Fix Her Up (The Fix Book 1) Read online

  Fix Her Up

  The Fix Series, book 1

  Carey Heywood

  Carey Heywood LLC

  Contents

  Dedication

  1. Finley

  2. Noah

  3. Finley

  4. Noah

  5. Finley

  6. Noah

  7. Finley

  8. Noah

  9. Finley

  10. Noah

  11. Finley

  12. Noah

  13. Finley

  14. Noah

  15. Finley

  16. Noah

  17. Finley

  18. Noah

  19. Finley

  20. Noah

  Epilogue

  Him

  1. - Present -

  Also by Carey Heywood

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Fix Her Up (ARC)

  Copyright © Carey Heywood LLC

  All right reserved.

  Editor: Jennifer Van Wyk

  Cover design: Hang Le

  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 Her Up 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.

  Visit my website at www.careyheywood.com

  Fix Her Up

  The Fix Series (book 1)

  If Finley Reeves is an expert at anything, it’s making mistakes. She proved this true by falling for and marrying the wrong man. Ten years later all she has to show for it is a divorce and a broken heart.

  Needing not only to get away, but also to start over somewhere new, she buys a fixer upper that’s one step away from being condemned. Deciding to tackle this project alone might be her biggest mistake of all.

  That is, until Noah Thompson shows up at her front door like a knight in a shining tool belt. Determined she doesn’t need any help she pushes him away until he makes her an offer she’d be crazy to refuse.

  A fun & sexy Contemporary Romance (age 17+)

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  To anyone who thinks they are a fixer upper,

  I think you’re move in ready.

  1

  Finley

  Every adventure has a beginning. I assumed mine would be more glamorous than fishing around my glove compartment for something to blow my nose with. This is the real world though, and viruses could give a crap.

  Success! A napkin!

  The relief that comes from blowing my nose is short lived. The leaky faucet that has taken up residence front and center on my face does nothing but drip, drip, and drip some more.

  My brakes make an embarrassing screech as I pull into a drug store parking lot, narrowly missing a truck.

  Finley Reeves, you need to get your shit together.

  And while you’re at it, stop referring to yourself in the third person.

  The truck successfully avoids me and I lift my hand in a lame apology. It’d be just my luck to get into a car accident this close to the end of my journey. Driving cross-country with the head cold from hell has zapped all my energy. If I didn’t need medicine to kill whatever it is I’ve got, I’d already be at my new house.

  I park toward the back of the lot to leave room for the trailer packed full of all my earthly possessions hooked to the back of my car.

  Grabbing a cart from the entrance, I zombie walk to the medicine aisle and load it full of store brand meds and tissue. On the way to the register, I pause to add a bottle of cheap wine. Sure, I’d rather celebrate with some fancy champagne or something like that. Unfortunately, for the time being, with all of my savings going to buy my house and now to fix it up, spending five bucks on wine is more in my budget.

  When I turn back to the register, I’m annoyed to see the guy I almost hit in the parking lot has beat me to it. If I hadn’t stopped for booze, I’d be on my way by now.

  Instead, I’m waiting behind a guy buying… I lean to one side to see what he set next to the register then force back a groan. He’s buying condoms, two boxes of them.

  That’s just perfect.

  It’s not just perfect; it’s fucking poetic considering why I’m in this predicament. My eyes move to the clerk and I see her attention is fully focused on the guy in front of me. I squint, is she actually drooling? If she offers to help him use all those condoms I’ll be forced to guzzle this bottle of wine right here, right now. That, or knock myself out with the bottle.

  My inspection of her is interrupted when I feel a massive sneeze brewing.

  “I’m opening these now,” I mumble, reaching into my cart and grabbing a box of tissues. “I swear I’ll pay,” I mutter loud enough for the cashier to hear, before loudly blowing my nose.

  The condom guy turns to stare with piercing blue eyes.

  I frown up at him. He unfortunately looks like someone who should be buying lots of condoms. Tall, I’d guess at least six foot, big broad shoulders, framing his athletic build. He’s the All-American dream man with thick light brown hair, just the right amount of facial and a fantastic ass. In fact, he’s almost too perfect. Are hallucinations a side effect of a head cold?

  When he doesn’t start ripping off all of his clothes, I decide he must be real.

  “Do you mind?” I grumble.

  “Feel better,” he replies, and then turns back to the register to take his bag.

  “Thanks,” I mutter.

  The clerk working the register regards my purchases with understanding. “Head cold?”

  I give her a pitiful nod.

  “Can I see your ID?” She asks.

  Head cold or no head cold, I’m still flattered so I don’t argue that I’m thirty-five as I dig it out.

  “So, Finley Wiltshire, what are you doing in New Hampshire?”

  “It’s Reeves, not Wiltshire,” I correct.

  A wrinkle forms between her eyebrows as she points to my license. “It says Wiltshire.”

  My shoulders sag as I shove my used tissue into my pocket. “I just got divorced and haven’t changed it back yet.”

  “Ahh, sorry,” she mutters, handing it back to me.

  “Yep,” I reply bitterly, suddenly in the mood to share. “My ex got a girlfriend and a sports car while I got bronchitis. Sounds fair, right?”

  She lets out a shocked laugh and then offers, “We also carry soup.”

  “Is it laced with whiskey?” I joke.

  Blinking at me, she doesn’t reply and I must be susceptible to suggestion because soup doesn’t sound bad.

  “I’ll hold your stuff here if you want to grab a couple cans,” she says.

  With a longing, I glance over my shoulder to where their grocery type aisles are. Why are they so far away? It’s embarrassing how tired and crappy I feel.

  The clerk takes pity on me. “I’ll grab it for you. Do you want one can or two?”

  I try to smile but the longer I stand, the worse I feel.

  My face hurts, pain radiating from my cheeks to my eye sockets. “Chicken Noodle. Two if you have it.”

  She gives the counter a ra
p with her knuckle before saying, “I’ll be right back.”

  She comes back with two cans of soup and a can of ginger ale. “The ginger ale is on the house. It’s made by a local company and you’ll need something to take all your medicine with.”

  “Thank you,” I murmur, grateful, but feeling guilty for assuming she was drooling over condom guy, maybe she’s just nice.

  It doesn’t take long to pay for my things. Once I’m back in my car I open the cold meds first and wash a dose down with my free ginger ale.

  I lift the can to study the label. Woodlake Ales. That clerk wasn’t joking about it being local. Since this is Woodlake, New Hampshire, my new home.

  All right, it’s time for me to go home.

  It was sold as is. The price was a steal, or highway robbery depending on who you asked. Where every other buyer saw the broken, falling down mess of a house, I saw nothing but potential. I’ve spent the last decade having every decision I made criticized. Here, sink or swim, there will be no one second guessing me.

  It’s my fresh start.

  Now I get to explore the space I’ve memorized from the pictures I clicked online.

  It’s an old Federal style house, its worn siding a sad gray. Seems perfect for me since I’m a bit worn and sad myself.

  The symmetry of the exterior is what called to me, that and all the windows. I can already imagine how light and airy it will be someday.

  If I can do this, fix up this old house, I’ll be giving the both of us a new lease on life.

  My parents are convinced it’s going to be a money pit but I don’t care. It’s all mine. I’m going to fix it up bit by bit even if it takes me a decade to do it.

  It wiped out a good chunk of my renovation budget, but I had the place rewired right after I closed on it. It was the only way I could convince my parents I wasn’t going to die in an electrical fire.

  Soon the cable company is coming to get my internet hooked up. The company I work for approved me to work remotely as long as I have internet.

  Once I found out I could work anywhere, I decided it was time to make a move. My only requirement for my new home was it had to be a house I could buy outright and fix up someplace far, far away.

  Woodlake, New Hampshire was about as far away from Springfield, Texas as I could manage.

  My new to me place has a long drive on the right side, long enough to park my car and the trailer I’m pulling, without it hanging over the sidewalk.

  This place has almost no yard, being the last house on a dead end. I used Google maps to check out the other houses on the block before I bought it, which are in much better condition.

  My hope, and what I talked my parents into was because of that, this will be a safe place to live. Not that I needed their permission, I’m thirty-five years old. I have a great job.

  My parents are under the impression that I’m having a mid-life crisis of some sort. I always thought that was reserved for men who suddenly get divorced, buy a sports car and start dating women half their age, pretty much what my ex-husband, Allen, did.

  I got our old house in the divorce. It was our negotiation as long as I didn’t pursue alimony.

  He didn’t want me anymore, so I don’t want his money. Me, I just wanted something new, something that wasn’t tainted by memories of him. They think I might be a little crazy for making this move but they love me so they’re trying to be as supportive as they can.

  I kill the ignition and grab my purse before I climb out. The afternoon sun caresses my skin, so different here than this time of day back in Texas. With a press to my key fob, I lock the doors and make my way to my front porch.

  My new yard, small as it is, is completely overgrown. The stone path from the driveway is hard to navigate, with weeds as high as my knees on either side. There’s another entrance at the end of the drive that leads directly into the kitchen.

  With luck, that one will be in better shape. Since I drove from Texas and wasn’t sure when I’d get here, the Realtor left me the key in a lockbox attached to a door. I assumed it would be on the front one. After fighting through all the weeds, I learn the hard way she must have attached it to the kitchen door.

  Groaning, I make my way back to the drive and then to the other entrance. When I get there, I’m relieved to see the box and use the combination she texted me to open it. Inside it, there’s not one key, but four, all labeled: Front, Kitchen, Back and Shed.

  Using the key labeled Kitchen, I let myself in. The first thing that hits me is the musty smell. It’s a mixture of wet and mothballs and not even remotely pleasant.

  There’s a window over the sink. I try to open it. Ugh, painted shut. I move farther into my new house and try a window in the den. The same is true for it.

  I wave the air in front of my nose.

  Seriously, as congested as I am, I can’t imagine how bad this place smells normally. Going from room to room, I manage to open windows in the living room, the dining room and the back door.

  Thankfully, the fresh air helps with the smell. Hoping that the smell isn’t an indication of the state of the house, I slowly turn, looking around the dingy room and let out a pitiful groan at the sight before me.

  It’s not just bad, it’s BAD.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  Doors hang from their hinges, and the floor creaks ominously with each step I take.

  Before I bought the house, I had an inspection done, even though I knew I was getting it as is. The foundation was good and I took that as a sign that this house was the right one for me.

  Sure, just about everything else in this house needs to be restored or replaced. Someone stopped caring about this place a long time ago, and that’s something I can relate to.

  I walk back out to my car. I can unpack my trailer tomorrow so I can drop it off at a local U-Haul place. For now, I have enough stuff to camp out on the first floor. I grab my backpack and a duffle bag from the backseat.

  The little bit of furniture I have I’m not unloading tonight. The exception to this is what’s in my duffle, and a queen size air mattress. I plug it in so it can start filling. It’s going to be my bed, sofa, and most of my other furniture for the time being.

  Setting both on the floor inside the kitchen door, I turn around to get one more thing from the trunk of my car, my microwave.

  I sneeze twice from my car to the kitchen door, each time clutching my microwave to my chest to avoid dropping it.

  Once I have it inside I set it on countertop closest to the door and plug it in.

  Then I stick my hand out the door and relock my car.

  Pulling my phone from my pocket, I walk to the living room as it rings. My mom answers right away.

  “Hey Finley,” she greets.

  “Hi Mama,” I reply.

  “Honey, have you taken any medicine? You sound like hell.”

  My nose starts stinging and it’s not from an impending sneeze. “It’s just a cold, Mom. It sounds way worse than it feels.” I hope she can’t tell I’m lying over the phone so I keep talking. “I stopped to get more medicine and soup.”

  “Make sure you drink lots of fluids. It will flush that cold right out of you,” she presses.

  Fluids are my mom’s cure for everything. She is as anti-dehydration as it gets. Her words remind me of the ginger ale I left sitting in the cup holder of my car. Heading for the door, I grab my keys. If I don’t get it now I’ll forget about it. If I forget about it and have to throw it away because it got all gross and stale, I’ll feel guilty for wasting it.

  “Are you walking around?” My mom asks.

  “Yeah, I was sitting all day in the car and I forgot my drink in it. I’m trying to be a good girl and stay hydrated.”

  It’s weird but after only a few times moving in and out of the kitchen door it already feels familiar. When I come back through it, ginger ale in hand, I give the door an extra hard tug. This saves me from having to yank on it twice to close it.

  “
Don’t forget that case of bottled water we got you from the bulk store.” My mom, the Queen of subtle reminders.

  “It’s in the trailer. I’ll unpack it tomorrow,” I promise.

  She pauses, which I’m guessing means she’s holding back from telling me to get the water right now. Instead, she says, “So, how is the house? Your daddy and I can’t wait to fly out and see it. Have you changed your mind about making us wait?”

  “Mom,” I groan.

  “Alright, alright. Just pretend I didn’t bring it up, okay?”

  Here comes the guilt.

  “It’s just that my baby girl is now thousands of miles away and it has been years, years, since I haven’t seen you at least once a week. I know this is what you need to do. I’m just going to miss you.”

  “Mom.” This time it’s not a groan but a whisper.

  This is the only part I hate about moving away. I love my family. My parents and I are close and have always been. My leaving Springfield had nothing to do with them and everything to do with me.

  “Your dad is pestering me for the phone so I’m going to put him on now. I love you baby.”

  “I love you too, Mom,” I sniffle, balling the hand not holding my phone into a fist, the bite of my nails into my palm keeping my tears at bay.

  “Hey Finny. How was the drive? Did you hit any traffic?”

  God, I love my dad. He is, and will always be obsessed with road conditions. He about had a coronary when I told them I was moving to New Hampshire and pretty much forbade me from attempting to drive in the snow.

  “It wasn’t too bad, Dad,” I chuckle.

  “You still sound all stuffy. You taking anything for it?”

  I roll my eyes but I do it with a smile. “It’s just a cold, Dad. Don’t worry.”

  “Never going to happen,” he replies and damn it my nose starts stinging again.

  “How’s your weekend going?” I change the subject, not wanting to cry.