from a long night’s work, yet still every bit of handsome. A shadow of a beard added a few years to what I already assumed was a man in his early thirties.

  He was truly stunning. Till he snapped his fingers in front of my face. I had been staring with my mouth slightly parted and a deer in the headlights look.

  “Hello.” Snap, snap, snap. “Is anybody in there?”

  His deep, gruff voice brought me back to earth. “What? Oh, I’m sorry. Am I making too much noise?”

  I knew I wasn’t, but maybe he’d come over to see if I needed any help. Hell, this was my excuse to finally meet the elusive man across the street.

  “No, but I have some of your mail. This is the third day in a row I’ve gotten your crap. You need to go to the post office and get it fixed.”

  I jerked my head back and looked down. Sure enough there were a few white envelopes sticking out of his hand. “I apologize. I didn’t know they’d made a mistake.”

  “Well, they did.”

  I held out my hand to take them from him and to attempt to introduce myself. “I’ll stop by this afternoon to see if there was some sort of mix-up.”

  He grunted at me.

  “Erm, well, anyway, I’m Molly. Your new neighbor.”

  Blake stood there, his gaze bearing down on me. I felt like I’d sprouted a second head, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. While I knew I wasn’t being overly exuberant, he appeared annoyed and not in the least bit interested in greetings and small talk. I should just take the mail and maybe catch him on another day. My hand was still in the air when he slapped the papers down into my open palm.

  “Listen, Mary, I don’t appreciate having to walk over here when I have a load of shit to deal with. I don’t care that you bought the house across the street, or if you were the goddamn Pope. It’s taking up my time.” His stare was unrelenting.

  Wow. He was dealing with the situation like I was some annoying pebble in his shoe. Never in my life had I been spoken to like this by a stranger. Not even disgruntled readers I’d left on a cliffhanger. What had crawled up his ass? I sucked in a deep breath and blew it back out. I tended to be a glass half full kind of girl. People had bad days, and I understood that. While I didn’t appreciate being in the crosshairs of his bad attitude, I was willing to let it slide. Rolling my shoulders back, I cleared my throat.

  “It’s Molly, and like I said before, I’ll get it taken care of. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  He narrowed those chocolate eyes at me. And for the first time he glanced down my body. It elicited a shiver that went down my spine. I half-liked the way he did a quick inspection. But he gave nothing away with his expression when that piercing stare came back to mine. Nor did his tone soften.

  “I get anything else of yours, it’s going in the trash.”

  “Now that’s not really necessary. Just put it back in your mail box and they will hopefully deliver it to the correct address next time. That way you’re not walking back over here.”

  “Fine.”

  There, that wasn’t so hard. I mean, I suppose he could have done what I did and taken my mail without giving it back. Granted I didn’t toss it on the ground to be blown away with the wind, but he could’ve easily opened it and tried to be nosy. He didn’t strike me as the type to really care what my mail was. However, I caught him doing another pass over the length of me. It was so quick, if I blinked I would’ve missed it. “Uh, I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.” I tried to play it off that I hadn’t already dug deep on the Internet for little morsels of information.

  “That’s because I didn’t say it.”

  He was either being purposefully an asshole, or this was the real Blake Whitmore. His short, brash responses had me grasping for straws here. I was growing uncomfortable and agitated by the second.

  “Well, I suppose if you’re not going to give me your name, I’ll get back to what I was doing.”

  He grunted for a second time. I gave him my back and resumed pulling a bungee cord across the top of the trash’s lid with no luck. Struggling through a few attempts, I finally glanced over my shoulder to spot him still standing there staring at me.

  “Mister, I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m pretty sure our conversation is over. So, either leave, or try and attempt niceness to your new neighbor who’s clearly having a losing battle.”

  I kept my back to him. I didn’t care to face the scrutiny of his eyes. I knew damn well he could offer me some advice or maybe tell me what I was doing wrong.

  “For starters, those are too short.”

  I dropped the cord back into the bag. They’d have to be exchanged.

  “Why are you putting those on there anyway?”

  I sighed. Only now was I realizing what I was wearing. The mornings near the water were still crisp and called for a hoodie. It used to be black, but had faded to a paler shade of black. There was a grease stain right over my left boob from a time I’d gone to a crab boil on the beach and dripped butter on it. I loved the feeling of the inside of it, so I refused to toss it. To top it off, I had on a pair of dark gray stretch pants I’d worn to bed. While I didn’t mind my appearance at the local hardware store, being dressed like this in front of him left me feeling sheepish.

  “I was told it would help keep raccoons from getting into my trash,” I responded.

  He looked down at my bag. Stepping forward, he bent down to inspect the contents. “Are you having an issue with raccoons?”

  I nodded. “One was rummaging around last night. I’d heard it, but scared it off when I came outside.”

  His brow rose and he peered up at me. “Moth balls might keep them away for a bit, but it’s not going to solve your problem permanently.”

  “Okay, so what would you suggest?” I wrapped my arms around myself, hugging my middle.

  He followed the movement. Standing back up, he said, “O
wn any guns?”

  I gasped. “You can’t be serious. You want me to shoot it?”

  “It would get rid of the problem, now, wouldn’t it?”

  My mouth dropped open. Never in my life had I shot a gun. I didn’t even own a weapon. After last night and how scared I was, it may not be a bad idea to at least have something better than a measly razor to protect myself, but I didn’t think killing an animal was the answer.

  “Possibly.” I tried to remain indifferent. “But I’m sure if there’s one, there’s more.”

  He snickered. “Lady, believe me, if one gets killed, the others won’t bother coming around.”

  I was standing semi close to him, and the wind blew past us both. I caught the scent of aftershave and soap coming off his skin and I nearly closed my eyes to bask in it. My nostrils flared. Jesus, he smelled amazing.

  “Again, it’s Molly. And I think I’ll try the mothballs first, thanks.” I reached out to take them from him.

  He pulled his hand back before I could grasp the box. “Is it just you living here?”

  That was not a question I’d expected to come next. I dropped my arm. Why was he asking? Could he be interested?

  I sound like I need a cat.

  I tried my hardest to hide the surprise in my voice. “It’s just me.”

  He grunted, again. I wasn’t sure he realized how much he did that. Or maybe he did and that’s how he filled the silence while he thought something. “What do you know about this house?”

  “Uhhh…” Not a lot. “Enough. Why?”

  The corners of his eyes softened a touch and lifted, almost like his lips would do the same. I thought he was going to smile. Except he didn’t. “For someone who lives by themselves, no husband or roommate to deal with the mess in there makes me question your intelligence.”

  Okay, I was getting the feeling this wasn’t the first insult he’d slung my direction since he marched onto my grass. “Who said I wasn’t married?”

  “Are you?”

  I jerked back. “No.”

  “Okay, my point remains. How do you plan on fixing everything in there?”

  “How do you know what problems my house has?”

  “Marcie, I know the people who built this house. It has been through more owners and renters over the last fifteen years than I can count. The people who last owned it were a couple of college kids who couldn’t wipe their own asses, let alone take care of it. I thought the fucking thing was going to be condemned when they were done with it.”

  What was it with him not getting my name right? It was agitating me. And that was information overload. I thought the last owners were a younger couple who’d outgrown it and were buying something bigger. At least that’s what Melonie had told me. When I’d shown interest in this place, I wonder if she’d fibbed in order to not scare me away from the sale. Whether that was illegal or not, I had no idea. It was a moot point. I’d signed on the dotted line and now it was mine.

  I cleared my throat. “It’s honestly not that bad inside. Mostly cosmetic.” I chose not to correct him again with my name.

  He scoffed. “If you say so.” He paused and I could see he was sorting out some errant thought. “So, who’s going to take care of the ‘cosmetic’ work?”

  “Me.”

  He guffawed. “You? You’re going to do the work?”

  I straightened my back and squared my shoulders. “Yes, I sure am.”

  “And have you done any home renovations before?”

  “Well, not exactly.” I tried not to fumble, but I knew what he did for a living, and I didn’t want to sound like an idiot. “It can’t be that hard.”

  He blinked a few times. “If you say so,” he repeated.

  I’d had about all I could take. He offered me no help. He refused to give me his name, even though I already knew it. He’d insulted my intelligence. And now I just wanted to go inside and blow off some steam writing my next chapter.

  I pulled my hands into my sleeves and reached down to grab my bag. He handed me my box of mothballs, which I quickly snatched away. “I’ve got a lot to do today. Thanks for all your—”

  I didn’t even finish my sentence. He was already walking back to his house. I gaped at him. However I’d imagined I was going to start my day, this was not it. Not even remotely. The beautiful Blake Whitmore was a class-A asshole. His appearance may have temporarily stunned me, but a gorgeous face could only get you so far. It didn’t make up for a lack of manners and likeability.

  I clenched my bag in my hand and stormed into my house. I had no clue how easy or hard it was going to be to ignore him, but I’d sure try. I stomped around muttering under my breath about egotistical jerks and me not needing a man. I dropped my mail off on my counter and walked out my front door to grab today’s mail. The postal service was going to need to get this taken care of as soon as possible. The less interaction with him I had, the better.

  Blake’s car was already gone, and he’d taken off for the day. Good riddance. I was still fuming as I pulled down the handle of my mailbox and nearly choked on my own tongue. You’ve got to be kidding me. All by itself was a single white business card, Blake’s name written in bold glossy print, along with his phone number and Whitmore & Son’s address. I tentatively plucked it from the mailbox and flipped it over. In messy male writing it said, ‘call for cosmetic work.’

  Oh boy.

  Molly

  I WAS IDLING IN FRONT of the Seattle SeaTac airport, waiting for Sandra to emerge from baggage claim. I’d convinced her to come stay with me for a week so she could get a break from city life and relax. I was excited to see her. I’d been away from ‘home’ for so long that her being here was going to be an escape for me as well.

  There she was, a purse the size of a small suitcase barely hanging off her shoulder, cell phone to her ear, and two bags on wheels dragged behind her. She was dressed in all black, except for the string of pearls that were around her neck. Her hair was a jet-black and hair sprayed to perfection. I knew that even the strongest wind wasn’t going to budge a single strand. While she appeared frazzled with her small frame being weighed down by her bags, I knew better. She was the most organized woman on the planet.

  I got out of the car to give her some assistance. While I would normally greet anybody else with a warm hug, Sandra wasn’t affectionate. I’d tried to hug her once and she’d gone stiff as a board and asked me what I was doing. It was an awkward moment for the both of us. Lesson learned that day. Not everyone is a hugger.

  I smiled as I approached her. “Hey! Welcome to Seattle.”

  She nodded to me as she continued her conversation with whoever it was on the line. “I don’t care if you have to hire a hooker off Waikiki Beach, Kai. You have a deadline and the publishers aren’t going to give a flip that you’re stressed. Get unstressed and make it happen.” She shoved her purse into my hand and hung up with the other. “Jesus Christ, you authors are going to give me a heart attack. Can you believe he said he had writers block because his wife was refusing him sex, and sex gives him the drive to write?” Her purse was nearly touching the ground as it hung from my hands. I gaped at her. “You live in fucking paradise. Take your ass to the beach, hire sex, dance some hula, I don’t care.”

  She was shaking her head as she raised the liftgate of my small SUV. Her skinny arms hoisted in her luggage and she was mumbling under her breath.

  “I’m your good pupil.” I grinned like an idiot.

  She walked to the passenger side and opened the door. She glared at me over the top of the vehicle. “You can be just as bad as the rest of them. I recall not too long ago going rounds with you.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, and I pushed through.” We both climbed in and I set her purse on my lap. “Sandra, what in the hell do you have in this thing? The kitchen sink?”

  She rolled her eyes and dragged the heavy purse over to her side. It made a thud as it hit the shifter. “Pretty much. I live my life out of this bag. Why, are you judging?”


  “I’m not.”

  She pulled down the sun visor and glanced at herself in the mirror. She reapplied her mauve lipstick and checked her hair. “Sure, you are. But that’s okay.”

  I began the three-hour trip to Port Townsend and we chatted most of the way. I asked about her flight and if she picked up any souvenirs in Denver where she had a layover. On the ferry from Seattle to the Bremerton side, I tried with no avail to get her to step out onto the observation deck and smell the fresh sea air, but she refused. She said seagulls hated her and told me how one had snatched a hot dog out of her hands when she was a kid on a ferry from San Francisco to Alcatraz. She said birds were assholes and shit on everything they could find. It made me laugh.

  The ride back was surprisingly quick when you had company. But as we pulled up to the house, she assessed my new place.

  “Well, it certainly seems decent from the outside. What’s the catch?”

  I laughed. “I told you, there are just a few things inside that need to be taken care of, but it’s home. It has good bones.”

  Sandra was skeptical. I wouldn’t expect anything less from her. She was a very grounded woman. It took a lot to pull the wool over her eyes. And right now, there was no mistaking her reaction when we walked through the front door.

  We were two steps inside when she said, “I’m going to need the closest Hilton.”

  “Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.”

  “Not that bad?” She twisted around and gave me a sour face. “The carpet looks like it has a film of dirt on it. Can I take my shoes off and not contract anything?”

  I sighed. “I’m going to pull the carpet up soon. I’m not sure what’s under it yet. But I think your feet will be fine. I have slippers you can wear.”

  That slightly appeased her. “I can’t believe you’re going to do the work yourself.” Her eyes bounced around the room, taking in every imperfection.

  I stood a little taller. “Well, as much of it as I can. I don’t think I’ll be able to do some of it. Like the toilet in my bedroom may be too heavy for me to lift out, and I need to take down the shower door and replace it with a different one. Those are the bigger projects I will hire someone for.”