“You sure about this?” Nathan asks me in his distinct Bronx accent as the muted sounds of the club preparing to open surround us. In the six months I’ve worked here at Club Jasmine, he’s been my boss, a mentor of sorts, and an ear to bend when I need it. He’s crude and he’s foul-mouthed, but he’s honest.

“I’m sure,” I reply, tugging at the collar on my work outfit. Tonight is supposed to be ‘upscale night’, which for the patrons means suits and dresses that hit at least the mid-thigh, and if you have a collar, you’d better be rocking a tie. For me and the rest of the staff, it means a tailored blouse that highlights what boobs I do have, although since it buttons up most of the way to my neck, I can get a little bit extra out of my Wonderbra. “It’s time for me to move on.”

Nathan sips his drink, a horrible neon blue concoction called a Little Mermaid that he can’t get enough of. To me, it smells too much like fake fruity wannabe tropical stuff, and I’ve had the real thing. There’s no substitution. “I can respect that,” he says after a moment. “We all knew this was just a temporary gig until you figured out what you wanted to do. I didn’t expect you to change your mind and make a career here.”

I laugh, nodding. “You’re right, but it was fun while it lasted.”

“We’re going to miss you around here. You’re popular with the customers. You’ve got a natural charm about you,” Nathan admits. He once asked me out for a drink after work, and while he’s an interesting fella, I don’t date my boss. I’m not going to hate on anyone who does, but it’s not how I want to make my way. Luckily, he took it well and it’s never been awkward, just totally cool since then. “So, what are you looking at doing?”

“Similar to what I was doing before, in real estate, but not some corporate setting. A more close-knit group that my friend, Hannah’s, husband set up. It’s his brother’s business.”

“Oliver? We’ve met. He’s a good man. I can respect that,” Nathan says. He stands up, offering me his hand. “Tell you what—you do me a favor tonight, and I’ll even give you a goodbye present, an extra week’s pay to get you moved and started.”

I raise an eyebrow. Nathan’s nice, but he’s about as tightfisted as Ebenezer Scrooge. “What’s that?”

“Roxy’s grandmother is coming in tonight,” Nathan says, and I have to both laugh and wince at the same time. Ivy Jo is . . . unique. “Yeah, well, she insists that she can see her great grandbabies and enjoy a night on the town too, and Jake don’t wanna listen to it no more. I can dig it. So, she’s coming in early bird.”

“How long, and what time?” I ask Nathan, who shrugs.

“Jake told me he’d try to get her out of here by nine, but last time she came in, she threatened to take her cane to my head if I pressured her toward the door one more time,” Nathan says defensively. “But Jake and Roxy both say she liked you. As Roxy’s getting ready for her set, and Jake’s at home playing proud papa, I figure you can make sure she doesn’t get into too much trouble tonight?”

I laugh again, nodding. “I’ll make sure she doesn't get too out of control.”

Two hours later, Ivy Jo comes in, escorted by one of the security guys. “Miss White, Ivy Jo—”

“Oh hell no, that Nathan didn’t give me no chaperone, did he?” Ivy Jo protests, decked out in an outfit that . . . well, I think it was popular during the disco era. “I said I wanted a night out, not a night being handheld!”

“Ivy Jo, I’m not your chaperone,” I protest, giving her just a little bit of sass. It keeps her on her toes. “I’m here to protect all the men from you. I know how you are, remember?”

“I remember. I remember your being almost as much fun as I was at your age,” she says. “Okay, I guess.”

I get her a drink, a watered down Rob Roy that she sips at, sighing happily. “Get yourself a drink, girl!”

“Sorry, can’t while on the clock,” I tell her, “but if you don’t mind, I’ll go for something virgin.”

“I’d like a virgin too, but at my age, I’ll take any damn thing I can get,” Ivy Jo cackles, and I have to snicker. I get myself a Moscow Mule mocktail and sit down next to her as the early clubgoers start to come in and the DJ starts spinning tunes. “So, talked with Mindy the other day. She said you’re going to work for Oliver?”

“Yep,” I agree, sipping my mule and wishing it had just a bit more ginger flavor. “Oli’s got a place for me. And I’m gonna earn it too. I plan on working my ass off.”

“No doubt,” Ivy Jo says. “Hey, what about that tall drink of sexy you were teasing all over the damn place when we all went out to Hawaii? What’s his name—Calvin?”

“Caleb!” I say with a laugh. Caleb Strong is many things, but I could never, ever imagine him being named Calvin. “What about him?”

“Doesn’t he work for Oliver too?” Ivy Jo says with a twinkle in her eye. “You two looked like you got along well.”

“We got along like cats and dogs, but we had fun. That’s about it though,” I reply, not admitting to her that yeah, I’ve sometimes thought about having a different kind of fun with Caleb. “He still kind of works for Oliver, but he started his own thing, Strong Services, although he’s mostly known as ‘Mr. Fix-It’ to his customers.”

“Handy, huh? I used to be a girl who was very much into handys,” Ivy Jo says, making me half choke on my drink. “You sure that drink is virgin?”

“I’m sure,” I say with a laugh. “But no, there’s nothing there. I haven’t seen him since the wedding, and we mostly just send each other inappropriate jokes and memes these days. We’re just friends.”

“Uh-huh,” Ivy Jo says, unconvinced. “Honey, in all my years, I ain’t saying that men and women can’t be just friends. But I saw the sparks between you two, and two people who start off in the friend zone with those sparks either hate each other eventually or . . .”

“Or what?”

Ivy Jo finishes off her Rob Roy, grinning. “I won’t ruin it for you. Hell, maybe I’m wrong. Let’s go find me a man a third my age to shake my hips with. Left one’s brand new. Gotta get some use outta it before the rest of me breaks down!”

Caleb

Sweat stings my eyes as I reach down into the hole, working by feel. I could have dug something wider. I know quite a few of the contractors around town who damn near rip up an entire back yard for a job like this, but that’s not me. I take a lot of pride in my work, and that includes creating as little collateral damage as I can.

“Come on, you stupid son of a—” I grunt, twisting the connector to the right. I’ve only got a tiny window, and I have to reset after just a moment, evaluating my progress as I do. Not bad. A few more and I’ll have it done.

I reach down again, but just as I do, my earbud works itself loose and I curse under my breath. Sitting up, I use the opportunity to wipe my forehead, but it’s just too hot. To hell with it. I take my other earbud out and pull my t-shirt off, whipping it around my head in a quick do-rag-like getup that looks stupid as hell, but at least it keeps my eyes clear. I readjust my earbuds and the thrilling, driving voice of Roxy Stone fills my ears. It’s not a CD yet—she’s still working on the final arrangements—but I’ve been able to listen to all of her covers as she works on them. Advantages of being a friend of the family, and her version of Hallelujah fucking rocks.

My adjustments complete, I reach down and twist the wrench again, then again. Grabbing my flashlight, I look the whole thing over, from the pipe tape I used on the threads right down the pipe itself. “That oughta hold you,” I mutter, getting to my knees. I go over to the side of the house, turning the water back on, and head back to the ditch, squatting down and staring intently at my repair. The pipe’s good, no leaks at all, and I quickly finish up, filling in the dirt and tamping it down before putting the turf back on top as best I can. Packing my bag, I look over the whole job, nodding in approval. “Nice,” I tell the afternoon cicadas as I take off my earbuds and put them in the pocket of my work jeans. “Mrs. Barnes is going to have no problems with water leaks or her petunias for the rest of the summer at least.”

I dust off my hands and pick up my tool bag before heading to the back door of the small but trim cottage house that I’ve been working outside of for the past four hours. Knocking on the frame next to the screen, I take a moment to admire the blue house with white trim, while at the same time noting that a lot of the trim on the north side of the house is looking sun-faded. It might need to be redone soon. “Mrs. Barnes? I just finished up!”

There’s the sound of sandals flapping, and a soft voice calls from inside. “Come on in, Caleb!”

“I dunno, Mrs.—”

“Don’t worry about the dirt. I insist!” Mrs. Barnes says. She’s a widow. Her husband died two years ago, and this is the third job I’ve done around her place. She just never picked up any do-it-yourself skills beyond the basics. “My husband never worried about it, and I’m mopping the kitchen this evening after dinner anyway!”

Shrugging, I put my bag down just outside the door and step inside. I find Mrs. Barnes on the other side of the kitchen, wearing a tennis skirt outfit. For a woman who’s probably in her sixties, she definitely stays active. Maybe she’s on her way out to play. “Looks like your petunias are safe for the rest of the summer, Mrs. Barnes,” I say after carefully wiping my feet. “That new PVC pipe is going to last you for years.”

“Thank you, Caleb,” she says. I notice that she’s touched up her blonde hair and makeup too as she turns, holding out a big glass of lemonade and a plate of cookies for me. “You looked like you were working like a total draft horse out there. How about a few cookies?”

I smile shyly. I can’t help it. I know what she’s doing, and it’s really beginning to embarrass me. I take the glass and drink. The woman does make a pretty kick-ass glass of lemonade, with real lemon juice that she squeezes by hand and a few other secret tricks that she says she won’t tell me, just that it’s ‘something men wouldn’t understand’. It’s nearly ice cold too, tart and sweet and singing as it rolls down my throat. I have to be careful. It’s so cold that I know if I chug like I want, I’m going to end up with a splitting headache, and I don’t want that. Setting the glass down, I take one of her homemade peanut butter cookies and take a bite. “Thank you, Mrs. Barnes.”

“You’re so very welcome, Caleb,” she says, setting the plate down. “Oh dear, I do hope this wasn’t a good shirt?”

She reaches out, putting a well-manicured hand on my arm, and I see the small tear in my t-shirt. It’s new, probably from when I tied the thing around my head, but I shrug, feeling weird. I don’t want to be rude, and I don’t want to upset a nice lady who’s a good customer, but I’m not interested in her ‘features’. Also, not to put too strange a point on it, you just don’t seduce a man like me with lemonade and peanut butter cookies. It’s the sort of thing she’d give her son if the son of a bitch didn’t live in Bend, Oregon, and work as a regional coordinator for FedEx. He didn’t even come home for his father’s funeral.

Doesn’t make it any less weird, and I chew my cookie quickly, trying to keep things professional. “Mrs. Barnes, if you’d like, I’ll mail you the invoice for the work today—”

“Nonsense, Caleb, you just rest yourself right there and I’ll go get my checkbook. You do take checks, right?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer, but I nod anyway. With most of my customers being from an earlier generation, I’ve gotten used to taking checks more than cash or credit cards. “I really do have to thank Janice for recommending your services. You are quite the Mr. Fix-It.” She emphasizes each word like she has something besides irrigation pipes for me to fix . . .

I chuckle. I don’t mind my nickname. “Thanks.”

While she fills out the check, I eat another cookie, getting the balance just right. Eat too many, and she’s going to insist that I stay longer and have some more because apparently, I need the calories. Eat too few, and I offend her. I swear, I learned more about how to do customer relations in the social hour after church than I ever did in college. When Mrs. Barnes comes back, she glances at the plate of cookies and mostly empty glass of lemonade, giving me another smile and a pat on the chest. “Really, Caleb, you are a godsend. I didn’t know what to do when I suddenly started gaining a new swamp out in the back yard. And coming over on your Saturday? I appreciate it. You must have some young lady that you’re standing up to take care of me.”

I shake my head, smirking. “No, Mrs. Barnes. I was only planning on catching Mindy’s new frappe and listening to some new music. I was able to do the music, and I’ll grab the frappe later.”

“Well, I’ll certainly tell all of my friends about you,” she says. “Mr. Fix-It is going to be in high demand around here.”

I smile, backing away and heading out the door. I don’t want to run, even though the hungry look in her eye tells me I probably should. Giving her a little wave, I grab my tool bag and walk around the side of her house to my work truck, a ten-year-old Silverado that I just got a new paint job for. I hate looking like a ‘handyman’, even if it is my job, and I make sure my truck looks good. When Mrs. Barnes taps on the front window and gives me another wave, I break into what I can only call a power walk, half throwing my tool bag into my cargo box before jumping behind the wheel and backing out as fast as I safely can. “That’s it,” I mutter to myself as I narrowly avoid her mailbox. “I’m backing into everyone’s driveway from here on out.”

I drive away, chuckling to myself as I reach the stop sign and turn right, heading for the gas station. Really, scared of an old lady who was just feeling a little ‘autumn heat’? Getting out, I top off the tank—I never let my truck get below a half tank after running out of gas in high school—and lean back, laughing to myself. I guess I’m more tired than I thought. Or maybe the lemonade was a little harder than normal?

Nah, that’s not Mrs. Barnes’s style. Like a lot of my clients, she’s pretty sweet. I didn’t think she’d be one of the flirty ones at first, but I’ve gotten my fair share of customers who want to put a little spice in their lives by calling me over to do work around their houses. I didn’t expect that, but it’s okay.

It still sometimes feel like I stumbled into this line of work by lucky accident. When my best friend, Tony Steele’s, mother had us do some work for her, I was glad to help Tony out. After he left town to take over a new family venture in Hawaii, I was asked by his big brother, Oliver, to join him at Steele Solutions. While I’m more than happy to help Oliver out in town and around the area, I’m no real estate tycoon type. I like working with my hands and my brain at the same time. Rewiring a house, repairing plumbing, all sorts of things like that are more interesting to me than just running numbers on a computer screen.

Not that I don’t give Oliver his respect. The man works hard, and he’s hardly the kind to sit on his ass. His business, his family, his wife’s cafe . . . the man works hard, and he can use his hands as much as his brain when he wants. But for me, I get as much satisfaction out of fixing a roof as I do cashing the check I get for the job. Oliver just likes to separate the two is all.

“That way, he doesn’t get hit on by his customers,” I chuckle as I put the nozzle away. “But I gotta remember to thank him and his mom.”

It’s true. Janice Steele’s word, and her circle of friends, have made it possible for me to be an independent handyman. Starting with working around her place, then Oliver’s properties in town, I’ve grown to the point that I’m booked out sometimes two weeks in advance, unless it’s an emergency job like Mrs. Barnes’s garden. Most of my customers, other than Oli, who’s more than willing to jump in and swing a hammer with me if he can, are either widowed or have husbands who are getting up there in age, and they aren’t quite up to some of the challenges of keeping up a house. That’s where I come in.

I climb back into my truck, heading for home. It’s not a big place, a fixer-upper that I bought with the ‘finder’s fee’ check that Oli cut me for the Hawaii property he’s made huge bank on, but I’ve got it in good shape after a year. Either way, I’ve got the rest of the weekend to chill out, then Monday, it’ll be back to work. “Ah, it’s not all bad,” I tell myself as I head out, plugging my music player into the dash of my truck and letting Roxy’s voice accompany me home. “Eight hours a day, five days a week, and I’m my own boss. TLC for Oli’s properties, repair jobs, and cashing checks. Can’t really beat that.”

“Well, there’s one way I could beat it,” I think as Roxy switches to one of her love ballads. “But that’s not for me.”

Cassie

“And boom!” I cheer myself as, with a bump of my hip, I close the filing cabinet drawer, signaling another project complete. “Headshot!” I hit the button on my computer’s media player, and a karaoke version of the old DMX song X Gon’ Give It To Ya starts playing, with me singing my own version instead. “Cass gon’ give it to ya, fuck doin’ deals on your own, Cass gon’ deliver to ya . . .”

I know my little celebration is trite, and I really shouldn’t be yelling out Headshot complete with my own choreographed song and dance every time I complete a deal, but I’ve busted my butt on this. Besides, I’m alone on the second floor of the Flaming Dragon building, and nobody’s around to see my silly moves or hear my stupid lyrics. And if Tom Cruise can dance to Ludacris in Tropic Thunder, then by God, I’ll do what I want when no one can see me.

I’m just hitting the final lines when I turn around and find my boss, Martha, standing inside the door, laughing silently at my antics. I freeze, both hands thrown up in finger pistols, and she laughs harder as the music stops. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just investigating the sound of howling strangled cats they were talking about down in the coffee shop.”

“You scared the shit out of me!” I hurriedly protest, wiggling and patting my ass. “I might need to do an undie check! You know how dangerous that was?”

“Oh, yeah, you’re the most gangster hundred-and-ten-pound girl in the entire state,” Martha says with a chuckle. She’s dressed as she always is, in a fashionable blouse and slacks combo that, while nowhere near as formal as the clothing I wore when I worked at Aurora, still broadcasts a sense of professional competence that’s more than backed up by what she does. The company might be called Steele Solutions, but Martha’s as vital to Oliver’s success as his own smarts. “What in the world are you doing?”

“Cel-a-brate-ing! The McCormick deal is officially in the books as a win!” I reply, twirling and blowing off my ‘guns’ before holstering them in their invisible holsters next to my skirt. I still like to wear my sexy office clothes when I can, and Oliver doesn’t mind as long as I’m willing to get dirty and throw on a pair of jeans when I need to. And he knows from his own brother’s word that I can get my hands as dirty as anyone. “I got the last of the paperwork from the county clerk today, and it’s all ours! Well, Oliver’s, or, well . . .”

Martha laughs again. “I know what you mean. Great job, Cassie. That was a complex project. I’m proud of you for getting it done on time and on budget. Listen, Oliver’s at home for the day. I heard one of the kids is sick. So how about you take off early, relax, and maybe go out to celebrate tonight?”

She finishes her comment with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. I’m happy to get the praise. And the fact is, I’ve been busting my butt for a long time, trying to make an impact with the company. Really, it’s been hard to maintain my reputation as a ditzy party girl when I haven’t been out shaking my ass on the dance floor in ages. But since I started working for Oliver six months ago, I feel like I’ve grown a lot. Best of all, Oliver’s noticed it too. The last two projects, he let me, more or less, run completely solo after he signed off on my plans. Sure, Martha was there as a safety net, but I managed all the contractors, sales listing, and price negotiations, and now it was sold, baby, sold!

And Martha’s right. The McCormick deal was a complex project. Originally bought by Tony during Tony’s ‘funk phase’, as he calls it, the original plans had Steele Solutions sitting with that turkey of a property around our necks for the next decade. Instead, by finding the right investors—namely, a Chinese company that wanted to gain an American headquarters and needed a big enough property to get the tax breaks—I was able to take advantage of an opening. By setting up the right contractors for them, I was able to flip the property for not just a profit, but a good profit at that.

“Well, I suppose I could use a little bit of relaxation and reward,” I reply, leaning against my desk. “Hmmm . . . what should I get with my sales bonus? Shoes. Definitely those new peep-toe wedges with the ankle-strap ties. Completely impractical, especially in blush pink, but completely gorgeous and well worth the treat as a reward.”

“Shoes?” Martha asks, smirking and shaking her head. “I swear, all the smarts you have in that head of yours, and you blow your bonus on shoes?”

“Not just shoes,” I reply, biting my lip. “Maybe I’ll stop by Victoria’s Secret too. The wrapping is sometimes just as important as the present in the box.”

“Yes, well, I don’t need to know anything about your box,” Martha says mock-primly. While she’s no prude, she had to deal with both Oliver’s and Tony’s overactive single libidos for so long, she’s had enough. I don’t mind. I’ve been running a pretty epic dry spell anyway. I like to think I can keep things professional. I can still be a ditz—in fact, a lot of people assume I am just from my personality—and I’ve even used that to my benefit occasionally. But Martha sees through it so she keeps things at a relaxed professional level in the office. Not that I don’t miss joking around with Hannah sometimes. “Go on, get out of here before I find some files to shred or something.”

“This is Steele Solutions, not the White House,” I tease, grabbing my purse. “Thanks, Martha. See you tomorrow.”

I head downstairs, grabbing a frappe and a to-go salad from Mindy’s Place before heading back to my apartment. It’s not much, a one-bedroom half of a duplex, but compared to what I was living in before, it’s a damn mansion. I’ve actually got my own bedroom and living room that are separated by a real wall and not just a folding divider cutting the space in half. Oh, and a bathtub. Oh my God, the luxury of being able to stretch out in my own bathtub whenever I want . . . it’s heaven on earth sometimes.

I pop my salad in the fridge and decide that a bath is just what I need. I can do shoe shopping online anyway. None of the shops in town carry the really good brands. Manolos? Try Mano-nolos around this town. Still, I don’t mind. It’s a small and safe little town. Besides, Amazon is my buddy. So I pour in some bath oil, a gift from Hannah who sent it from Hawaii, the smell instantly relaxing me as I’m reminded of the forest we had to walk through on a constant basis.

In the year since coming back from Hannah and Tony’s wedding, I’ve missed her, even as we’ve grown closer as friends. Still, she’s nearly five thousand miles and six time zones away, which sort of sucks. But the bath oil is nice, and I’m just about to close my eyes when my phone rings. “Well, speak of the devil and she shall appear,” I answer, seeing that it’s Hannah. “How’s life in paradise?”

“Good,” Hannah replies, giggling. “But am I really the devil?”

“Only as much as I’m an angel,” I tease in reply. “What’s going on?”

“Not much,” Hannah says before filling me in on the goings on in Hawaii. In addition to her pregnancy, she and Tony are working at adding some rental cottages to the massive property. While the project’s still in the initial stages, it’s exciting to think about. “Studmuffin told me you closed the McCormick deal. He wanted to say thanks for pulling that albatross off his neck.”

“He can reward me with a first-class plane ticket and two weeks in one of those bungalows, and can you please stop calling your husband Studmuffin all the time?” I joke. “Oh, I love the bath oil. Hawaii smells different from any other place in the world. I guess that’s why it’s a vacation paradise.”

Hannah makes a surprised sound. “You’re calling me when you’re naked in the bathtub?”

“Nope. I’m answering your call while I’m naked in the bathtub,” I retort. “A small but important difference. Oh, and tell Tony that when I get there, I expect to have two attendants to see to my every need.”

“Tell you what, you get out here, and I’ll make sure to find some guy you can order around and tease constantly. Speaking of which, how is Caleb?”

“He’s been doing okay. Tony’s mom has gotten her friends to give him quite a few jobs over the past few months,” I tell her, shaking my head. “We go on our weekend runs usually, but he’s been so busy with his handyman work that he has to skip it sometimes. Not to mention, it seems like I’m always out doing something for Oliver anyway. You know, real estate investment is more than sitting on your ass behind a computer.”

“Says the woman whom I taught everything she knows,” Hannah laughs. “If it weren’t for me, you’d still be running around Aurora and taking weekend trips to the sex toy shop to replace your most recently worn out toy, Elmer.”

“Shh,” I reply, putting on a dopey accent. “Be vewwy vewwy qwiet. I’m hunting wabbits.”

“Yeah, well, I hope you’re not needing one anymore,” Hannah says, but when I don’t answer, she hums. “How long has it been?”

“A bit,” I admit. “But come on, Han, it’s not that bad. I’ve just not had the time. I’m enjoying working for Oliver, and I want to learn everything I can from him. You know, opportunities like that don’t just fall from the sky.”

“Yeah, well, you just remember that good men don’t fall from the sky either. You gotta go out there and find them,” Hannah says.

We finish up the call and I lean back in the water, letting the scent and the warmth wash away days of tension. The fact is, despite coming across as flirty with the opposite sex sometimes, I’ve been trying to be more low-key since moving to work with Oliver. I want more out of life than a latex toy, that’s for damn sure, and while I’m not a saint, I’m not the girl who was using yoni eggs and packing a silver vibrator in her bag anymore either. Even Hannah senses it, I think, and our comments are more for fun than anything else.

Getting out of the bath, I evaluate myself in the mirror. I’ve let my hair grow longer. It’s almost halfway down my back now, and I think it looks good on me, even if it does make me look a little shorter somehow. I change into some lounge around the house-worthy short shorts and a tank top, letting the boobies dangle free. I’m not built like a pinup model, but I make up for it in other ways.

I get my salad and plop down to my one not-so-secret guilty pleasure, reality shows. Whether it’s Real Housewives, bachelors and bachelorettes looking for love in all the wrong places, or even people wanting to get totally ridiculous motorcycles built, I love them. Tonight, it’s Wedding Dress Hunters, and while I eat my salad, I smile as the girl on-screen says yes to a poufy princess monstrosity that looks like it came out of a cheap sci-fi movie or something. Whatever floats her boat, I guess.

Finishing my dinner, I pull my laptop into my lap and start searching for potential properties. It was one of the first things that helped Oliver start to place trust in me. I’m always looking for the next deal, and I routinely find potential properties for him. But my next goal is to do a flip from start to finish . . . find the property, research it, renovate it, and sell it on my own. It’ll be my little jump forward on Oliver’s trusting me to be independent.

I get lost in the listings, and before I know it, it’s almost midnight. I click Save on a few of the listings that I want to drive by this weekend and crash into bed, happily exhausted. Maybe it’s not a night on the town, but I feel like I’ve accomplished something.

Caleb

“Ugh,” I mutter involuntarily with a wince, holding my hand over my mouth. It doesn’t help much. I still feel like the stench is a physical blanket that’s assaulting my mouth, nose, and eyes to the point I’ve got tears running down my cheeks. I’ve got a pretty strong stomach. I’ve choked down plenty of disgusting stuff in my time, and I have no problem going elbows deep in a clogged toilet if I have to . . . but this is pushing the limits.

The house is a mess—trash in the corners, holes in the walls, a decided slope to the floor from the front of the house to the back, and a wretched putrid smell that seems to be soaked into every square inch of the walls. When the listing said the house was a ‘fixer-upper’, I think they were being generous. No wonder Oliver got it so cheap.

I pull out my phone, dialing Oliver. He wanted me to give him a call as soon as I could give him a work estimate. While I wait for him to pick up, I try the window next to me, but it’s jammed. Gagging, I head to the back door, but the metal screen door is stuck until I put my boot on the lock and break it off. Fuck it, that’s the least of the concerns for this place.

“Hey, Caleb, how’s it going?” Oliver greets me. In the background, I can hear the lively conversation in the coffee shop & deli that is Mindy’s Place. It’s a weird thing about Oliver. He has a perfectly good office upstairs that he could use, but he spends most of his creative time either in the basement taking up a corner of the metal table the pizza chefs use for rolling dough, or a seat in the shop if things aren’t too busy. “You’re quick on the call. You have an estimate for me already?”

“Hey, Oli, and yeah. How’s the restaurant today?”

“Good,” he says. “Mindy had the idea of running a panini lunch buffet, and she’s got a line out the door. So the grill guys are going nuts. How’s the house?”

“Man, how big is your bank account?” I ask, gulping down the sweet clean air of the backyard. It’s a total mess too, but at least the smell isn’t so bad. “Actually, check that. I know you could afford it. But if you want my best advice, get a couple of Molotov cocktails because this house needs to be burned down and rebuilt. It’d be faster and cheaper than trying to fix it.”

“That bad, huh?”

A squeaking noise behind me reminds me of another thing, and I’m glad that I always wear some old military surplus combat boots when I go into places like this. “I’m not even joking about how bad this place is structurally. And it’s got rats, not mice, fucking Lower East Side sewer-size rats in the kitchen. You owe me for this one. I’m gonna need two showers to wash the stench off. And I’m thinking of burning this shirt.”

I can hear the wheels whirring in his mind. It’s what I respect about Oliver. Some people, they’d be pissed off that the house is so much worse than advertised. He isn’t. He knows how to make a profit on this deal no matter what. “You up for lunch? If I smell another panini being grilled right now, I’m gonna lose it. Meet me at the taco stand over by the hotel in ten so we can stay outside. And I’ll stay upwind of you.”

I laugh. “Hey, at least you can see what a real man smells like instead of that fancy cologne shit Mindy has you wearing. But I’ll take the tacos. See ya in ten.”

Oliver laughs, and we hang up. Walking around the house to avoid upsetting the local rodents, I peel off my shirt and toss it into my tool carrier. I was serious about ditching the damn thing. I grab the bottle of antiseptic gel I keep in my glove box for emergencies and squirt my entire chest and arms. It’ll dry out my skin some, but it’ll at least cut the smell and make sure I don’t get some funky ass fungal growth. I get my upper body as best I can before discreetly getting my balls and deciding that’s enough. Pulling on my spare t-shirt, an old high school football shirt that’s seen better days but still keeps a sentimental place in my rotation, I drive over to the taco truck that’s a mainstay in the downtown area near the Grand Waterways Hotel and Park. Oli’s there a few minutes later, pulling up in his new car, a Lexus GX in silver gray.

“I see you’re driving the soccer mom-mobile,” I greet him, slapping hands with him. “What, Mindy’s got the Ferrari?”

He’s never had a Ferrari. He wouldn’t blow his money on something like that, but he laughs. “Yeah, well, it’s still stylin’. Come on, the tacos are on me.”

The taco truck’s famous around town for their fried shrimp tacos, and we get two each. Finding a spot on a nearby planter to sit down, I take a moment to inhale the aroma and to just enjoy the warm day. Now it’s time to eat.

“So tell me about the place,” Oliver says after we’ve both stuffed our faces. “I mean, I get your point. Firebombing the place would be easiest, but that’s not exactly what I can put in an email without having the police knock on the door.”

I fill Oliver in, and he winces. “Trust me, man, best thing to do would be to raze the place and start over. I’d bet even the foundation’s screwed up.”

“Okay,” Oliver says casually. When I don’t reply, he laughs. “Caleb, I know it’s not because you’re bullshitting me or being lazy. If you say it can’t be renovated as is without being massively expensive, then that’s what the deal is. Okay, it’s settled. When I go back, I’ll call the heavy equipment guys. You got another job lined up this afternoon?” Oliver asks, and I smirk. “Figured you were getting busy.”

“It’s not bad once you get past your mom’s friends trying to get a little extra sugar to go with their repair work,” I reply before telling him about Mrs. Barnes trying to seduce me with lemonade and cookies. “But other than that . . . business is booming.”

Oliver chuckles. “Good, good, but what else you got going on, man? Every time we talk, you’re about work. Rewiring this, tiling that, painting the other. What else is going on? You too busy working to get out?”

If there’s anything about Oli that’s a pain in the ass, it’s his insistence on being a big brother to me. I get it. With Tony gone and Oli being a father now, he’s got that instinct going strong in him, but damn, he can get a little nosy sometimes. “I literally just told you I’m getting propositions left and right, even with snacks! What about you and Mindy? Are the kids keeping y’all up all night still?”

Oli drops it. He can see I’m not in the mood, and besides, he can’t pass up the chance to gush about the kids. “They’re doing great, man. You gotta see them with their Grandma when she visits. It’s pure comedy. It seems weird to think that we’ve got one starting preschool soon, though. Man, I’m telling you, you need to get one of your own. They’re a hoot!”

Oliver stops, seeing the expression on my face, and I know he’s seeing the warning flash in my eyes before he covers his faux pas with a smile. I let it go and give him a grin back. “Kids aren’t in my future, or at least, no time soon. That’s why I love to spoil yours rotten . . . and then send them back. I’m fun Uncle Caleb who lets them eat cake for breakfast, stay up all night, and jump on the couch!”

Oliver’s eyebrows shoot to his forehead, and he half chokes on his limonada that we’re having with our tacos. “You . . . let my kids eat cake for breakfast? Now I know why they came back last time begging to go spend the night at your place. Best keep that between us and not let Mindy know.”

“What can I say? Your daughter gives me those big puppy dog eyes of hers and I can’t do anything except turn on the cartoons and go get some cake.”

Oliver laughs, nodding. “Yeah, she’s good at that. Okay, we’ll keep it between us because if Mindy finds out, you won’t get a chance to babysit again, and I happen to like being able to take my wife out on the town every once in awhile. If you ever find a woman you want to marry, don’t forget to do date nights. Keeps things solid, sane, and spicy.”

“Sounds like a recipe for a good taco too,” I wisecrack, and Oliver shakes his head. He knows I’m not listening, and he knows why.

“Okay, well thanks for checking on the house this morning. I’ll have Martha get in touch with the heavy equipment contractors, see what we can get out there. As soon as I know, I’ll get in touch with you on another property. Sure you won’t do more scouting for me?”

I shake my head, offering him my hand. “No dice, Oliver. Besides, I heard Cassie’s been doing well for you guys on that. She even skipped our run last weekend because she was, and I quote, ‘gonna impress that man if it’s the last thing I do.’ Apparently, you’re that man. Lucky bastard.” I laugh.

Oliver nods. “Yeah, well, you should find the time for more than sharing a coffee downstairs. Seriously, both of you have momentum now. You can let off the gas a little bit and hang out for a change.”

“You trying to play matchmaker with me?” I ask, and Oliver laughs. “What?”

“Caleb, I would be a horrible matchmaker. No, that’s just general advice, and I know you two are friendly, that’s all. Find the time when you can and hang out a bit. Be good for both of your mental health.”

I think about it and nod. “If I find the time, sounds good. She’s fun to joke with—you know how she is. Thousand and one laughs, and then I want to kill her.”

“Yeah, I know someone just like that,” Oliver says, meaning his wife, and I roll my eyes. “Anyway, take care, and don’t eat too many of those cookies. You never know if one of my mom’s friends has slipped something into the mix. You might find yourself tied up in someone’s basement.”

I laugh. “Sounds more like something Mindy or Roxy would do. Should I check your basement sometime for ropes, whips, and handcuffs?”

Oliver growls mockingly, shaking his head. “Think I gotta get back to work. See you later, Caleb.”

Cassie

“Hey, Martha, it’s Cassie,” I say into my phone as I check that I’ve got everything I need. I’m quite the packer. Even going to the grocery store involves a packing list for me. And airports? The security guys there hate me with a passion. “Listen, I’ll be out of the office today. I’ve got my eyes on three different properties that might be good purchases.”

It’s not a total lie. I do plan on spending most of the day working, but if I get done early, I still have some shoes to buy. I tell Martha a few details just in case she needs to get ahold of me, then I hang up and plug my phone into my dash dock where it’ll work as my navigation if I need it. I’m terrible with driving directions. I don’t think I could get myself from the office downstairs to the cafe if I didn’t have it sometimes. Thankfully, I already input the three addresses for today’s journey, and I check my other supplies. Laptop in case I need to send a serious email or something—check. Frappe from Mindy’s Place for my morning caffeine buzz—check. Shoulder bag with my camera, wallet, and of course, all the other stuff I need to make sure I look good if I happen to run into Tom Hardy while I’m out—check. Always gotta be prepared. That’s my motto.

I fire up my engine, and Roxy’s cover of Hallelujah starts up. Damn, that girl can sing, and while she’s not my entire playlist, it’s a great way to start the morning. I cruise, letting my body relax as I get ready for a day in the ‘mobile office’. I’ve always enjoyed this part of my job, working outside the office. Investigating new properties is fun. I always feel like I’m part Sherlock Holmes, part Storage Wars, and part True Detective. House Hunters? Please. I’m serious with this. I’m not going to be worrying if the kitchen has granite countertops or not. I’m looking for the deal.

It’s probably the most fun part of my job. Most people, when they go looking for a house, they want the good stuff. They’re looking for new carpets, fresh paint, all the bells and whistles. We’re not. I want to find the worst house in the best part of town, pick it up at a steal, sink fifteen thousand into it, and either rent it out or flip it for twenty percent profit. In fact, the best way to get Steele Solutions to cut a check for your property is to make sure the carpet needs to be replaced.

It takes me about fifteen minutes to get to the first house, a two-bedroom for sale by a couple that’s moving up and out. It’s adorable and I love the all-brick construction, but as I get out of my car, I make sure to lock the doors. Our small town is nowhere near as bad as some of the nearby big cities, but every town’s got ‘that area’, the part of town where the folks who just don’t fit in live. Unfortunately for this couple, their house is right on the edge of ‘the tracks’, as we call it. On the edge, and looking around at the other houses, not in a good way either.

It’s a shame too, because looking at the house itself, it’d be a place I’d love to live and start a family when the time’s right. There’s even a fireplace, and to me, nothing is more romantic than cuddling up in front of a real fire on a winter’s night. But no amount of renovation to the house will make up for the decidedly unsafe street it resides on.

Hurrying back to my car, because Mama didn’t raise no fool, I’m off to property two. Pulling up out front, I feel a little tingle of excitement. The house has got hidden appeal, as it’s almost completely covered by a huge shaggy tree in the front that drapes down to meet the overgrown weeds standing as tall as I am. And while I’m on the shorter side, that’s for a woman, not for a weed!

I get out of my car, checking my notes on my tablet before I try and fight my way through the jungle that is the yard. The house is in a good-ish neighborhood. It was just caught up in a court battle for years. An old man died, and his two sons fought over the family home. Finally, the probate court said fuck it, and the property’s up for sale.

I walk up to the house, trying my best to keep to the cracked walkway. It’s a shame, really. The two sons could have gotten a lot higher value for this place if they’d just agreed to split the sale or to just have one of them sell it. Fuck, flip a coin. Don’t let a house get like this! Thank God for jeans that make my ass look good and light hiking boots.

My initial excitement fades as I get inside. While the pictures that the website displayed showed the good side, they certainly hid the bad. All of the plumbing fixtures are corroded. The whole place will have to be repiped, and I bet from looking at the outlets, it’ll have to be rewired too. I didn’t think anyone even had outlets like that in their houses anymore.

As I make my way upstairs, I’m tallying a list of projects for the house, and even before I get to the spare bedroom that has no ceiling because a leaky roof collapsed inward, I realize it’s not a money-making option. There’s light damage that can be replaced and repaired economically, and then there are total renovations that cost more than they’re worth. This house is definitely part of the second group. Damn it. Zero for two today. Off to the third on the list . . . and it’s nearly an hour out of town, just over the county line.

I get on the Interstate and start to cruise. As I do, I realize that I’m not that far from the town where I lived as a little kid. I didn’t always live near the big city. In fact, for the first ten years of my life, I was a country girl. I spent my summers swimming in the river, riding my bike like a crazy person, and camping in the backyard of what was the best house ever. Two stories, it was an old farmhouse that my parents had bought and renovated before I was born. While the farm itself wasn’t ours, we still had a full acre to ourselves, a big garage, and a playset that gave me some of the best memories I could imagine. I haven’t stopped by since moving back to work with Oliver. The memories are a little too painful to think about. Still, I’m pulled toward checking it out.

On a whim, I decide to get off the highway and head over to my old place. I haven’t been back here in over fifteen years, not since my mom got a new job and we had to move, but the turns are familiar to me. The street curves. A few of the houses have changed, but I can still identify some of them.

When I see 614 Douglas, I’m slow driving, just sort of intending to do a drive-by of the old home. I’m certainly not intending to spend much more time than that. I have to get out to this third property for Oliver before the afternoon wears on any longer. But as I see the property, I hit my brakes, stunned. The house looks just like it did before, with the wide front and almost Alpine-steep roof that’s broken up by two jutting outcroppings. I’ve always thought they looked like eyes over the long porch that wraps around the whole front. The railing is just like it always was, a sort of off-white that made me think the house was a smiling face.

But what causes me to smack my brakes isn’t the house, but the sign out front. I blink, rubbing my eyes, but when I open them, it’s still there, just like it was before.

For Sale by Owner.

Holy shit. My childhood home’s for sale.

Cassie

I stare at the house from the curb, my brain swept away on a flood of memories, some good, some bad. Here, twenty feet away from me, is the oak tree that Mama didn’t want me playing in, but I still did every chance I got since the trunk was split. She said it was because of storm damage when she was pregnant with me, but whatever the reason, thick branches started not that far off the ground, and to a little girl who loved to climb, it looked like a ladder to the sky. I scrambled up that ladder so often I knew every twist, nook, and cranny in the branches. At least, I thought I did until I was eight and slipped and fell. I’m lucky I got away with nothing but a small scar under my chin. In fact, it’s still visible if you know where to look.

I step up onto the same sidewalk that I used to hopscotch down for hours, using chalk that I’d gotten from anywhere I could. I don’t know why I was such a hopscotch nut. All of my friends outgrew the game by third grade, but I’d stay out until the streetlights came on and Mama would holler out at me from the kitchen that it was time to come inside for dinner. There’s nothing drawn on it now, but to me, I can still see the ghostly outlines in pink, yellow, blue, and green and feel the bounce of my ponytail as I hopped along.

I shake my head—that girl hasn’t been around for over a decade—and cross the yard. It needs some maintenance. The sign on the house is dusty, and clearly, the place has been up for sale for a while. Stepping closer, I can start to see why. While the rails on the porch have a relatively fresh coat of paint, the floorboards themselves are listing a little. I remember sometimes, right at the end before Mama and I moved, sneaking out to avoid the sounds coming from her bedroom as she and her latest boyfriend did things I didn’t quite understand at the time. This was during the bad years, after Dad left, and Mama . . . well, she needed men like some people need water.

So I used to sneak out, sometimes to sleep in the treehouse I had in the backyard, sometimes just to walk around and smell the night air. I remember that the board just to the left of the window used to always squeak, no matter how hard we’d nail it down. Now, though, there’s no way I’d trust myself to the porch. Half of the boards look dry rotted, and the whole thing is listing slightly to the back. Knowing my luck, if I take one step on that thing, I’d fall right through and end up with a splinter the size of a ballpoint pen in my ass.

I walk around the side, down the dirt driveway to the parking area in the back, what people in this area call a ‘dooryard’. The garage is gone, just a concrete slab now, but other than that, little’s changed. I can almost see Mama standing in the sagging screen door, calling my name. My eyes start to prickle with tears. I can almost feel a whisper of her there, but she’s not. She’s been gone for a couple of years now. While Dad and I are on polite terms, his life’s not around here anymore. He probably hasn’t been back here in twenty years.

But this . . . this is where I see Mama. It’s in the buzz of the cicadas, the humidity, and the sunsets where the air hangs thick like sap around you. A place where your skin glistens five minutes after you dry off from the warmth, and every meal is accompanied by a glass of iced tea or lemonade just to get that cool kiss before diving into something spicy and most likely fried.

I check the back door. It’s locked, of course, but the windows are just high enough that I can look around. The kitchen looks a mess, but the trained evaluator in me sees that it’s surface mess.

Going around, I see the same thing repeated time after time. Most of the damage in the house is superficial, although there’s some that’s due to age. When I get to the corner room, where my old bedroom used to be, I know. This is my next project, the first one from find to finish, all mine.

I’ll talk it over with Oliver, of course, mainly because I’ll need the time to do all of this, but that’s okay. I’m going to make this house all the things I wanted as a little girl. There were so many things that Mama said she’d fix but never did. The reason we could never fix anything was the same. “We don’t have the money right now, honey,” Mama would say, and while it was true, she spent more than enough money chasing after her boyfriends, usually on clothes to attract them or some other man.

But this house . . . I know what I need to do. Going around front, I take a few pictures of the property, then make sure I get the number on the For Sale sign down before I get in my car. I start up my engine and give 614 Douglas another look before pulling away. I’ve got one more house to look at for Oliver, and then I need to get home.

I’ve got research to do, and shopping for shoes online can wait.

Caleb

“My name is Sue! HOW DO YOU DO?” my radio blares as I pull up in front of Mindy’s Place. Finally, after a few years of its being open, a lot of the people around town aren’t calling it the Flaming Dragon building anymore, but the old nickname still sticks around.

Shutting off my truck’s engine, I look inside, trying to decide whether I want to sit down and enjoy the atmosphere or if I want to grab ‘n’ go. It’s not that I don’t like the cafe, but at seven thirty in the morning, I’m in no mood to put up with pretentious bullshit, and sometimes, the local bankers like to turn Mindy’s Place into Mini Wall Street. My jeans and work boots do not fit in with that crowd.

But they seem to still be asleep, and I remember that banks don’t open until I’m already working today. I yawn, rubbing my eyes and feeling the intense need for caffeine. Getting out, I check my watch and decide I’ve got a few minutes to actually enjoy the cafe. Maybe I’ve even got time to enjoy a bagel. Not much more. I’ve got three jobs today, and unless I want to be roofing a garage by starlight, I need to get a move on.

Walking in, I see Mindy behind the counter, grinning a smile that’s way too bright for this time in the morning. She must be sipping some of her own goods. I give her a wave as I walk up. “Hey, Beautiful, does your husband know you’re here to see me every day?”

Mindy laughs. She and I have done this dance for at least the past year and a half, since I started helping out Oliver. “Pretty sure he knows you come in here to see me. In fact, he said if you stare at my ass anymore, he’s gonna kick yours so hard you’ll have a second crack. Steele lines it up . . . it’s good!” she jokes, making a field goal sign with her arms.

I laugh. It’s what I love about Mindy. Successful business owner, sure. But she’s still approachable, and she knows I’m just messing around. Oliver does too, but I still gotta get my jabs in. “Any day he wants to try, but don’t be sad when you have to take care of his broken body. I float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, and kick like a mule.”

Mindy shivers and starts giving a phantom massage while gyrating her hips. “Do your worst, Caleb. I’ll take care of my man’s body anyway, anyhow, anytime.”

I cringe and give up, laughing. “Ok, you win . . . I don’t want a mental image of that. Ever. Can I get the usual?”

Mindy rolls her eyes. “For here or to go?”

“I have time to drink it here, but pack it to go anyway. And can you throw in a bagel with cream cheese? Gonna need the energy today.”

“One of those days, huh?” Mindy asks, and I nod. She reaches down and pulls out ‘my’ cup, a fifty-ounce insulated cup with a built-in straw. Mindy twirls it on her finger and sets it down. “One Caleb-sized full-caff, sweet as my sister, roughly the thickness of motor oil coming right up.”

I wander over to the far side of the counter and take a seat. It’s my favorite. From here, I can watch everyone coming in and out of the door and still get to talk with the staff.

There’s a rattle from the back, and I see Oli coming up the stairs from the basement kitchen. After a quick kiss on Mindy’s cheek, he walks over, a mock scowl on his face.

“You here harassing my wife again?”

“Just for a minute. Gotta get my daily fix before heading out today.”

He nods, taking the seat next to me. “Got anything interesting today?”

“Three jobs. The first two aren’t much. Mrs. Henderson needs a bush yanked out of her yard—and no comments from you, Mindy. I realize I set myself up as soon as I said it!” I add offhandedly, getting a laugh from them both. “Then I’ll do some painting for the Portnoys, and then the afternoon’s going to be patching Kelly Roberts’s garage roof.”

Oliver nods. “You got time to go over a couple of things really quickly upstairs?”

“Yeah, of course, anything for you. You know that.” The assistant who’s been watching my coffee brings over my huge cup and bagel, which I pick up and make a quick sandwich of. I raise my cup to Mindy. “Thanks, Mindy!”

“Anytime, Number Three!” Mindy calls, and I have to laugh. It’s a joke between the two of us. Oliver, of course, is Number One. I’m not even sure who Number Two is. But I’m Number Three on her list of guys. I’m good with that.

Following Oliver upstairs, I take a quick sip of my coffee, which they iced down just like I like in the summertime. I like hot coffee like any good handyman, but right now, it’s damn near ninety degrees by ten in the morning, and I can use anything to cool me off.

Closing the door to save the cool air and give us some privacy, Oliver walks around to the other side, grabbing a stack of folders. “So I was thinking—” he begins, but stops. “Caleb, how backed out are you on your handyman stuff?”

“Right now?” I ask, pulling out my phone and checking my schedule. “If you’re talking Monday to Friday, I’m booked through to next Thursday. If it’s an emergency, I can bump people around, work on weekends. Why, what’s up?”

“Nothing that’s an emergency, but we just closed a few deals and I want to get them into rental shape before the summer’s out,” he said. “At least three of them are in the University District, and you know that with the school year coming up . . .”

“You want them looking good for all the new tenants before classes start,” I finish for him. “What’re you looking at?”

“Two houses—nothing big—but also a sixplex that’ll need a good amount of sprucing up,” Oliver said. “I’m sure I could hire other people to go over them, but I trust you to do the job right and not fuck me over on hours either.”

I nod, grateful for the straight talk. Oli’s right, a lot of handymen and contractors around here charge guys like Oliver based not on how much the job’s worth, but how much they think they can get away with. Not my style.

Oliver continues. “So what I was thinking, if you can, start the work on the sixplex as soon as possible, mainly just clearing the smell at first. You know how college kids are. Then move on from there. You’re doing a roofing job today, so you’ve got a lot of the materials still, I take it?”

“Of course. What else?”

We go over the plans, and I’m glad to see that Oliver’s right. Other than maybe jumping on the defunking of the sixplex, nothing is an immediate job.

“I think I can get this cleared out soon,” I tell him and raise an eyebrow as he picks up another folder. “You must want to buy me a new truck.”

“Not quite,” Oliver says with a smirk. “This next one, we haven’t made an offer on yet. I wanted to see if you can add a gable to the front to make it symmetrical. That one might need a drive-by and to check the codes.”

“I can take a look on Sat—” I start, but before I can finish, the office door bangs open and Cassie comes in. Seeing her come into the office with her boundless energy lifts my mood. I never really admitted it before, but she’s stunning.

She isn’t dressed for success like she normally is, just in a t-shirt and jeans. What makes her stunning, though, is the light in her eyes, the fierce look of determination that I’ve seen before. When she’s like this, the higher the Cassie volume is, the prettier she gets. And right now, she’s cranked up all the way.

I’m looking at a five-foot-one hurricane of energy, moving so fiercely that I’m surprised her hair isn’t flying out in all directions, her face lit up with a smile that could power Washington if it stretched just an inch wider.

“I found it!” she declares, jabbing a fist in the air. “I found the one!”

“The one what?” Oliver asks, amusement in his voice as I sit there, still too flabbergasted to talk. “And good morning, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah, good morning, guys,” Cassie says before her sparkling eyes light up again. “I found my first project!”

Cassie

Slurping, I spoon the last of my Corn Pops into my mouth. I blink, wishing I had my morning coffee already, but I can’t make coffee to save my damn life. At least, not compared to what Mindy makes, and it’s like being exposed to real beef after eating nothing but tofu all your life—there just ain’t no going back. I’ve tried bribing her to learn her secret, but she’s not talking. So I only drink home brew if I’m in a pinch.

I was up all night last night looking at the property information on 614 Douglas, using all the websites I’ve got at my disposal for research. I did comparatives on the neighborhood, got in contact with the owner and got title information, pictures of the inside, and more.

By the time I lay down at four in the morning, I knew my initial feelings were right. The house is definitely going to be my first project. I just have to convince Oliver.

I still didn’t get much sleep. The problem was, the numbers just weren’t golden. It isn’t a shoe-in, as the comps really show that the profit margin is tight, at best, but I know I can do it. And more importantly, I need to do it. The house deserves it after surviving my wild youth. It’s the home of some of my best memories, and it was the house that waited patiently while Mama and I kept promising to bring it back to its former glory . . . and we never delivered. I tossed and turned all night, mentally prepping my speech to get Oli to agree.

But I’ve only been working for Oliver for less than a year. Sure, I got the McCormick property off his back, but taking one albatross off only to put another one on isn’t in his plans at all. But I’ve got faith. Still, I was so frenetic with energy, I had to resort to my trusty Mr. Rabbit because post-orgasm sleep is the best sleep. Even after the quickie session, though, I barely did much more than doze.

I get in my car and drive to the Flaming Dragon building, walking in the front door to see Mindy smiling and joking with the morning customers. The professional crowd is just starting to come in, and for the first time, I feel a bit out of place in the same jeans I wore yesterday. I was just so addled when my alarm went off that I was barely able to brush my teeth and pull on fresh undies and a decent t-shirt.

“Hey, Sexy Star,” Mindy greets me, her normal big smile helping a little. She gives everyone in her ‘family’ nicknames, and I’m Sexy Star. I appreciate the gesture, really. “No offense, but you look like wired hell.”

“Thanks,” I reply, feeling a shot of adrenaline as I remember why I’m here. “I’ve been up all night, so could I get a triple ‘spresso with a shot of whatever you got that’ll have me perky?”

“On it,” Mindy says, grinning and heading over to the machine. “What had you up all night? New man?”

“Ha!” I say with a laugh. “No, I found something better. I found my first project. I need to talk with Oliver about it.”

Mindy stops and gives me a warm look. “Good for you! If that’s the case, I’ll throw in some extra perkiness.”

I slam my triple espresso, trying to build on the excitement and momentum that Mindy’s words light inside me. Licking the last drops of dark, sweet liquid out of the glass, I take a deep breath and steel myself. “Okay, I’m off.”

“Drop it like it’s hot,” Mindy says in farewell, and I chuckle, popping my hip into the door upstairs in reply. With every step up to the second floor, I can feel the excitement build in me, and by the time I reach the first landing, I’m almost running up the stairs. I hit the door, my prepared speech flying out the window as soon as I burst in, seeing Oliver at his desk.

“I found it!” I yell, fist pumping like a madwoman from the Jersey shore. “I found the one!”

“The one what?” Oliver asks, smirking. “And good morning, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah, good morning, guys,” I reply, realizing that Caleb’s there too. “I found my first project!”

“Your first project? Surely, some guy didn’t ask you to marry him since I saw you last?” Caleb jokes. “How much of a loser did he have to be that not only did he ask you, but you’re calling him a project too?”

I stick out my tongue, blowing Caleb a raspberry. He’s as handsome as ever, looking dressed for work, obviously, in his boots and t-shirt, with what looks like a nearly a pony keg of something in front of him on the desk, his personal drink holder that he takes coffee to work sites in. “No, smart ass. As if I want to get locked down into sandwich making for some dad bod who only surfs the couch. The house . . . I found THE HOUSE.”

It’s pretty clear by the tone of voice I used that I’m saying it all in capital letters, and Oliver’s eyebrows lift by a good half inch even as he leans back in his chair. “What house? Whatcha got?”

I take a deep breath and walk around Oliver’s desk, opening up my bag to hand him a flash card and some of the stuff I printed out last night. “It’s all on the sheet, but here’s the basics. It’s a three-bedroom converted farmhouse on a quiet street, two and a half baths. It could become a four-bedroom, but one of the rooms has been used as a home office and walk-in closet. It’s on a full acre of land, and there’s a huge tree out front begging to have a tire swing on it, and a front porch. It’s not quite a starter home. It’s a step up from that, but it’s the sort of home a young couple could raise a family in for the next twenty or thirty years if they wanted.”

Caleb whistles softly. “Sounds idyllic. What’s wrong with it?”

I glare at him. Way to cockblock me there, buddy. I’m so going to take it out on you if I get the chance. “Shush, I’m trying to create a mood here.” I look back at Oli, who’s giving me the same look, and I know I’ve got to get it together. I try to remember what the hell I was going to say with my speech and take a moment, opening my laptop and pulling up the pictures. “Here’s the house. I know it’s going to need some work—”

Oliver snorts as he scrolls through the shots. “Yeah, that’s not the house you just described. Other than the obvious, what’s it need?”

“It’s a For Sale by Owner. I talked with the owner last night, and he was really helpful. He emailed me an inspection he got when he moved out. First things first, the porch will have to be totally replaced. Apparently, the guy tried to use trailer jacks on it and screwed up. The interior needs to be cosmetically gutted. The paint’s at least eight years old, the kitchen lino over a decade.”

“Looks like a refugee from the seventies,” Caleb comments. “Lime green? Fuck, that’s horrible.”

“The whole place will need new flooring, but there’s a hidden jewel underneath,” I say. “I know for a fact that underneath the bad carpet in the rest of the house is real black walnut flooring. Sand it down and refinish it, and boom!”

“Black walnut flooring covered with carpet?” Oliver says wonderingly. “If it’s still good, that could be helpful. Still, what are the costs involved?”

I give him a rundown of the costs, showing him the Excel spreadsheet I worked up. Of course I don’t have exact numbers, but it’s a start. “Given the recent sale prices of properties in the area, I’d say the top price we could get on the sale is maybe three hundred thousand if we get an upswing in the area.”

Oliver nods and looks over the spreadsheet some more before sitting back and tapping at his lip thoughtfully. “I’m going to be honest with you, Cassie. I admire the enthusiasm, and you know I appreciate your eye for visualizing what this house could be. And it could be beautiful. I see the outside of the house and I see what you mean. But look at the numbers. That’s pretty tight profits. I’m not sure it’s something I want to take on right now when we have higher-percentage investments on the books.”

I shake my head, fire burning deep in my heart as I click back to the pictures. “I knew you’d be looking for higher-margin investments, and I have another we can talk later about too. But I can do this. I found it, researched it, and have outlined the project. I want to do it all, start to finish, and show you what I’m capable of. I obviously can’t afford it on my own, but I do have enough for the down payment, so I’ll have a stake in it. Just give me a chance, please?”

Caleb laughs lightly. “Think you’re ready to fly solo, baby bird? I could push you out of the nest myself if you want.” He gets up and reaches out with his long muscular arm to push me in the shoulder, but I hop to the side. He goes to follow but freezes when he sees the look in my eyes. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you? What’s got you so fired up about this place in particular? By the time you get your profit, you’d probably have made more slinging frappes downstairs considering the number of hours it’s going to require.”

Oliver nods in agreement. “I don’t think so, Cassie. You might be ready, and I’m willing to let you try. But it’s not this project. Don’t you want a sure thing your first time out?”

I shake my head, crossing my arms over my chest and putting on what I hope is my most stubborn look, although I’ve been told it looks pouty. I can’t help it. I have a natural worry line that looks cute, dammit! “Nope, I want this one.” I look from Oliver to Caleb and back, both of whom look less than impressed. “Look, it’s my house. The one I grew up in. I want to fix it up, make it pretty and functional so it gets the family it always deserved. Right now, it’s going to rot. I need to do this. I know that puts me starting off on the wrong foot. I know I’m using my emotions more than my brain on this, but that house deserves better than what’s happening to it now. I’ll put in work myself, elbow grease and sweat and blood and whatever else it needs. Please.”

Oli looks at Caleb, who looks back. Both of them are definitely surprised by the vehemence in my voice. I know I’m sounding a little whacked over this, and yeah, I’m breaking rule number one of property investment, which is you make decisions with your calculator, not with your heart. I’m normally a perky upbeat smartass, so I’m sure this is a shock. But seeing 614 Douglas, I have to do this. Because there’s more than just good memories there. There are bad ones too, bad memories that aren’t the house’s fault, and I want to exorcise those demons from the house and from my soul. I want to sweep them away, leaving behind just the little seedling that’s in the bottom of my heart.

Oliver looks at Caleb again, then at me. “Caleb? How much time can you clear over the next two months on your schedule?”

Caleb

At Oliver’s question, I knew the inevitability of the situation. It was like watching fate at work. After Cassie’s pleading, he had to give in. I got the call while I was at the Portnoys’, cleaning up from painting their fence before heading over to the Roberts house to take care of her garage roof, where her son had somehow put a croquet ball through the roof.

Of course Oliver had his misgivings, he told me. He still made it clear that it was a risky investment, but he’d do it for her if she got it at the right price. And since I’m the handyman he trusts, he wants me to at least give her a heads-up on what all this place needs. So here I am, driving to meet her at her childhood home.

Normally, I’d be calling it a day and heading home by this point, two fat checks and a nice wad of cash in my pocket and nothing on my mind but grabbing a shower. Instead, I’m driving all the way into the next county to meet Cassie and the homeowner to do a quick walkthrough.

Pulling up, I can see the sun setting behind the house and it does look nice. Of course, that’s probably because it’s mostly in shadow and you can’t see the porch hanging on by a thread that was readily obvious in the pictures this morning. Cassie’s memories are seriously giving her rose-tinted goggles on this, I suspect, but I’ll do my best to help her out.

I pull around back to the dooryard and see a backyard that’s half jungle, half fire ant hill, and I cringe some more. The pecan trees are nice, though. I can see Cassie and an older man standing inside. Parking my truck, I walk to the door, carefully stepping over the suspicious-looking steps on the way up. It looks like more than the front porch will have to be replaced.

Opening the screen, I step inside. Cassie stops mid-sentence and stares at me, her mouth half hanging open in surprise. I realize that I might be a little unsightly after a day of work. I’m sure my hair is messy from running my fingers through it, my shirt has been wet then dried multiple times today—and it probably smells like a locker room—and my hands are still dirty from the roofing patch. Figuring I’d better start off on the right foot since she’s with the owner, I hold my smartass comment about rendering her speechless and put an embarrassed smile on my face. Besides, he knows why I’m here. I don’t need to be freshly shaven and wearing a suit.

“Hey, Cassie, sorry I’m late. Just finished up for the day and got here as fast as I could.” To the man, who doesn’t look that put-out at all, I give a respectful nod. “I’d offer my hand, sir, but you probably don’t want it. I’m Caleb Strong. I contract with Steele Solutions.”

Cassie still hasn’t said a word, and I wonder for an instant if I’ve somehow offended her by showing up not smelling like Head & Shoulders. The man notices it, too, and breaks the silence. “Hello, I’m Frank Wannamaker. And don’t worry, I’ve heard about you. I have a church friend who’s mentioned you—Rebecca Miller?”

“Mrs. Miller?” I say, then smile. She’s one of my favorite clients, friendly and professional with no funny business. The four days I was repairing her wall, I got lunch and ice cold tea almost every hour. “I hope her wall’s doing well. Laying stone is an interesting challenge compared to brick.”

Finally, after an awkward moment, Cassie shakes her head and returns to her speech. She’s apparently discussing comp values and the sales price he’s asking. I can quickly tell that Mr. Wannamaker is slightly overwhelmed but charmed at the same time. “Miss White, let’s sit down,” he finally says. “This wasn’t really my house, but my brother’s. When he decided to move down to Costa Rica to join some retirement community, I bought it off him to make sure he was taken care of. So I just want to get my money out of it.”

Reassured that Cassie’s got Frank well under control, I raise my voice. “Excuse me, Cassie. Do you mind if I look around a bit while y’all talk? Let me get an idea of what needs done?”

When she nods, I wander off, walking through to the kitchen. I can still hear Cassie talking and laugh to myself. She’s gonna get this house at a great price and he’s not gonna know what hit him. She’s in full-blown Cassie Charmer mode. Yeah, that’s what she calls it when she’s in the zone. She’s mixing in giggles, little jokes, and business talk in this casual, overwhelming mix of hilarity that leaves people thinking she’s an airhead. I saw her do the same thing when I helped her out when she first moved to town and took her car shopping. She ended up driving off the lot in a car that left the salesman looking slightly stunned, and I’m sure, upset later over how much he’d let Cassie get away with.

Somehow, though, she never makes people too mad at her about her charm. She’s just too bubbly, nice, and supposedly airheaded to ever catch blame for it. I’ve teased her about it . . . multiple times, but damn if she’s not good. She could sell ice to an Eskimo and he’d walk away feeling like he won. As I check out one of the smaller bedrooms, she walks in smiling from ear to ear. “Cass, I pulled up some of the carpet, and you’re right, the floors can be refinished, but—”

“DONE!” Cassie says before starting to twirl and sing off-key. She’s cute as hell, but she can’t sing to save her life. “Cass gon’ give it to ya—”

“What?” I interrupt her, throwing up my hands in a futile attempt at stopping her. “You already agreed on a price? Don’t you want to know what the reno will cost or run it by Oliver first?”

Cassie doesn’t stop her dancing, shaking her ass in a way that has me looking at her hips, but she stops singing at least. “Nope, doesn’t matter. It’s low enough that there’s no way he’ll turn it down. I told him I grew up here with my mama and I wanted to fix it up right. Showed him the corner of the fireplace where I chipped my front tooth and the faint little lines on the doorway to the kitchen where my height is marked. He said that was ‘right nice’ and agreed to my low-ball starting offer! Already gave me the keys and said we can finish the paperwork tomorrow, but he was good with a handshake offer!”

She continues her little celebration, grabbing my hands to try to make me dance. I’m not much of a dancer, at least not without having music, but I try my best, figuring if I don’t, she’s going to start singing again. And I can’t have that. “Watch it, I’m still dirty from working all day. I’ll get you dirty.”

Cassie laughs, undeterred. “I don’t care. Celebrate with me!”

“Figures you’d like to get a little dirty, wouldn’t you? Just how dirty do you like it?” I reply with a raised eyebrow and a deep voice. But it’s a joke, it’s always a joke. This is what we’ve done from the first time we met. We make crude comments, double entendres, and tease each other mercilessly. It’s been the cornerstone of our relationship. I don’t think we’ve ever really said anything serious to each other, and when we have, I’m not sure if we’re telling the truth or just joking again.

Cassie stops, her eyes gleaming in the dim overhead light, a seductive smile on her lips that has me feeling shaky. Maybe we’ve always joked, but right this minute, with that sultry look in her eyes, I wonder if I’ve been going about this all wrong. “You don’t know the half of it. And my toys will never tell,” she says cheekily. “They’re sooo good to me.”

The sudden image of Cassie playing with a sex toy sends another tingle through my body, and when I reply, my voice is huskier, deeper, more demanding. This time, though, I’m not joking, even if she is. “Toys? Oh, hell, you’ll have to tell me those stories . . . slowly and in detail. Come on, I’ll even buy you a celebratory dinner.”

Caleb

We walk outside and decide to take my truck to grab dinner. I open the door for her, because my mom raised me right, and then close her in before heading to the driver side. I open up, but as I do, the wind shifts, and I realize I’ve forgotten something. Reaching into my back bench, I grab my little ‘clean bag’ and unzip it. “At least let me put on a clean shirt.”

“Great, I’m going to dinner with Sasquatch,” Cassie jokes. “You know, I’ve got some perfume in my purse, if you want.”

“Not in a million years,” I say, reaching behind my neck and pulling my tee over my head. I use it to do a little wipe down over my abs and back, and then I do my pits last before grabbing a small bottle of hand sanitizer, rubbing it up my forearms and over my hands. I look up and realize that Cassie is staring at me, jaw hanging wide open. “See something you like?”

Cassie shakes herself, seemingly mentally and physically, and grabs my shirt, tossing it at my face. “You wish. Just daydreaming about the house. Now drive!”

I let her off the hook because she wasn’t thinking about the house. She was thinking about me. I could see it in her eyes. It makes me smile, even if I know she doesn’t really mean anything by it. We’ve been friends for a while now, to the point where we once went on a double date. That was a disaster, though, because my date instantly got jealous of my jokes with Cassie and didn’t get that we just tease each other like that. But seriously, it’s not a big deal. Slipping my clean shirt on, I throw the sweaty one at her as I climb into the truck. She squeals, as expected, and threatens to throw it out her window before tossing it behind her into the back.

“The usual?” I ask as I crank the engine. The music starts up, and Cassie nods in approval as Disturbed comes on. It’s another thing that I like about Cassie. We both like a lot of different kinds of music so it’s easy to find something we both enjoy. She can appreciate good rock, and I’ve even seen her humming along the few times she’s heard country in my truck.

“As if there’s any question. Now floor it. I’m getting hungry!” And with that, we head off to her favorite burger joint, a converted train boxcar with outdoor seating that’s about halfway back to town called The Little Diner That Could. Cheesy name, and thankfully, even cheesier burgers. As we pull up out front, she clucks her tongue. “You realize it’s been awhile since we’ve hit this place up?”

“You’re the one burning the midnight oil on work stuff,” I tease.

“And you’re the one getting hit on by women old enough to be your mom with cookies and milk,” she says, and I swear I’m going to kill Mindy or Oliver. How many other people know about my customers doing that?

“Actually, recently, it’s been lemonade.”

“Lemonade and chocolate chip cookies? Revolting!”

“Peanut butter,” I protest, grimacing. Yeah, chocolate and lemonade are not a good mix at all. “Come on, let’s eat.”

I’m glad Cassie likes her burgers because I’m fucking starving. She can put away a burger almost as fast as I can. Her only bad habit is that she dips her fries in a chocolate milkshake. Disgusting, but it’s her favorite so I just don’t watch.

Walking into the diner, we grab our usual table in the corner where the breeze is at its strongest and wave at the waitress. A few minutes later, as we pick up our big, juicy burgers, I pause, holding it up like a drink. “And a toast—to Miss Cassie White . . . on a deal closed, on a project to be completed, on a first gig all to herself. You’re gonna kill it!”

“And to my grunting caveman, whom I know I’m going to bug the shit out of as I get the place redone,” Cassie says, raising her burger. We bump burgers in a slight mash of bacon, cheese, bread, and beef, but that’s us. So what if it’s not champagne? I ain’t a champagne kinda guy. Burger toasts seem just about right for us.

“So, what do you think?” Cassie says before she takes a huge bite of her burger. She’s somehow able to fit more food in her mouth than a girl her size should even attempt.

“Your manners are still horrible,” I tease, taking advantage of the fact that she’s got so much food in her mouth she can neither blow a raspberry nor stick her tongue out at me. “If you mean the house, I think I know some ways to shave a little off the repair bill.”

“Really?” Cassie half mumbles before swallowing. “Caleb, I appreciate that, but I don’t want to shortchange the house.”

“It’s not shortchanging,” I say around a half mouthful of my own burger. “But there are still ways we can get better profits without hurting the renovations. I was thinking . . . you mentioned in your spiel this morning that the place will probably need new appliances, right?”

“Yeah,” Cassie says, dipping a fry and noshing on it open-mouthed, smiling. If her lips weren’t so damn cute, I’d be upset. As it is, I’m still disturbed. “What, you know a guy who knows a guy?”

“Actually, we both know the guy,” I tell her. “I had to pull a water heater from one of Oliver’s properties two weeks ago. Nothing wrong with the thing. It was brand new when the old owners sold the property, but it just wasn’t big enough for a duplex. Oliver had me yank it, and I’ve got it at my place, waiting for the scrap guy. But . . .”

“Caleb, you keep this up and I’m gonna kiss you,” Cassie says before blushing. “I mean, I’ll let you give me a back massage.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, hiding my surprise at her choice of words. “Oh, one thing, though, and this is non-negotiable.”

“What’s that?” Cassie asks warily, taking another bite of burger. “I’m glad to pay.”

“No, not that. If I’m going to keep my other customers happy, Oliver happy, and somehow get that house done before you’re ready to retire, it’s going to mean working weekends. And not farting around for a few hours Saturday morning and then cutting out to go shopping type of work. I mean getting down and dirty for eight hours a day on weekends. But I want you there helping, either as my assistant or as my gopher.”

“Gopher?” Cassie asks. “Hey, I’ll have you know that the braces cured that very well!”

I shake my head, laughing. “That’s not what I mean. I mean if there’s something you can’t really help me with, you can be ready to get me any tools I need.”

Cassie nods. “I know what you meant. This is my first solo project, and I have money riding on this just like Oliver does. What do you think I’m going to do, sit at home while you do everything? But are you sure about working weekends? Don’t you have plans?”

“Don’t have much going on right now,” I admit.

Cassie looks at me in surprise. “What about that brunette you picked up at the grocery store? She looked very interested in you.”

I laugh ruefully. “Susannah? We went out twice. Then she bought me a candle. Patchouli, with a picture of a kitten on the thing. Noped the fuck outta that quick, fast, and in a hurry.”

Cassie bursts out laughing. “Over a candle? You ditched her over a candle? I mean, it’s a pretty horrible idea for a candle, but to break up with her over it?”

I chuckle, shrugging. “It’s a power move. She’s trying to girly up my place so that when someone else comes over, she’s marked her territory. I am not getting tied up like that.”

“Not tied up like that, but how about other ways? I might have some pink fluffy handcuffs just your size. And I damn sure know how to use silk ropes,” she says as she licks her straw. “You’d be sure to enjoy it.”

I smirk. That’s the Cassie I’ve come to know and appreciate. I just have to make sure I don’t end up with milkshake on my head. Instead, I give her a wink. “Now that, I might consider. Depends on what you’re gonna do if I were at your mercy?”

Cassie looks me in the eye with a glint of mischievousness and takes a long draw of her shake, hollowing her cheeks. She swallows with an audible gulp and then licks her lips to catch a tiny drop left in the center of her top lip. I can’t help it. My eyes widen and I feel my cock swell in my jeans, and I know I’m in trouble. I mean, I’ve always known Cassie was cute, but now . . . goddammit, I’m in trouble if she’s just joking.

Cassie waits just a beat and then speaks up “Game. Set. Match. Winner, Cassie White. And the crowd goes wild.” She mimics a crowd cheering. Dammit, I should have known she was still being a wiseass.