Fixing Ashley Page 2

  When we go into the garage, she motions to a bunch of boxes containing an assortment of custom cabinets for the kitchen, bathrooms, and a wall unit in the living room. “I have plans and detailed sketches for these,” she says, shaking her head, her eyes scanning the room. I can tell she’s been distracted and in her own head this whole time. I wonder exactly how screwed up this situation truly is. It can’t be easy for her to have to hire someone new mid-construction.

  “Wow, this is just sad,” is all I manage to say in response. This is worse than I had previously imagined. While the outside seemed to only be missing final touches, the inside is devoid of everything which makes bare two by fours an actual house, let alone a home.

  We go back into the house from the garage and stand where the family room is supposed to be.

  “The, um, contractor who started this was fired by the homeowner. Think of this as a ‘war of the roses’ type of situation,” she explains. “My client has asked that I take care of all the details so we can put this property on the market. It’s unfortunate, really. As you can see—” she sighs wistfully, looking around “—it was supposed to be a beautiful home.”

  I nod, mentally taking notes of my surroundings. What she says makes a lot of sense. I suppose being stuck between a divorcing couple can’t be easy for anyone.

  “Well, I don’t see any issues in getting it all done. I’ll need to get in touch with an electrician and a plumber to make sure everything was installed properly in the first place. After that, it’s a question of making it look good,” I explain. Delving a little closer, I notice finer details that seem to have been overlooked. Like the fact the lighting fixtures aren’t centered properly in the dining room. I’m a picky motherfucker, but that’s why I’m good.

  “Yes, well, do what you have to.” Her eyes scan the bare, unfinished walls. “I have some plans and sketches that will give you a better idea of what this entire place was supposed to look like. You can let me know the approximate cost and time frame, and I’ll discuss it with my client.”

  She turns and starts walking toward the door, and I’m a little gobsmacked. Just like that, I have the job. This day is looking up already. “I’m sorry, are you leaving me alone here, Mrs. Evans?”

  She turns on her heels, cocking her head to one side, narrowed eyes trained on me. “Well, if I can’t trust you now, I won’t be able to trust you later, Mr. James. Besides, there’s nothing here to steal.” She smirks, adding, “I expect a call in the morning. Lock the door behind you.” With those last words, she opens the door, gives me a final look, which clearly says “don’t fuck with me,” and closes it behind her.

  Taken aback by her brash but direct demeanor, I make the rounds, assessing each room and making notes on what needs to be completed. An hour later, I’m leaning against my truck with a cig in my mouth when I notice a pile of paperwork on the front seat of my truck. Written on a Post-it note, on top of the pile, in perfectly straight block letters, is: “Please don’t smoke inside the house.”

  “What the fuck?” I cough and sputter, wondering how the hell she even noticed. I swear, she’s a devil woman, that one. Trouble with a capital T.

  When I start looking through the pile of paperwork, there are blueprints and sketches as she’d promised, along with some paint samples and a list of supplies, such as flooring and light fixtures, and the suppliers and phone numbers.

  She’s very organized, a quality I admire in anyone I work with, and for some reason this makes me smile as I think of the abrupt, yet extremely attractive, woman I just met. She barely looked at me, and didn’t talk much. She was all business and called me out on smoking, which I can respect.

  This is going to be a really interesting job, that’s for damn sure.

  . . .

  After calculating everything and contacting the plumber and electrician, who were listed on the contact information Ashley had left me, I’m able to come up with a sizable but acceptable fee and considerable time frame.

  “Six weeks,” she repeats to herself, when I call her to let her know my findings. Fuck, six weeks isn’t very long considering how much crap there is to fix, but according to Alex and Ben, the plumber and electrician, their work was done well so it’s all on me. “When can you start, Mr. James?”

  “I’m busy all next week, but the first week in July seems plausible.” Looking at my calendar, I notice how I’ve got a few small things scattered here and there. Painting Mrs. Caldwell’s kitchen. Installing Mrs. Miller’s cat door. Putting up shelves in the Steward’s garage. These jobs seem trivial and reserved more for a handyman, but these people trust me and know I’m going to do it right. Besides, they add up and I can do them when I’m not too busy doing bigger projects. Money is money and every little bit counts toward my goal.

  “Sounds good, Mr. James. I’ll give you a call sometime next week; we’ll sign the work contract, and arrange for you to get a set of keys,” she confirms, without being overly ceremonious about the whole thing.

  I suppose I’ve gotten the job, which is good because being there on that parcel of land will make me want to work harder. Or, at least that’s what I tell myself as the realization washes over me.

  “It’s Devon, actually,” I reply, needing her to stop with the Mr. James bullshit. I should have straightened that out right from the get-go, but apparently pretty girls are distracting. And I’m not gonna lie, part of me really liked watching her lips move and hearing the breathy way her voice sounded, each time she said, “Mr. James.” Now seeing as we’re most likely not going to see each other often, I may as well get this show on the road.

  “Well, Devon,” she repeats, and the sound of my first name rolling off her tongue does strange things to my body. I don’t know how she can make my skin break out into goose bumps, and my dick hard as steel with that one simple word, but I have to bite my knuckle and take a deep breath to stop myself from groaning into the receiver. Chances are I’d lose this job if she knew what a depraved fuck I am. “I’ll be sure to remember that. Talk to you later.”

  The line goes silent, and I pray I haven’t said anything out loud that would scare the living shit out of any chick, including this one.

  . . .

  The week goes by and I complete the master suite reno faster than expected. It looks amazing, if I do say so myself, and of course the customers are ecstatic. With Brad’s help, I managed to make their seventies nightmare into a modern oasis.

  Brad is a custom cabinet maker, an excellent carpenter, and also my best friend. He’s able to build anything I dream up, which is awesome because I have some pretty fucked up dreams at times.

  Taking advantage of a whole extra free day, I make the rounds finishing those odd jobs here and there. By the end of the day, Mrs. Caldwell’s kitchen has gotten two coats of paint, and Mrs. Miller’s cat can go outside on its own. It’s been a productive day, and I’ve managed to get Mrs. Caldwell’s daughter-in-law interested in changing out her old carpet for some hardwood floors.

  When I get home, there’s an envelope in my mailbox with a key inside, a short contract for me to sign and fax back, and a Post-it note with the same block lettering: “Sorry, I almost forgot, you’ll need this key for Monday.”

  Frowning, I take out my phone and dial Ashley’s number. She doesn’t answer, and I don’t leave a message.

  Chapter 3

  Monday morning comes with many surprises.

  One of those being that Ashley never comes to the house. She’s left me notes and plans, but no real contact, whatsoever. This is fucking weird, but I figure she may actually be busy. I mean, since this house is to be sold, there’s no use for her to check on progress twenty times a day, right? Well, this is what I tell myself. I also try not to feel too disappointed that I won’t get to see her pretty face this morning.

  I start with the larger things. Installing interior doors, and making sure all the walls are ready for priming and painting. By the end of the day, I’ve barely managed to scrub the surfa
ce of what needs to be done, but it’s been a good day, nonetheless. With no word from Ashley, I keep my checklist close, and jot down as many things as possible, keeping in mind I may actually need help with some of this if I want to get the job done on time.

  On Tuesday, I survey the cabinetry and measure out the kitchen, making sure everything will fit. The cabinets are a dark oak finish, with a classic inlay design. There are marble pieces of countertop hidden away in a corner of the garage that will clearly make the cabinets stand out. I’m a little jealous of whoever is passing up the chance to live here. This is going to be spectacular. I can imagine what it’ll look like once I’m done with all the small touches; they’ll make this kitchen resemble something straight from the pages of one of those decorating magazines. Not that I look at those. Much. I digress.

  I don’t think I would have picked anything better for this house. Ashley has some incredible taste, and judging from the house plans and sketches she’s left me, her work speaks for itself. She’s very detail-oriented, and it shows in what she does. I wish I’d had the opportunity to work with her prior to this project, but there is a first for everything. Hopefully this is the beginning of a great friendship.

  Wednesday goes by with no word from Ashley—again, and part of me is a little irritated she doesn’t seem the least bit interested in the amount of progress I’ve made in only a few days.

  With Brad’s help, by Thursday, the cabinets are in place and the kitchen starts to look like an actual kitchen, save for the appliances. The walls are still bare plaster, but I can see the potential in here. It’s going to be one of the nicest projects I’ve ever done, once I’m finished. This one is definitely going in my portfolio.

  On Friday, Brad helps me put together the bathroom cabinetry and some of the custom trim work for the living room. I also make an appointment with Alex on Monday to come hook up the rest of the plumbing.

  With things going this smooth, I can’t help wonder when they’re going to start going downhill. I’m used to a few bumps in the road while working on something substantial like this. The fact every cabinet and each piece of custom-made trim has fit into place, sort of freaks me out a little. Maybe it’s the designer. Maybe she’s just that good.

  I’ve gone the entire week without seeing or hearing anything from Ashley, so I decide to give her a call before the end of the day and pray she actually answers this time.

  “Evans Interiors.” Her voice is softer than usual, tired.

  “Mrs. Evans, this is Devon James.” Running a hand through my hair, I listen as she inhales deeply and sighs at the other end of the line.

  “I’m very sorry, Devon. I’ve had countless commitments over the last few weeks. I promise I’m usually more hands on. I’ll be there Monday morning so we can do a walk through and you can show me how much progress you’ve made.” She says all this in one exasperated breath, leaving me feeling as though she’s busy and has no time for my call. Seeing as I haven’t laid eyes on her at all, I guess I should be happy she says she’ll be there on Monday.

  “Sounds good, Mrs. Evans. See you Monday,” I reply, resigned.

  I’m about to hang up when I hear her say quietly, “It’s Ashley. Call me, Ashley.”

  “See you Monday, Ashley.” My face breaks out into a shit-eating grin as her name rolls off my tongue. If it weren’t for her tone, I’d be trying to talk to her a little more, but I can tell she’s tired, and seeing as this is the first time we’ve spoken this week, I don’t want to ruin things with her. I need us to mesh together if I want to keep working with her.

  . . .

  Brad and I make plans to go out Saturday night.

  My muscles are sore from the week I’ve had, but I like the feeling. It lets me know I’ve worked hard, and gets me through those days where I feel as if I’ve accomplished nothing, when in reality, I’ve most likely spent the day crunching numbers and pushing around paperwork. This is actually what I’ve done all afternoon. My muscles don’t seem to know that though, and are clearly retaliating.

  With a resigned sigh, I crack my neck and pray I make it through the evening as Brad’s wingman. He has a thing for the waitress at Jo’s Tavern, the bar down the street from his house, and apparently going there with me is going to help him break the ice with this chick.

  I’m not in the mood for any of this tonight, but he’s been more than good enough to help me out this week, so I feel as though I owe him this one.

  We meet up out front of the club, and I can already tell this is not my kind of place. “Country music, man? Are you fucking trying to kill me?”

  “Dude, this chick—” he shakes his head “—she’s worth it. You’ll see.” He claps a hand over my already sore shoulder, making me flinch back in pain.

  “Jesus, you fucker, watch what you’re doing,” I seethe through clenched teeth. Taking a deep breath, I rotate the muscle, feeling the burn as it stretches and knots itself. “Fucking shoulder injury,” I mumble in pain, as Brad stretches his lean body upright to look over the crowd.

  “Fuck, she’s not behind the bar,” he muses, making me roll my eyes in annoyance. “Oh, there she is.” He points to a hot little number with short, colorful hair and an obvious flair for the unusual.

  “Have you ever even spoken to her, dude?” We push past the crowd of people until we’re standing a few feet from his dream girl’s table. This place is packed and definitely not my kind of thing.

  She’s sitting alone, nursing some fruity blue drink, and Brad grins, wiggling his eyebrows. “This is great; I don’t think she’s working tonight.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to go get a drink; you want me to bring you anything?” He doesn’t answer me, and waves me off as the cute bartender—who’s obviously not working this evening—smiles and winks at him.

  Standing at the bar and waiting for the bartender to bring me a couple of beers, I watch as Brad takes a seat next to his girl. Apparently, my wingman superpowers won’t be needed here tonight. If I’m lucky, I can sneak out soon. Wouldn't that be grand?

  “Here you go.” I hand Brad his beer and take a seat across from his girl. “I’m Devon.” I grin and nod curtly, taking a swig from my beer bottle. I probably don’t come across as very nice right now, but I’m a little irritated. Between the fact my fucking shoulder hurts like a mofo, and I’m clearly not needed anymore, they’re playing some twangy eighties music over the speaker. I’d rather be deaf than listen to this shit. No, scratch that, it’s going to make me go deaf in about five more minutes because I’ll start clawing out my own ears.

  “Relax, man.” Brad leans into me and motions to his friend. “This is Laurie.”

  She smiles and gives a little wave. “Nice to meet you, Devon.”

  She’s definitely cute, and I can see why he’s attracted to her. I’m sure she’s smart, too, because Brad has a thing for that. He’s told me once or twice about coming here to chat her up.

  “Hey, Laurie.” I lean forward and watch Brad’s eyes darken as he furrows his brows. “You good with this fucker?” I nod toward Brad. “‘Cause I’ve gotta go, and I’m supposed to be his wingman.”

  She giggles and makes googly eyes at Brad, then leans forward to talk to me. “I think we’re good, Devon. Thanks. Too bad you can’t stay; I’m meeting my sister here in a few.”

  I shake my head, the noise overwhelming me. “I can’t. This—” I motion toward the ceiling and then to the people on the dance floor line dancing “—sucks balls. I fucking can’t stay here with this shit.”

  She snorts and leans into Brad, holding her hand over her mouth, her face turning red.

  I turn to face Brad, who’s looking at the pretty thing currently clutching onto his shirt and giggling, and he looks as though he’s about to shit his pants. Or come in them. I’d like to think I wouldn’t know the difference.

  With a last salute, I polish off my beer and stand. “It’s been great.” I point to Brad, and in a warning tone add, “You two, be safe.”

  M
y job here is done, and I walk out of the bar, relieved beyond anything that I actually made it without killing anyone. Judging from the twitching going on behind my left eye, I think it’s about time I stop listening to Achy Breaky Heart.

  . . .

  I spend Sunday with an ice pack over my shoulder. I’m not sure what I did to anger it, but fuck, this means I’m going to need help over at the Evans’ house. I hadn’t planned on that this week.

  I call Brad to make sure he’s free. He’s the best I’ve got, and we have a lot of trim work left to do, as well as a custom shelving unit in one of the rooms. This is usually something I can do alone, but seeing as this shoulder isn’t cooperating, I’d rather ask for a hand than risk not delivering on time.

  “Man, Laurie’s sister was a mess,” he starts, when I ask how his Saturday night went.

  “Yeah? So I didn’t miss anything, huh?” I grin, thankful I dodged that bullet, then wince because the shoulder pain is running up my neck and holding the phone in the crook wasn’t the best idea.

  “You missed her by about half an hour, and she was already drunk when she got there,” he states, unaware I’m having a hard time holding on to the phone.

  I put it on speaker and rotate my neck before speaking. “Ha,” I chuckle darkly, a little because of the pain in my neck and a lot because, well, I’m glad I didn’t have to put up with her. “I guess that wasn’t a pleasant night, then.”

  “The poor girl. She’s going through a rough time. Laurie introduced us, but all she did was drink and make comments about the couples dancing together. Apparently, she just went through a messy divorce.”

  “Remind me not to go there.” I shake my head, thinking of how pathetic that must feel. “I bet that put a damper in your evening?”

  “Nah, she was nice just...a little...judgmental. She’s twenty-seven and already has a nasty divorce under her belt. That’s got to suck.”