Hot Maine Men Boxed Set (Hot Maine Men Series, Books 1 & 2)

by Remy Rose

  “Here’s some examples.” I hand him the folder and he looks through the printed pages. I take the opportunity to stare at him and decide he is growing more attractive by the second.

  He nods. “These are all very nice. I see that you like soaker tubs.”

  “Yes. I was thinking maybe under the window? I’d like it to be big, if possible.”

  “I’m sure you would.”

  Excuse me?

  The mischief is back in his eyes again, lightening them and creating a flurry of sparks in my belly.

  It takes two to flirt, I tell myself firmly. If you don’t, he can’t.

  “Most women do,” he continues, his voice smooth as melted butter. “Want it big.” He’s practically fondling me with his eyes, and just when I feel like I’m no longer able to breathe, he takes a step toward the door. “Let me have a look at your bedroom.”

  I swallow hard. This time, I follow and am able to take in the flip side of Jackson Decker, free from the distraction of his penetrating blue orbs. Broad shoulders, strong back, tapered waist—and a firm, muscular ass that fills out his Carhartt jeans in such a way that it’s impossible to look and not want to grope.

  And oh look, here we are in my bedroom. With a bed. That I neglected to make this morning. Sunlight pours in through the double windows, throwing golden bars of light across the rumpled silk sheets. This further unsettles me, because I am so not the rumpled type. I am a smooth, reserved, in control, make your bed and tuck in the corners type of woman. And yet this morning, with the arrival of Jackson Decker, I have been none of those things.

  He is looking at my sleigh bed and nodding. “Gorgeous piece. I love antiques.”

  “Thank you—I do, too. Sorry about the unmade bed.” I move over to it, flipping the sheet and the sage green comforter over the pillows.

  “I am totally fine about seeing your unmade bed, Madeline.”

  Just his voice alone makes me shiver, but hearing him say my name in his warm caramel voice...it’s like he’s caressing the syllables. It feels meaningful, personal—and that he used the word bed in the same sentence…

  Madeline. My inner voice, abrupt and harsh. STOP. You are not a fifteen year old girl with stars in her eyes. You are a twenty-seven-year-old woman with a backbone and a brain and a scarred heart.

  Remembering that last part gives me strength, and Jesus, I need it, because he’s looking at me as though he can see straight through me, as though he knows what I’m feeling for him.

  “So what do you think?” I hear myself saying. Good girl, Mads! You can do this! “Can you get me some more bathroom space out of this room?”

  “Absolutely.” Setting his iPad on the top of my bureau, he turns to look at the wall behind him, plucking his tape measure off his pants pocket and extending the blade on the floor. “This wall right here isn’t load-bearing...we can move it three or four feet this way and free up some space for the bathroom. I can frame in a door here and block off the door from the hallway. We can rearrange your fixtures. With this size bedroom, you won’t even notice the wall’s been moved. And you’ll have your palatial en suite.” He swings his gaze toward me again, one eyebrow raised, and takes some more measurements.

  I am quite sure he is mocking me. “Palatial?”

  “That’s what you’re going for, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know if a bigger bathroom constitutes palatial, Mr. Decker.”

  “Jack.”

  “Why do I feel like you’re insulting me?”

  “I assure you, I’m not. I just know women like you, and I know that one of the things women like you want is a palatial bathroom. Or spa. Or en suite.”

  “Wait—women like me? What do you mean by that?”

  “Women who like the finer things in life—stone tile, earth tones, granite vanities, towel warmers.”

  “Do you assess all your clients this way?”

  “Only the female ones.”

  “Because...”

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? They interest me more. They’re entertaining.”

  “So when you’re working for a woman you’re interested in, you are also judging her.”

  “I wouldn’t call it judging. It’s more like seeing if she fits where I think she does. Categorizing.”

  “And after meeting me and talking with me for just a few minutes, you believe you know where I ‘fit.’ What I want, what I like. That’s quite presumptuous of you, don’t you think, Mr. Decker?”

  His eyes are a soft, soft blue, his smile almost tender. He folds his arms in front of him, and I refuse to notice that this movement accentuates his muscles. “Let’s just say I’ve arrived at a place in my life, Ms. Callaway, where I’m able to read women very well.”

  I am trembling. Trying like hell to stop, but I can’t, because I am standing in my bedroom with an infuriatingly gorgeous man who is making me feel things I don’t understand. My voice is shaky when I speak. “If you know me so well, tell me what I’m thinking right now.”

  Jackson Decker takes three steps forward until we are toe-to-toe, work boot to bare foot. So close I can smell his peppermint breath and the heady aroma of deodorant mingled with clean male. I have to tip my head way back to look him in the eye.

  “You are thinking that you’ve never been so conflicted in your life. You think I’m an egocentric prick, but that I’m the sexiest egocentric prick you’ve ever laid eyes on. You don’t know if you want to slap me across the face or grab me by the hair and pull me toward you for the longest, deepest, most toe-curling kiss you’ve ever had. You’re wondering how the hell you’re going to have me work in your house for the next few weeks and keep your hands off me. You’re imagining how I’d fuck you—if I’d bend you over your couch, or push you down on your bed, or take you up against a wall. The answer is all of the above. And you’re shocked not only that I’m talking to you this way—but that you like it.”

  I cannot breathe. I cannot speak or move or think. My whole body is pulsing, throbbing, burning with want for this man I don’t even know. His eyes are blue flames, his nostrils flaring slightly and his t-shirt stretching across his chest with his breathing. I raise my chin, simultaneously yearning for and fearing that he will kiss me, but just then, Murphy jumps up on the bed with a loud meow, startling both of us and breaking the almost unbearable tension. Never have I been so grateful for that cat. Or so disappointed.

  Conflicted. Just like Jackson Decker said.

  His face softens and he chuckles as he runs his hand along the cat’s back. Murphy is purring and oblivious. Jackson is still grinning as he takes his iPad off my bedside table.

  “I’ll email you my estimate tonight. It was very nice meeting you, Madeline. And your cat. After I hear back from you, I’ll be here Monday morning, 7 a.m.”

  I watch as he walks out of my bedroom, listen to the stairs creaking with the weight of his steps. I’ll be here Monday morning? Like he’s so sure I’ll be okay with his estimate, that I’ll want him to come back after what just happened?

  As I sit shakily on the edge of my bed, Murphy rubbing his head on my arm, I know two things: one, Jackson Decker is right. And two:

  I’m.

  So.

  Fucked.

  Chapter 3 ~ Jack

  July 10

  I want to tap that.

  This is what I’m thinking as I head back down Newbury Neck toward my house in Otis, so I can pick up a couple tools and go to my next job. Jesus, I want to tap that woman. I’m still shaking my head about how off I was on my prediction: basically, the only thing I got right was that she wears her hair in a bun. Madeline Callaway was shorter than I thought, probably 5’4” at most, more athletic than angular, hair the color of mahogany and large, dark eyes that seemed to be searching for something. Her skin was tanned, not pale like I’d envisioned, and her high cheekbones and the few freckles spattered across her nose gave her a little-girl quality that made me clench up inside. I may be off on her age, too—she seems younger than thi
rty, although she was trying like hell to come across as worldly and sophisticated. Kind of a hard sell, with the coffee stains on her white shirt. Made me laugh, seeing her so keyed up about that, which somehow made her even cuter—although something tells me she’d want to smack anyone who called her cute. The coffee on her shirt gave me a chance to look at her tits, which were firm and high and just the right size, and Christ, I wanted to put my hands on her. I felt my cock respond the second she opened the door. Her reaction got to me, too—wide-eyed and flustered. Definitely rattled but working hard to cover it up. She hadn’t expected me to look like I do, and it went both ways. I’ve met a lot of attractive women, but Madeline...her classy beauty, the way she kept smoothing back her hair like she was trying to keep herself together, how her big brown eyes had trouble meeting mine...she’s in a league of her own. And when we went upstairs and I could take in her killer booty—the sweet crescents of her ass cheeks below her shorts—I had all I could do not to put my hands on her hips, turn her around and fuck her right there on the stairs.

  Restraint was the wise choice. No way I’d jeopardize a short-term relationship with her by moving too fast. I might have been ready, but she wasn’t. Soon, though. No doubt.

  A half hour later, I’m pulling into my driveway on Beech Hill Pond—my happy place. Contemporary house with lots of windows overlooking the lake—a far cry from the high-rise condo on western Promenade in Portland that I used to own. I’m good with giving up amenities like my security access card and the smell of chlorine from the indoor swimming pool, and I’m great with having a shower that’s not cluttered with 600 different brands of shampoos and the drain clogged with chemically-enhanced blonde hair. Nope, not going to go there right now. I’m in too good of a mood, thanks to Ms. Callaway.

  Before I head to the garage for my hammer drill and circular saw, I’ve got to take a quick look at the photos I took with my iPad. Kind of a creeper move, but I made sure to get Madeline in a few of them. I tap on the photo icon and open one of the bedroom pictures. There she is, standing sideways to me with her arms kind of hugging herself. There’s a definite flush in her cheeks, and she’s looking down at the floor at nothing in particular. I’m thinking cute again, but also sexy as hell. You can’t get much hotter than a gorgeous woman who you just know is typically the self-assured type but whose cool exterior crumbles in the presence of someone she’s attracted to.

  I want to shake her up even more. And I plan to.

  I figure this project will take a few weeks. I’ll bounce back and forth between that one and the one I’m going to now, a Cape in Holden owned by an eccentric, retired college professor whose wife just passed away. He wants to put his house on the market and it needs some repairs before he lists it.

  I touch another photo—this one of her facing me, her rich brown eyes almost earnest. Her unblemished skin, her delicate features—Jesus, she’s lovely. It surprises me, too, how vulnerable and unassuming she looks in this shot. With her owning an oceanfront home, and going by my past experiences with women, I had Madeline Callaway pegged as cold and pretentious. All that changed the moment I stepped into her house. I’ve found that houses have a definite feeling—from the décor and just an overall vibe of their owners’ personalities. Madeline’s house, with its ocean-hued living room of blues and greens, sailboat paintings and photographs of rocks, its sunny yellow and white kitchen and cool tile, made me feel calm. I guess I’d even call it soothed. And I don’t soothe easily.

  I realize I don’t really know her—she could have some hidden, undesirable tendencies or turn out to be a first-class bitch. God knows, I’ve been fooled before. But over the past couple years, I’ve become more savvy when it comes to women. I hope my first impression holds, so I can enjoy what will undoubtedly be a satisfying, short-term relationship in a long string of satisfying, short-term relationships.

  I take one last look at the photos before heading to my garage.

  She makes me smile.

  Chapter 4 ~ Madeline

  July 12

  “When you invited me over for coffee, you really meant mimosas, right?” Delaney is grinning at me from behind her sunglasses. We’re out by the water on chaise lounges, soaking up the sun on a glorious, picture-perfect Sunday morning.

  “Of course. Mimosas are healthier, anyway.” I swing my legs off my chair and get up to walk toward the house.

  Delaney snickers as she follows. “Right.”

  “I’m not sure what I have for fruit...”

  She waves her hand at me. “No worries, Maddie-cakes. It’s not about the fruit. Or the juice.”

  Once inside the house, Laney goes to the refrigerator, taking out the carton of orange juice and then peering into the fruit drawer. “Ooh, I spy strawberries! Perfect.”

  She’s opening the cupboard beneath the sink to get a cutting board. I love that she knows where everything is in my kitchen. We’ve been best friends since college, living on the 4th floor in Somerset at the University of Maine. Both of us were business majors, and I went the realty route while she ended up selling machined products (and as she puts it, her soul) for a company in Ellsworth. She once told me it was basically like laying beneath a hairy fat man and faking an orgasm from 9 to 5.

  Delaney is one of those women who other women initially hate, because she’s impossibly beautiful—we’re talking naturally curly/naturally blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes and a heart-shaped face. But when you find out how whip-smart and hilarious she is, any petty jealousy is squelched, and hating her isn’t an option anymore. Although at times, you still really, really want to.

  As true best friends will do, she’s been with me in the worst of times, like during my unexpected divorce a couple years ago, where she put me to bed numerous weekends after my solo parties with Jose Cuervo, and she was there in the morning brewing black coffee. She loves me enough to be honest, like when I’m wearing pants that are just a little too tight (okay, no...I can see your vagina), she refuses to allow me to get bangs no matter how much I beg her, and even though she’s one of the least hateful people I know, she hates my ex more than I do. Which is really saying something.

  I go down into my basement to retrieve a bottle of Brut Cuvée. I haven’t told Delaney about meeting Jackson Decker yesterday, and I feel surprisingly nervous about it. I don’t want her to read more into it than there is, and maybe part of my anxiety is because I don’t want to read any more into it, either. She knows I don’t fall easily for people, and I’ve made it clear I’ve basically sworn off relationships for the unforeseeable future. So if I do say anything, I’ll have to be careful and do my best not to sound like a high school girl telling her BFF that the football captain sat with her in study hall.

  There’s more to my apprehension. The other thing that’s stressing me out is that I haven’t responded to Jackson’s email. I know I need to, and it’s ridiculous that I haven’t, but I’m hesitating because I’m…

  Scared. Terrified, actually.

  The estimate was very reasonable—less than I’d anticipated. The issue is that Jack Decker is more than I’d anticipated. Much more. The very thought that this man will be in my house for the next two to three weeks makes my pulse pound, my stomach clench, and other parts of me do other things. I have always known how to handle attractive men and keep them at bay. But I have no idea how to handle this one.

  Laney looks up at me from cutting strawberries and nods in approval at the bottle of champagne. I stand on my tiptoes to take down two crystal flutes (wedding gift) from the cupboard and open the breadbox to get two fresh bagels. We go back to the beach with our drinks and food on trays and settle against our pool chairs with contented sighs.

  “God, I love summer,” Laney says, sipping at her mimosa. “You’re on vacation this week, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Weather forecast looks great.”

  “I know. I’m glad.”

  “It’s about time for your ’rents to visit, isn’t it?”

&n
bsp; My parents live in Arizona and usually spend a good part of July visiting me. Because of Dad’s upcoming hip replacement, they won’t be coming this year. And although I love them dearly, I have to say I’m not sorry they’re staying put, given the recent developments with my, um, renovation.

  God forgive me for being even just a little bit glad my father has a bad hip.

  “No, they’re not going to come this summer...Dad’s surgery, remember?”

  “Oh, that’s right. Do you have any plans, or just hanging out here?”

  “Hanging out. Maybe a day trip here and there. Downtown Bar Harbor to shop.”

  “Not that you need to go anywhere, with this place.”

  “True. I feel very lucky. And you’re welcome any time. I love having you here.”

  Delaney blows me a kiss and smiles. “Thanks. I love you lots.”

  Now I feel an uncontrollable urge to tell her about Jack. Part of me thinks that if I talk about him, it’ll take away some of the mystique and normalize it. I mean, people have good-looking men renovate their houses all the time, and they don’t get all fluttery and stupid about it.

  I chew my bagel purposefully and swallow, hoping my voice won’t betray me. “Did I tell you I’m having the upstairs bathroom renovated?”

  “No, you didn’t. That’s cool. What are you having done to it?”

  “Enlarging it. It’s always felt a little small to me. I’m getting a bigger tile shower, big tub.”

  “I detect a theme here. But bigger is usually better.”

  Like six foot five men with huge work boots.

  “Ha! Truth.”

  “When is that going to happen?”

  “The guy said he could start tomorrow. He—he came over yesterday to do an estimate.”

  “Well, that’s good. So tomorrow?”

  “I guess. I need to email him tonight.”

  “You sound a little hesitant. Was he expensive?”