by Barbara Lohr
Table of Contents
Still Not Over You
Licensing Rights
Dedication
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
Epilogue
Read On!
More Books by Barbara Lohr
About the Author
A Word from the Author
Still Not Over You
By Barbara Lohr
Licensing Rights
Copyright © 2017 Barbara Lohr
All rights reserved.
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-945523-07-6
Purple Egret Press
Cover Art: The Killion Group
Editor: The Editing Hall
Dedication
For my husband Ted,
his enduring support and fun-loving spirit.
Couldn’t do this without you.
Chapter 1
Phoebe Hunicutt sat in her backyard watching the light fade from the Michigan sky. Pine trees rustled in the late May breeze while a sliver of the moon rose between the branches. She sniffed. The rich smell of spring hung in the air. Soon summer would creep softly through the dunes and doors of Michigan. Heavy jackets, wet wool and the long, cold winter would be only a memory.
Resort wear would fill the windows of the Gull Harbor stores. Restaurants would be frantic with waiting lists, and anyone who wanted ice cream would have to cool their heels outside the Swirly Top. Even Phoebe’s business picked up once Chicago people poured into the summer homes. After all, women needed their hair done.
But this summer Phoebe wanted more than women’s chatter and the smell of perm solution. Propping her feet on the crumbling fire pit, Phoebe sipped her iced tea and studied her toes. Maybe she’d paint them mauve to match her hair.
Whoopee do. A change in nail color. That was her summer excitement?
Today had been crazy busy at the salon. Her back ached and so did her feet. Taking another cold gulp, she captured an ice cube and let it melt on her tongue. If she weren't so darned tired, she’d wander down to the beach, only a block away. The sound of restless waves carried on the evening breeze, seductive and soothing. A short walk along the sand in bare feet? Tonight she didn't have it in her.
Setting her glass down, Phoebe massaged her neck. What was wrong? Was it the argument she'd gotten into with Sarah Mae Gary who didn't like her color one bit? “I wanted subtle. And this lime green is not subtle.” Sarah had the nerve to shake a finger in Phoebe’s face.
Ever since her divorce, Sarah Mae could qualify for the Wicked Witch of the West. Why didn't she switch to one of those fancy salons up in St. Joe, Michigan? No, instead she had to stay local and poke the bear. Phoebe didn’t ever want to be like Sarah Mae. A touchy single lady who went ballistic over nothing. Sure, divorce was difficult. Who knew that better than her? Better to get busy than to get mad. That’s what her daddy always said.
Looking around, Phoebe sized up her yard. The fire pit needed work, and her wooden chaise lounge was rotting, its green cushion splitting at the seams. The hedges were overgrown. She had more weeds than flowers, and her grass hadn’t been mowed in a month. Her yard was a mess. She came home too darn tired to do much about it.
And then there was her sweet cottage. Well, their cottage. Brown paint peeled from the siding in strips, and the white trim looked just as bad. Buckets dotted the floor of the side screened porch to catch leaks when it rained. The whole place was falling apart. Even Fernando, the metal pink flamingo guarding the back door, needed to be spiffed up.
Phoebe was going to fix all that. The letter had been sent.
The rumble of a Harley grew louder. Maybe the answer to her letter had just arrived. The back of her neck prickled. Time to put on her big girl pants. Crossing her legs, she jiggled a flip-flop. Her ex-husband had come calling.
The property they own jointly, according to their divorce decree, was sadly in need of repair and she’d given him notice. Time for Ryder Branson to pay up.
With a vroom, vroom, the Harley fell silent. She didn't have to glance over at the driveway to picture Ryder’s arrival. Hadn’t she watched him come home for almost two years? Her ears had been tuned for that Harley coming up the drive. He’d swing one leg over, take off his helmet and hook it on the back. Then he’d run a hand through his crazy chestnut curls and unzip the leather jacket, like that broad chest needed some air.
Give me strength. After a year without Ryder Branson in her life, she still had to get up her gumption to face the man. The ground seemed to shake as he stormed toward her. “Phoebe Hunicutt, what are you trying to pull?”
She turned. “Hello to you too, Ryder.” Could he see her heart galloping under her pink top?
His fine head of hair was outlined against the sky. Phoebe’s fingers curled. She could almost feel those springy curls in her palm. Teasing. Exciting.
Past history.
Staring her down, his gray eyes hardened to stone and then traveled. When his gaze skimmed her legs, she was glad she’d shaved. Only nicked herself twice this time. But those eyes? Worked her skin like a pumice stone. Arching one foot, she brought a leg up and skimmed her calf with a toe. Her ex was too busy ogling the curves to notice the nicks. Ryder’s eyes bulged, along with another part of his body. Phoebe tried hard not laugh.
Remember Trixie Tatum.
The name froze the giggle in her throat. No one could hurt her like this man. Making her ex-husband pay for two-timing her? Always a delight.
She sat up straighter. Ryder flattened his hair with the heel of one hand. “What the hell do you think you're doing sending me a list like this?”
As he tugged the yellow sheet from his jeans, she smiled. My, oh my. This was getting better by the minute. “Just thought you'd like to know what it takes to keep this place running.”
Ryder had the nerve to shake the paper in her face. “If you can’t afford to keep the cottage in good shape, you should sell. Isn’t that what I said when we divorced?” Then he turned to study their sweet cottage. Was he wondering how much the place would bring?
Anger seared her. Dropping her legs, Phoebe crossed her ankles. She’d seen Queen Elizabeth do that once on TV and it looked real classy. Not that she was anything like the queen. “That's not what the decree said, Ryder. The court decided that we owned the house jointly. You may remember that trade-off. I got to stay in the house until I wanted to sell, in exchange for you riding away with the Harley you always said was joint property.”
Ryder’s black boots shifted. Lightning sparked in his eyes.
Looking away, she kept talking. “Time to bankroll some repairs. The roof is leaking. The paint is peeling, and a strong wind will probably flatten that garage.” When she stopped to breathe, her pulse was racing.
Folding his arms over his chest, he glared at her. “That’s all? You sure?”
“Not really.” Her chin went up––that “sweet heart-shaped chin,” as he’d once described it. “The kitchen linoleum and the cabinets desperately need replacing.”
“Desperately?” He didn’t look convinced.
But he did look hot. How she hated that.
“Well, I-I think so.”
Her anger melted under his gaze like a popsicle left in the sun.
Phoebe’s eyes fell and Ryder followed her gaze to the ruined fire pit he’d built. He flinched.
“Damn.” When Ryder fisted his hands on those trim hips, he unleashed a wave of wonderful man smells. Perspiration under a splash of cologne, with some gritty oil from that garage he had. She liked it. The weakening that turned Phoebe’s body into linguini sure felt like swooning. She’d heard that word on TV. But she was not a woman who swooned. And right now? She couldn’t afford it.
Grabbing a can of bug spray from the ground, she hit the button and cleared the air. While her ex went into a coughing fit, Phoebe struggled to pull herself together. Mercy, this was no time to get all googly-eyed. Those strong arms waving at the cloud of fumes? She’d once felt sheltered by them. Nine years older, Ryder had been her strength. Back when he stopped in the salon, every woman’s heart rate went up. They adored him.
Right. Which was why they weren’t married anymore.
Holding up the letter she’d worked on for two whole weeks, he flicked his fingers across her neatly typed list. “Supplies and labor? What are you up to, Phoebe?”
Well now, she thought the wording sounded real professional.
Beginning to pace, Ryder kept going. “You never answer my calls or my emails unless you want something.” His thick head of hair shivered with fury. He was pissed. Well, so what? If he’d let her have the house, they wouldn’t have to go through this every time she needed work done.
“You’re…you’re reprehensible.” She’d heard that on Days of Our Lives. Or was it Judge Judy? Now there was a woman who knew her stuff.
Ryder hadn’t seen that show. “Repre-what? What are you talking about?” His forehead wrinkled.
Did he think she was a walking dictionary? “I mean you are trouble with a capital T.”
Although she hadn't asked him to sit down, he took the chaise across from her. But he kept his boots planted. The old chair was missing a wheel and he knew it. When it listed to one side, his frown deepened. “I don’t have time for this, especially now, when I'm expanding in the Michigan market.”
Ryder owned a string of body shops that ran from St. Joe, Michigan, up to Traverse City. He knew cars and motorcycles like the back of his hand. Stanley, his dad, had taught Ryder well. Why, he’d tell anyone who’d listen that his son could change oil when he was four. Ryder had taken Branson Motors and spun it into a string of garages. He was an entrepreneur with a capital E. That was one thing Phoebe had always admired about him, along with a few more personal parts.
No matter, she wasn’t backing down on this. She loved this little cottage, and he was partially responsible for it. Full of renovation plans and crazy in love, they’d bought a fixer upper. They knew the place needed work. But their marriage had ended before the renovation even started. Basically, they’d been too busy with each other to get busy with the cottage.
She might have to negotiate. “All right, if you don't want to pay contractors, write me a check. I’ll paint it and do the rest of the work.” What am I saying?
Leaning back on one elbow, Ryder snorted.
That did it. She’d fix up the place if it took her every Sunday this summer. Jen and Carly, her hair stylists, could run Phoebe’s Place for her. No way was she going to let her cute, cozy cottage fall down around her.
“I got a better plan.” The scheming way he said that? Phoebe wasn’t going to like this.
“I'm all ears, Ryder.” Linking her arms behind her head, she let his eyes trail down over another area he used to appreciate. Phoebe kept herself in shape. Well, she tried. But she wasn’t a skinny rail of a girl, like Trixie Tatum. Oh no. She liked a doughnut or two and it showed. So, what of it?
Was Ryder marrying that skinny Trixie soon?
The thought brought a sour taste to her mouth. Ryder didn’t come down to Gull Harbor much since the divorce. They ran in different circles, so she had no clue what he was up to. But her imagination was filling in the blanks.
Turning, he studied the brown cottage. “We’ve got three bedrooms here.”
“Hold it right there. We do not have three bedrooms. I have three bedrooms.”
Too late, she realized her mistake. He grinned. “But I thought you said our joint interest in this rundown place was why I should pay for fixing it up?”
“My home is not rundown!” She cast an apologetic glance at the cottage. Fernando even looked offended, leaning a bit more to the side. Or maybe that was her imagination. A lot was at stake here. Phoebe better clamp a lid on her anger and think this through. She needed Ryder’s financial support. Folding her hands meekly in her lap, just like Queen Elizabeth, she prepared to listen to his harebrained scheme. “Yes, you were saying?”
“As I see it, I could move in here for the summer, do the work. We can split the cost of supplies. The place is falling down around you.” He delivered his proposal with a saucy grin.
Move in? Over my dead body. She pressed a hand to her heart to make sure it was still beating. Yep, still working. “How about we split the cost of the supplies and I do the work? Or better yet, you pay for three-fourths of the supplies and I do the work.” Her mind whirled as fast as her heart.
Ryder sat up so fast, the remaining wheel fell clear off the chaise and rolled into the grass. “You are not getting up on a ladder to do anything on this house. You don't have the time and…” His eyes coasted over bare arms and legs, leaving a trail of goosebumps. He could still do that to her. “Let's just say you don't have the muscle for this job.”
“I'm getting supplies this weekend.” She lifted her chin even higher. He was treating her like a little girl. The nine-year age difference didn’t work in her favor. An only child, she’d never learned how to cook. Her mama took care of that. Housekeeping? Their vacuum had given up the ghost when she rolled over the cord. But shampoo and scissors? Bring them on.
His lips set, like he knew he'd been beaten. “I'll leave a check on the table.”
“You can pay me later.” Made her feel good to say that. Of course, she was dead broke. What were credit cards for? Too late, she remembered hers were maxed out.
Getting up, he eyed the cottage with disgust. “You going to paint it brown again?”
Phoebe couldn’t get excited about brown. “No, I want a little white cottage. Something cute.”
The eyes he turned on her were twin tornadoes. “That's crazy. And girly. It'll take you two, maybe three coats of paint to cover all this brown. Pretty this place up and you’ll never be able to sell it.”
Ah, hah. So selling was on his mind. The weasel.
“Not a problem. Not selling.” She’d show him. When she got finished, this cottage was going to be so girly, it would make Ryder's stomach heave. No way was she selling.
The wind had kicked up. Behind her a couple more tiles rattled from the roof. Ryder rolled his eyes. Phoebe preferred to think her little house was applauding her decision.
“Memorial Weekend is coming up so I'll have two days to work on it. Probably knock it off in no time.” Brave words that brought another eye roll from her ex.
She always worked Saturdays, but she’d have Sunday and Monday that holiday weekend. Jumping to her feet, she was already in Hill’s Paint and Paper store, picking up supplies to transform her happy home. Enough lolling about with Ryder Branson. This conversation was going nowhere.
“Nothing you do makes sense anymore, Phoebe.” He shoved himself to his feet.
Oh, just pour salt on the wound. “But I’m none of your business anymore.”
A shield slid over his eyes. She could almost hear it click into place.
“Weren’t you on your way out?” Waving toward the driveway, she delivered the line as if they stood in a palatial ballroom.
“Mind if I use our restroom?”
“Of course not.” But her mind leapt ahead. Neatness had never been Phoebe’s strong suit. Last she saw, her makeup looked like it had exploded on the bathroom counter. And her clothes? At least one pair of panti
es had been left near the shower. She always had too much to do and not enough time. While Ryder was busy inside, Phoebe ambled over to Fernando for a little heart-to-heart.
“The man’s a crazy idiot, right, Fernando?” She straightened the metal piece she’d bought at the South Haven Art Fair. “What does he know?”
Phoebe could swear the pink flamingo winked at her.
When Ryder barreled back out, he nearly knocked her over. Catching Phoebe by her upper arms, he flicked his thumbs up her biceps. Why didn’t she work out more? His jaw shifted. Chests heaving, the two of them froze while their eyes met, snapped and sizzled.
Then the screen door whapped shut behind him and the trance was broken. When Ryder released his hold, she stumbled back. Face flushed, he turned and walked away.
So he was that upset about her mess?
“I try to clean things up.” She stumbled after him.
“So I noticed.”
Rubbing her tingling arms, she followed him to the detached garage. Big mistake. The blue paint on the doorframe must have caught his eye. He stopped so fast, she nearly ran into him.
“You and the garage still having problems?”
Smart ass. “Not my fault that door is so narrow.” A new garage had been on the list when they split up.
He stared at the blue Mini-Cooper he’d given her. “So I guess I don’t want to see the front bumper.”
She swallowed hard. “No. But the brown’s hardly noticeable.”
Wheeling around, he pinned her with a crooked smile that could melt flip-flops. “Sweet Cheeks, there isn’t a thing about you I don’t notice. That mess in your bathroom? I liked it. Way too much.” Ryder bit his bottom lip, like he wished he could take that back. He wasn’t a man who admitted to weakness.
“Don’t call me Sweet Cheeks.” But chills rippled down her spine. She’d always loved his pet names for her. They were cute. Personal. Flustered, Phoebe combed fingers through her hair. They came away wet with perspiration.
“And I still liked it better red,” he muttered, his eyes on her mauve hair.
“Here today. Gone tomorrow. Some people like change.” Wasn’t he living proof of that? “Besides, what you like doesn’t matter. Not to me.”
