July 20

I shouldn’t have had the second Grande Mocha, even though Angie, my very thoughtful office manager, had it sitting on my desk when I arrived. I had just finished one in the car on the way over, needing a caffeine boost since I tossed and turned all last night (when I wasn’t in the kitchen making banana bread and apple muffins), because that’s what you do when you know you need a good night’s sleep before you go back to work after vacation. Of course, it didn’t help that my foggy sleep was punctuated with vivid thoughts of strong arms, six-pack abs, a sculpted, kissable mouth and eyes the color of the Caribbean. And a 2 x 4 nestled in Carhartt jeans.

Wednesday seems like an eternity.

I have plenty to do to keep me busy at the office, after being away for a week: going over disclosures, meeting with eager new clients with very specific frontage requirements, approving commissions. The company has seen tremendous growth over the past couple years. Paul and I started it just after we were married six years ago—as college sweethearts, we knew we wanted to go into business together. I never expected that the business would inadvertently cause our breakup. His guilt and my very savvy attorney were both contributing factors in him relinquishing Maine Coastal Realty to me, the shattered ex-wife. And it’s been all business, all the time, for me since the divorce.

Until Jackson Decker.

He is everything I have always avoided in a man—outrageously cocky, brazen, at times crass.

Yet I’ve never been so attracted to anyone in my life.

Paul and I used to have a lot of sex, and as much as I loathe the bastard now, I have to admit it was good—one reason why I was so shocked when he told me he was having an affair and wanted a divorce. Wasn’t I enough for him? Reeling from his confession, bawling like a two-year-old, I asked him if there was anything I could do—did I not give him enough oral? Was I spending too much time at the office and not enough making him feel like a man? And he said emphatically, no, there was nothing I could do—it wasn’t me, it was him, and he couldn’t explain it but felt like he was going through something and couldn’t take me with him.

But that’s what you do when you’re married, I had whispered in a choked voice, between sobs. You work things out, together, and please let’s just try. We have so much history, and we have a future which is supposed to include big real estate deals and zip-lining in Fiji even though heights scare me shitless, and babies. We are supposed to have babies. A boy that looks like you, and a girl that looks like me, and maybe a third just because we love the first two so much.

I thought I may have gotten through to him, but he told me that he didn’t understand it; he just knew he wanted out, and could I please not make this more difficult than it already was.

So I not only lost Paul, I lost weight, my self-esteem, my idealistic view of marriage, and my dreams of sharing children, grandchildren, life. But contrary to what I thought in the very beginning, when I’d look at myself in the mirror with my eyes red and swollen from tears and lack of sleep, I’m making it. I may not know exactly who I am, but I’ve grown rather fond of the work in progress that is Madeline Callaway.

I suppose, in a way, I’m renovating myself.

Renovating...Decker Renovation...Jack.

So much for work keeping my mind off him.

Last night, laying there in the Egyptian cotton sheets he somehow knew I had, I was imagining what he might do to me. The imagining quickly turned into masturbating with the vibrator he also somehow knew I had. I pictured him on top of me, his eyes hazy with lust, holding his insanely big cock in one hand while he propped himself up with the other. I spread my legs, rubbing the head of the FDA approved, silicone power wand against myself, feeling dirty and horny and a little embarrassed that Murphy was hearing me moan as I climaxed. I thrust it inside me while I came, leaving it there as my vaginal walls pulsed around it. But I was left aching. Still wanting, desperately.

Because it wasn’t him.

“Knock knock.”

My thoughts come to a screeching halt. Angie, my office manager, at my open door with a folder in her hands, her round, pleasant face smiling behind her red glasses. She is the quintessential motherly figure, all homemade cookies and cozy sweaters and warm hugs, and I’ve leaned on her both personally and professionally more times than I can count.

“Hey, Ang.”

“Hi, honey. Everyone’s loving the goodies you brought in. Can I get that muffin recipe from you sometime?”

“Of course.”

“Wonderful. I brought you the Fenderson offer to look over. This is turning out to be a banner summer, huh?”

“Most definitely. Our listings are up twenty percent, and we have four more agents than we had at this time last year.”

She puts the folder on my desk. “The Fendersons need to reply by 5:00 tomorrow, if they want to accept or counter-offer, so you’ll need to present it to them as soon as you can. Hard to get back into the deadline thing after vacation, isn’t it?”

“Um, yes. Quite a bit to catch up on, but you guys all did such a great job holding down the fort while I was away.”

“We like to think we know what we’re doing.” Angie winks. “And besides, you needed to take some time off and do something for yourself.”

“Have you been talking to my mother? She was saying the same thing on the phone last week.”

“Great minds. You know what they say about all work and no play.”

So Jack isn’t a dull boy?

No, Callaway. He’s not. And I can prove it.

“I do know what they say,” I answer brightly. “I’m keeping that in mind.”

And I plan to play.

Starting Wednesday.