Mr. Fixit Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Mr. Fixit

  A Sexy Romantic Comedy

  Lauren Landish

  Edited by

  Valorie Clifton

  Contents

  Mr. Fixit

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Preview: Anaconda

  Preview: Mr. Fiance

  Preview: Heartstopper

  Preview: Stud Muffin

  Playing for Keeps

  Coming in September!

  About the Author

  Mr. Fixit

  By Lauren Landish

  He's good with more than just his hands.

  I’ve known Caleb Strong for over a year. We have a special kind of friendship—we make crude comments, double entendres, and tease each other mercilessly.

  But we’ve never crossed that line. We’re just friends.

  Until we start working together to renovate my childhood home.

  Seeing him shirtless working out in the sun is making me want something more. The way his corded forearms twist every screw, the way his biceps flex as he swings his hammer... I want to feel what that brute strength can do to me.

  I know once we cross that line, there’s no turning back.

  But I won’t deny it anymore, I want him to make a move.

  I have needs, and he’s got the tool for the job.

  We can still be friends after, right? It’ll just be casual.

  Until it isn’t…

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  Prologue

  Cassie

  “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.”
r />   “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!”

  Chapter 1

  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.”

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sp; 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?