July 10

I want to tap that.

This is what I’m thinking as I head back down Newbury Neck toward my house in Otis, so I can pick up a couple tools and go to my next job. Jesus, I want to tap that woman. I’m still shaking my head about how off I was on my prediction: basically, the only thing I got right was that she wears her hair in a bun. Madeline Callaway was shorter than I thought, probably 5’4” at most, more athletic than angular, hair the color of mahogany and large, dark eyes that seemed to be searching for something. Her skin was tanned, not pale like I’d envisioned, and her high cheekbones and the few freckles spattered across her nose gave her a little-girl quality that made me clench up inside. I may be off on her age, too—she seems younger than thirty, although she was trying like hell to come across as worldly and sophisticated. Kind of a hard sell, with the coffee stains on her white shirt. Made me laugh, seeing her so keyed up about that, which somehow made her even cuter—although something tells me she’d want to smack anyone who called her cute. The coffee on her shirt gave me a chance to look at her tits, which were firm and high and just the right size, and Christ, I wanted to put my hands on her. I felt my cock respond the second she opened the door. Her reaction got to me, too—wide-eyed and flustered. Definitely rattled but working hard to cover it up. She hadn’t expected me to look like I do, and it went both ways. I’ve met a lot of attractive women, but Madeline...her classy beauty, the way she kept smoothing back her hair like she was trying to keep herself together, how her big brown eyes had trouble meeting mine...she’s in a league of her own. And when we went upstairs and I could take in her killer booty—the sweet crescents of her ass cheeks below her shorts—I had all I could do not to put my hands on her hips, turn her around and fuck her right there on the stairs.

Restraint was the wise choice. No way I’d jeopardize a short-term relationship with her by moving too fast. I might have been ready, but she wasn’t. Soon, though. No doubt.

A half hour later, I’m pulling into my driveway on Beech Hill Pond—my happy place. Contemporary house with lots of windows overlooking the lake—a far cry from the high-rise condo on western Promenade in Portland that I used to own. I’m good with giving up amenities like my security access card and the smell of chlorine from the indoor swimming pool, and I’m great with having a shower that’s not cluttered with 600 different brands of shampoos and the drain clogged with chemically-enhanced blonde hair. Nope, not going to go there right now. I’m in too good of a mood, thanks to Ms. Callaway.

Before I head to the garage for my hammer drill and circular saw, I’ve got to take a quick look at the photos I took with my iPad. Kind of a creeper move, but I made sure to get Madeline in a few of them. I tap on the photo icon and open one of the bedroom pictures. There she is, standing sideways to me with her arms kind of hugging herself. There’s a definite flush in her cheeks, and she’s looking down at the floor at nothing in particular. I’m thinking cute again, but also sexy as hell. You can’t get much hotter than a gorgeous woman who you just know is typically the self-assured type but whose cool exterior crumbles in the presence of someone she’s attracted to.

I want to shake her up even more. And I plan to.

I figure this project will take a few weeks. I’ll bounce back and forth between that one and the one I’m going to now, a Cape in Holden owned by an eccentric, retired college professor whose wife just passed away. He wants to put his house on the market and it needs some repairs before he lists it.

I touch another photo—this one of her facing me, her rich brown eyes almost earnest. Her unblemished skin, her delicate features—Jesus, she’s lovely. It surprises me, too, how vulnerable and unassuming she looks in this shot. With her owning an oceanfront home, and going by my past experiences with women, I had Madeline Callaway pegged as cold and pretentious. All that changed the moment I stepped into her house. I’ve found that houses have a definite feeling—from the décor and just an overall vibe of their owners’ personalities. Madeline’s house, with its ocean-hued living room of blues and greens, sailboat paintings and photographs of rocks, its sunny yellow and white kitchen and cool tile, made me feel calm. I guess I’d even call it soothed. And I don’t soothe easily.

I realize I don’t really know her—she could have some hidden, undesirable tendencies or turn out to be a first-class bitch. God knows, I’ve been fooled before. But over the past couple years, I’ve become more savvy when it comes to women. I hope my first impression holds, so I can enjoy what will undoubtedly be a satisfying, short-term relationship in a long string of satisfying, short-term relationships.

I take one last look at the photos before heading to my garage.

She makes me smile.