Fix Me Not

  Fix Me Not

  The Fix Series (book 2)

  Carey Heywood

  Carey Heywood LLC

  Fix Me Not

  Paige Sullivan's life is a train wreck.

  In a matter of months she lost her business, her swanky apartment, and her big city life. Now she's stuck in Nowhere, New Hampshire, sleeping on her mom's couch. If that wasn't bad enough, she's forced to do odd jobs for money. She has a plan though, and once she's saved enough, she's out of there. That is, as long as she doesn't murder her sexy new employer first.

  Asher Thompson is the ruggedly handsome hermit of the Thompson clan. Tall, ridiculously sexy despite his beard, and annoyingly aloof, his main concern is his privacy. He fills his days with his work as a carpenter and the peaceful solitude of his lake house. A peaceful solitude that vanished the moment Paige Sullivan stormed into his life, hell-bent on driving him crazy.

  The problem is, opposites attract and each time they cross paths she works her way further under his skin.

  Fix Me Not

  Copyright © Carey Heywood LLC

  All right reserved.

  Cover Design: Hang Le

  Editing: Jennifer Van Wyk

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher are illegal and the punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Fix Me Not is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Also by Carey Heywood

  1. Asher

  2. Paige

  3. Asher

  4. Paige

  5. Asher

  6. Paige

  7. Asher

  8. Paige

  9. Asher

  10. Paige

  11. Asher

  12. Paige

  13. Asher

  14. Paige

  15. Asher

  16. Paige

  17. Asher

  18. Paige

  19. Asher

  20. Paige

  21. Asher

  Epilogue

  Fix My Fall

  1. Abby

  Also by Carey Heywood

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Carey Heywood

  The Fix Series

  Fix Her Up (Finley & Noah)

  Fix Me Not (Paige & Asher)

  Fix My Fall (Abby & Spencer)

  My Perfect Fix (Lucy & Gideon)

  A Fix Fling Novella (Heather & Malcolm)

  * * *

  Him & Her Series

  Him (book 1)

  Her (book 2)

  Them (book 3)

  Sawyer Says (spin off)

  Being Neighborly (spin off novella)

  * * *

  Carolina Days

  The Other Side of Someday (Courtney & Clay)

  Yesterday’s Half Truths (Lindsay & Luke)

  Chasing Daylight (McKenzie & Mitch)

  * * *

  Love Riddles

  Why Now? (Kacey & Jake)

  Why Lie? (Sydney & Heath)

  Why Not? (Reilly & Trip)

  * * *

  Standalones

  Better

  Stages of Grace

  Uninvolved

  A Bridge of Her Own

  * * *

  Audiobooks

  Him

  Her

  Better

  Dedication

  To Aunt Ruth and Uncle Lester,

  Thank you for always making New Hampshire feel like a second home to me.

  One

  Asher

  The door squeaks as it opens behind me, but I keep my attention focused on the cabinet in front of me.

  My hands continue to work as I say, “Hey Millie.”

  “Hi Asher. I wanted to let you know you got some mail. I set it on the kitchen table.”

  I use a P.O. Box in town since it's a pain in the ass to get mail delivered here.

  “Thanks Millie. Do you need a hand bringing in anything?”

  Out of politeness, every week I ask her, and every week she says no.

  Millie has been my housekeeper for the last couple of years. Now she also picks up my mail and gets my groceries before she comes to clean.

  Because of her, except for rare occasions, I never have to leave this place, which is just how I like it. My house, my workshop, and a cabin for the people I want to see, that's all I need.

  “No, I've got it,” she replies, and then asks, “are you having any friends come to the cabin this week?”

  Her question doesn't surprise me. My older brother and his fiancée Finley have been staying at the guest cabin a lot recently. Noah is using Finley’s love of this place as an excuse to check up on me. I don't mind their company, even if seeing the way they are together has made me more aware of how empty this place can sometimes feel.

  “No, it's just me this week.”

  She pauses for a few beats, long enough for me to lift my head to glance over my shoulder at her. She motions for me to get back to work. “All right, Asher, I shouldn't be very long, but I'll pop in to say goodbye before I leave.”

  She's gone before I can reply so I return to my project. When I'm working on something, I can lose track of time. The people closest to me are used to this now, and it doesn't bother them. In the past, it caused issues in my relationships with people.

  I don’t really know why I hate attention; it’s just never been something I was comfortable with. Being a part of a large family brought it on naturally and for me I always wanted to be in the shadows instead. Over time my family has come to understand that it’s my nature to prefer a quiet existence.

  Even now, I’m so focused on the cabinet that I’m working on I don't realize Millie hasn't come to say goodbye. I’m not sure how much time has passed since we spoke, but considering the amount of work I've completed, enough for me to set down the rag I was using to stain the cabinet.

  Not saying goodbye isn't like Millie. One of the things I like about her is how steady and predictable she is. Well into her fifties, possibly her sixties, her presence never bothers me. There were times, in the beginning, where she’d pleasantly gossip about people I didn't know and tell me stories about her husband who, sadly, passed away before I met her.

  I never replied but that never seemed to bother her as she talked away. Over time she came to understand my habits and if I'm in my workshop, she saves her stories for another week. I don’t mind being the listening ear and she seems to like having me around to talk to.

  My workshop is connected to my house by a breezeway. I built it after my first winter of walking back-and-forth between the two. I don't miss the days of shoveling and having to pull on a winter coat and boots just to walk next door.

  I still have to plow my drive so Millie can reach me after it snows, but that comes with living this far out.

  Once I'm inside my house I call out, “Millie.” I wait a few seconds but get no response. The breezeway connects to the kitchen, and I see whatever groceries she brought in she’s already put away. I head to the main living area and glance out the window. Her Explorer is still parked in my drive. Moving to the stairs I ca
ll out her name again. This time there is a response, a weak groan.

  I take the stairs two at a time to reach the top. “Millie?”

  Her groan sounds like it’s coming from the spare bathroom. I find her on the floor of the bathroom that connects to the room, her leg twisted to one side and bleeding from her temple. I close the distance between us and fall to my knees beside her.

  My heart thunders in my chest. “Millie, Millie, look at me. I’m here. Are you okay?”

  She gives me a weak nod.

  “Does anything other than your leg or head hurt?”

  “No,” she mouths.

  To keep them from shaking, I fist my hands. “Don't you worry. We’ll get you taken care of.”

  It's pointless to call an ambulance; they’ll never be able to find my house and the wait would be too long. I need to get her to the hospital.

  “Millie, I’m going to go open the doors to my Cherokee. I'll be right back.”

  She gives me a weak nod and I race back downstairs. Once I have the front propped open and my Jeep ready for her, I hurry back to her side.

  Scooping her up gently, I carry her in my arms and slowly, carefully make my way back down to the first floor and to the passenger side.

  “My pocketbook is in my car,” she rasps once I have her settled in the seat.

  I blink in confusion not sure why she’d care about her purse right now but don't argue with her. Luckily, her Explorer is unlocked. I grab her bag and climb into the driver’s seat. Without a word, I set it between us and take off.

  There's little I can do to avoid the potholes and bumps along the backcountry roads. Still, I try to make the drive as smooth as possible, cringing each time she hisses in pain as I go over a bump or have to turn to maneuver around a bend.

  I'm certain her leg is broken and there's a good chance she has a concussion. Scared that she'll lose consciousness, I talk more than I ever have before, in an effort to keep her from passing out.

  “Millie, I need you to keep talking to me, okay?”

  “Okay Asher. I’m sorry for all of this.”

  My hands tighten on the steering wheel. “There’s nothing to apologize for. All I’m worried about right now is you. What happened?”

  “I was dusting and stood on the toilet to try and get a cobweb when I lost my balance. I think I hit my head on the vanity when I fell.”

  Well, that’ll do it. Before I have a chance to say anything she keeps talking.

  “Asher, I need you to call Paige,” she says, then winces in pain.

  “Paige?” I ask, knowing that her daughter, who lives in New York City as a big shot executive, isn’t someone who she’s close with.

  “She’s at my house,” she replies.

  Grateful that I don't have to ask her for the number I use the voice command to dial it for me.

  “Hello.”

  I have no time to consider the melodious quality of the voice that answers.

  “Is this Paige?” I ask.

  “Yes, can I help you?” she replies.

  My eyes shift from the road to her mother. “This is Asher Thompson. I'm on the way to the hospital with your mom.”

  “What happened? Is she alright?” she asks, her first question leading right into the next.

  “I'm not sure how she fell, but I think she may have broken her leg and hit her head on something. Can you meet us at the hospital? She asked me to call you.”

  “Of course,” she replies, “I'm on my way.”

  I don't bother with goodbyes and hang up. My attention needs to be on the road and getting Millie to the hospital safely. Instead of parking I pull right up to the emergency room entrance.

  “I'm getting help,” I tell Millie, who nods weakly in response.

  Dashing inside I catch the attention of the woman behind the admittance desk. “I need help. I think my friend’s leg is broken and she hurt her head. I need a doctor, a wheelchair… something.”

  She springs into action, coming around the table, and barking an order to someone behind her. He turns to grab a wheelchair before following us.

  “Sir, are you related to her?” She asks.

  I shake my head.

  When we reach the SUV she directs her next question to Millie. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  When Millie only blinks at her, I say, “It’s Millie Sullivan.”

  “I fell off the toilet,” Millie groans.

  “She was standing on it,” I clarify.

  As they help me get Millie inside, I quickly explain how I found her.

  Once we’re inside and in front of a set of double doors the nurse stops me. “Only family is allowed back here, we’ll need you to wait in the waiting area.”

  “Her daughter is on her way.”

  That news seems to appease her enough for her to smile at me before she disappears through the door with Millie.

  I leave, only to park my Cherokee in the lot so it won't get towed away while I wait. Then, I return and begin to pace nervously back-and-forth across the small room.

  The few other people waiting glance up to look at me. I ignore their stares, my mind focused on the fact that sweet little Millie would climb up onto anything to try and dust away cobwebs.

  She could've asked me for a stepstool or for my help. Sure I pay her to clean my house and get my mail and groceries, but I don't like the idea of her having to climb up on things to clean. Maybe I should stop being lazy and do it myself.

  Enough time has passed that my pacing is only increasing my agitation. I sit in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs. Now, my body is still, only my eyes shifting from the entrance to the emergency room and back to the door that they took Millie through. The whole time I’m wondering where in the hell her daughter is. Knowing approximately how far Millie lives from the hospital I can only assume Paige couldn't have left right when I called.

  As if in answer to my silent question, the automatic doors of the emergency room part and a woman who must be Millie's daughter walks in. Even though I've never met Paige, and have never seen a picture of her I'm certain she's Millie's daughter. The resemblance, despite their obvious difference in years, is uncanny.

  She’s small like Millie; from across the room I'd have to guess almost a full foot shorter than me. Where Millie's formerly blonde hair has now faded to a silvery gray, her daughter's platinum hair falls softly to graze the tops of her shoulders. Intuition, not physical evidence, tells me she also shares Millie's soft gray blue eyes.

  She also shares the same heart shape of her face and pert round nose, but where Millie's mouth is always settled into a soft smile, Paige’s seems to be set in a permanent smirk.

  My gaze travels the length of her, taking in what, to me, seems like an unusual clothing choice to come see her mother in the emergency room. Still to wear a business suit to a hospital seems odd to me, since it took her a while to get here.

  Her eyes move across the people in the waiting room, moving right over me even though I know she sees me. She moves to the admittance desk and I stand.

  Crossing the room to join her, I say, “I'm Asher. We spoke on the phone.”

  She turns, her eyes landing on my chest before moving up, up, up to my face. Once they settle on mine, she gulps and blinks simultaneously before giving her head a small shake and offering me her hand.

  “Hello.”

  Her greeting is both crisp and formal; somehow Paige Sullivan can make a hello sound like a dismissal. She turns her attention back to the woman behind the desk.

  “Can I go back to see my mother?” She asks.

  The woman stands to walk her back and I have to move to get out of Paige’s way. As she moves past me, her eyes settle on me once again as if to ask what are you still doing here?

  “Can I give you my number?” I blurt.

  She rocks to a halt, her blonde hair swinging. “Excuse me?”

  “I'd like to know how Millie is doing.” I explain.

  Her smirk returns. “I'm s
ure your number is in my mom’s phone. I'll make sure one of us updates you.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her but feel like she didn’t really mean her promise.

  She turns without another word and follows the woman back behind the door to where her mother is being treated. Frowning, I watch her go, annoyed at the brush off she just gave me. There are not that many people I feel comfortable around. Knowing one of them is hurt and there isn't much else I can do about it is unsettling. Worse, I don't know how long she lay there, hurt, while I was engrossed in my work.

  On the car ride back to my house, our meeting replays in my mind. From Millie's stories about her daughter, I knew they weren't close, I just didn't expect for their personalities to be so different.

  Whereas Millie is sweet and unassuming, dressed in comfortable clothes probably all from L.L. Bean, her daughter was abrasive and designer from head to toe. Even I, an admittedly clueless about fashion guy could see her clothes screamed money.

  I'm used to feeling like I don’t fit into my surroundings, but I've never seen someone stick out as much as Paige did in that emergency room.

  I wonder how long she's been staying with Millie, and if Millie would have shared if I hadn’t been working. The last time Paige stayed with her, it was all Millie spoke about in the weeks leading up to the visit. The fact that Paige is here now and Millie didn't say anything about it was weird.

  I think of little else on my drive home and when I pull up in front of my house, seeing Millie's car parked there is an unhappy reminder I won't soon forget.