The Right Stud: a sexy romantic comedy

by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  “How many bedrooms total?”

  “Six. Yours, mine, and Mrs. C’s all have private baths. The other three share a communal bathroom. I also had a powder room installed downstairs when I first moved in.”

  He nods, thinking. “It’s a great setup. I’m really digging it.”

  I grin like a schoolgirl. I love that someone else shares my affection for this old house. “Once you’re settled in, I can show you the widow’s walk on the third floor. It’s so cool.”

  His eyes light up. “I’d love that.”

  I go to the door. “I’ll leave you alone to work the numbers. I can’t wait to hear your thoughts… about working together.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.” His blue eyes are on me intently, and I think I recognize that look—it’s definitely interest.

  “Okay.” I kind of want to stay, but he probably needs to decompress.

  The desire to linger is squashed by a shout from downstairs. “Ashton! Where are you?” It echoes throughout the whole house.

  Jax’s brow furrows, and I realize my apprehension must be showing on my face. “Who is that?”

  “It’s only my brother.” I hurry out into the hall. “Go ahead and take your time. We can talk more later.”

  The last thing I want is for Jax to hear what Ben thinks of my restoration plans. Jogging downstairs, I stop in the foyer, facing my guest.

  Ben is handsome, tall with wavy brown hair and brown eyes. As a thirty-five year-old confirmed bachelor, he’s built a successful law practice and a small fortune. His motto: If it’s not making money, sell it. It’s why we argue constantly over Granny’s house.

  “Good morning,” I say, kissing his cheek. “Are you hungry? I have blueberry muffins and frittata. Rufus has probably eaten all the bacon, but I can fry more if you want.”

  “I already ate, thanks.” His tone is impatient. Again. “Have you thought any more about what I said?”

  “Yes,” I say sharply. “And you’ll be interested to know I’ve just finished showing the place to the host of a national home improvement show.”

  “Oh really?” He doesn’t seem as impressed as I’d hoped. “Which one?”

  We step into the sitting room, beside Granny’s doily-covered piano. “It’s called The Right Stud. They’re considering putting us on their show.”

  “The Right Stud?” Ben’s brow furrows. “Never heard of it.”

  “Well, either way, it has a huge following. The host is here now running the numbers and putting together a plan to make this place famous.”

  “Ashton, seriously. Why are you wasting time and energy on a money pit when we can sell it for millions and split the profits?”

  My heart drops. “Because it’s our family home, and it’s not wasting anything. Being on the show means I can get the repairs done cheaply, and the publicity will send tourists flocking to us. Wouldn’t you rather have an ongoing investment instead of a one-time payout?”

  Ben sighs. “You’re being optimistic. Running this place is work. The maintenance is a nightmare. Granny could never keep up with it all.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Why would you want to?” He frowns, and his eyes trace around the living room. “It’s an antiquated dump.”

  My fists tighten. “It is not a dump. The Conch Shell is all I have right now, and I’d appreciate it if you’d show it some respect.”

  “Look, I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Kyle, but that’s no reason to be blind to the fact that this house is worth more sold than restored.”

  My hands are on my hips. “I will never believe that.”

  “Okay…” Ben rakes a hand over his jaw. He scans the room again, then walks toward the foyer, where he stops and places both hands on his hips. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll run the listing past some people I know”—he lifts his chin toward the second floor—“you find out what this stud-guy says. We’ll compare notes and see which makes more financial sense. Deal?”

  Dread unfurls in my gut. It’s not like I can say no. Half of this house belongs to Ben. He just doesn’t love it like I do, and I’m in no position to offer to buy him out of his share—not with the mountain of debt I’ve recently accumulated.

  “I guess.”

  “Great. I’ll get a developer out here ASAP.”

  I frown. “Wait. A developer? I thought you meant someone who wanted to buy it.”

  “The land is worth more than the house. A developer will buy it, clear the lot, and sell it to someone who’ll build high-rise condos.”

  I think I’m going to be sick. “Clear the lot… that means tear the house down.”

  Ben pats me on the arm. “Just think about what you could do with all that money. You could open a bakery if you wanted.”

  I bite my lip. “I like baking here, in Granny’s house, for my guests.”

  The moment is defused when Lulu breezes into the room. Her eyes land on Ben, and she goes straight to him. “I thought I heard your voice. Want a muffin?”

  Her eyelashes flutter, and she presents a small plate holding three of my fresh-baked goodies.

  He takes one and pops a piece in his mouth. “Thanks, babe. I saw your dogs outside.”

  My best friend’s cheeks flush at his casual babe. She’s had a crush on my brother since we were kids with skinned knees and pigtails. Now that he’s single again, she’s back to waving that torch she’s been carrying for a hundred years.

  My brother has always seemed completely oblivious to her obsession, but he seems to be giving her more attention these days.

  “You coming into the office today?” he asks, heading for the door. “I have some divorce papers for you to serve, and you know they never expect it on a Saturday.”

  Her auburn brow arches, and her frustrated inner-actress emerges. “Is it a Kardashian or a Larry the Cable Guy situation?”

  Ben actually laughs. “More like a zoo keeper. It seems the husband likes dressing up in those team mascot outfits and having sex with other… female mascots?”

  “Whaaat?” Lulu’s green eyes sparkle, and I see she’s in planning mode. “This has all kinds of possibilities. I have a delivery-guy uniform that can double as animal control, and of course, there’s my Easter bunny disguise…”

  She’d used that one to serve a guy who’d been robbing vending machines around town. It’s a Playboy bunny base with oversized, cartoonish hands and feet.

  “You’ve got to think creatively,” Lulu winks.

  My brother’s eyes flicker up and down my best friend’s body. “I’m pretty creative, but I’ll be interested to see how you handle it.”

  Hold the phone. Did Ben just flirt with Lulu?

  I didn’t think my best friend’s cheeks could get any pinker, but she manages a purr. “Well, this bunny is ready to play.”

  “I look forward to seeing her again.” Ben winks and heads out the door. “Be in the office in an hour?”

  “You know it.”

  He’s gone, and Lulu collapses against the bannister, clutching her chest. “Did that just happen?”

  “I’m not sure, but something happened. If I weren’t so mad at him right now, I might be excited for you.”

  “It’s that bunny costume. Works every time.”

  “How so?”

  “Men are so dazzled by the sight of cleavage, they forget everything else.” She looks down at her denim overalls and bright green Converse high-tops. “Why did I leave the house dressed like this?”

  “Because it’s your job. You have fifty dogs walking you every day.”

  “Five dogs,” she corrects, frowning into the round mirror hanging on the wall and smoothing her curls. “I had a feeling I should’ve worn a dress. I didn’t even fix my hair.”

  “I can’t believe you of all people ignored your instincts.”

  In addition to being Palmetto’s most creative process server, my best friend also does tarot readings out of her house, which is also her dog-walking and pet-grooming bu
siness.

  “What was he doing here anyway? How dare he surprise me like this!”

  The memory of his words forces a little growl from me. “He was giving me a hard time about the house again.”

  “Oh, he’ll come around.” Lulu walks around the room, visibly buzzing from my older brother’s attention. “He’s already warming up, it seems. I’ve got to get home and change.”

  Shaking my head, I pick up the small plate still holding a muffin. “I don’t know how you do it. You know people hate process servers, right? They’re probably calling you bad names behind your back.”

  That snaps her out of her lust-induced haze. “How can anyone call the Easter bunny bad names?”

  “Pretty easily, I’d imagine.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. These people are criminals, Ashton.” She emphasizes the word criminals. “I’m the best at what I do because I take the sting out of them paying their debt to society.”

  “So what? You’re Mary Poppins now?”

  “Only in that I also have magical abilities.” She follows me to the kitchen. “I’ve got to get the dogs home. Is it okay if I leave Jean Claude here for now? He chewed through the fence last night, and I haven’t had time to fix it.”

  “No—Lulu!” I slam the plate on the counter a little too hard. “I don’t want that goat on the property. He’s stinky. He’s a menace, and he’s a bottomless pit. He ate all my azaleas last week, then he tried to eat all my hydrangeas.”

  “First, Jean Claude is a ram, hence his name, Jean Claude van Ram. Second, I tied him far away from all your precious flowers this time. He’s practically in the ocean.”

  “Jean Claude is a goat, and male goats are not rams, they’re billies.”

  “I can’t call him Jean Claude van Billy.”

  “You can take his billy butt home.”

  But she’s in front of me now, tugging on my arms. “Please let him stay, Ashton. This is the most interested Ben’s ever seemed. It could finally be my chance.”

  I let out an exasperated growl. “Well, hurry up. I really need some time alone to think.” The thought of a developer tearing down Granny’s house has me feeling nauseated and wanting to cry.

  “You should talk to JC about it.”

  “Jesus Christ?” I exhale a sigh. “I’ve never been much on religion but I suppose praying can’t hurt.”

  “Jean Claude! He’s an excellent emotional support animal. Just don’t let him eat your hair.”

  Shaking my head, I follow her out the door. “I’d rather not talk to an animal with crazy eyes.”

  “I won’t tell him you said that. Give me three hours, and I’ll pick him up. I promise.”

  “I’ll give you two.”

  Seven

  Jax

  “I love the idea, but we don’t have the budget. You’re talking at least twenty thousand to cover supplies, a small crew, expenses, and incidentals.” I can hear my producer Tara’s fingers clicking on her keyboard through the phone.

  “We can’t get a sponsor?”

  “I’m sure we can get YellaWood to cover the lumber supply. Last week’s video got a million views, which is fantastic. Still, you need nails, glue… Your crew has to eat.”

  “I’ll need a sander for the floor.”

  She breathes loudly in my ear. “I’m not a miracle worker, Jax. The networks practically have the market cornered on building supply sponsorships.”

  “Any word from Celia on that?” I step to the window and look down at the clear-blue breakers eating up the brown sand.

  Celia is Tara’s contact at HGTV. If she can get them to pick up The Right Stud, we won’t have to worry about things like budgets and covering the cost of materials. They’ll provide it all, including top-notch cameramen, editing, and post-production.

  I could finally give Pearson’s Real Estate Developers, Inc., my letter of resignation.

  “Nada.” She’s quiet a moment, and I know she’s number-crunching. “Okay, if you forego a cameraman and crew, it’ll save enough to cover the remaining supplies. Provided nothing new pops up.”

  My jaw tightens. “I know. Something new always pops up.”

  Scrubbing my fingers against my forehead, I consider turning down this job when Ashton appears on the sandy path below. She’s still wearing those cropped linen pants, but her shirt is untucked. Her hair is loose, blowing in long dark waves in the breeze, and her feet are once again bare.

  Damn, she’s pretty. When she hugged me today, pressing her soft tits against my chest, all I could think of was kissing her lips, her hot little body rocking into mine… I had to conjure images of Margaret Thatcher… or Mrs. C lurking in the window… or Rufus biting my finger off to keep the rise out of my pants.

  I know from our emails she doesn’t have the money to do the work this old place needs. It’s the whole reason she invited me here in the first place. I’m not going to let her down. I’m doing this job.

  Still, I can’t deny the fact money is a necessary component. “It would help to have an extra twenty grand handy,” I mutter.

  “Oh, I know—just convert some native forestland into a Bass Pro Shops again.” The sarcasm in Tara’s voice makes me frown. She doesn’t like my day job, obviously.

  “It was unusable land. The trees were trash. If I hadn’t closed the deal, someone else would have. That town was practically paying us for the development. I made a shit ton of money on that sale.”

  “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

  My producer is a tree-hugging nitwit. “Look, I’m not defending my job to you. I care about the earth. I also care about paying my bills.”

  “And what will you leave your grandchildren?”

  “A mountain of cash if I’m lucky.” I’ve had enough of this conversation. I’ve got what I need. “Just be ready when I start sending you video. I want it to be a miniseries, a ‘This Old Beach House’ type of thing.”

  “What’s the name of this old beach house?”

  “The Conch Shell. It’s very old lady, lace and doilies right now, but when we’re done, it’ll be polished and modern.”

  “Can’t wait to see what you do.”

  We end the call, and I sit down at the small desk near the bed and pull out my laptop. Within a few minutes, I’ve got my 3-D design program up, and I’m entering the measurements I took earlier as I explored the rambling house.

  Feeling inspired, I recreate the sitting room downstairs on my program, only this time I change the furniture to pieces that are light and airy. I add shiplap walls and newly sanded hardwood floors. It really isn’t part of the renovation Ashton and I talked about, but I’m looking forward to showing it to her.

  It’s going to be more money, my head says.

  Whatever. Maybe I won’t even show it to her, but I have to admit her enthusiasm tugs at my heart. I know this house is important to her. Maybe I can find a way to add special touches to it…

  After a few minutes of playing with the program, I stand and stretch, rolling my neck as I walk over to the window, where my eyes land on Ashton. She’s now sitting on the sand with her knees bent, her back to what looks like a goat tied to a wooden fence. I can’t help wondering how I missed that guy on the walking tour. I’ve never seen so much wildlife in one place before. Hell, it’s practically a zoo.

  Her forehead lowers to her arms, and her shoulders droop. She’s visibly unhappy about something, and my chest tightens unexpectedly. I don’t like seeing her this way. I want to jog down and tell her the good news when my phone lights up with a text.

  It’s from Blaine Pearson, my boss and the owner of the company. Must be something big. My mind goes to that Bass Pro deal I closed last year. It was the biggest of my career, and it netted us all several grand. Too bad living in Manhattan ain’t cheap.

  Got a lead on some beachfront property near Charleston. Isn’t that where you are? Motivated seller and top-notch location. Incredible views. Could probably get it low and convert it high. Will se
nd the address if you’re interested?

  Hmm. Selling takes time, and I want to focus all my attention on Ashton and this job. I send a quick reply. I’m in the area but not working. I need this vacay.

  He answers like he already knew what I was going to say. The commission might be six figures. Guess I’ll pass it over to Joey. Have fun.

  Smartass. He knows I can’t stand jerk-face Joey beating me out on a sweet deal. I think about the cash it would add to my bank account. I could put more money into the show—buy new cameras, hire a cameraman for this job… Shit, with six figures, the possibilities are endless.

  The ambitious side of me rises up—the shark, the closer. This sale is mine, and if the property is near Charleston, it would be stupid to say no. I’ll just pop over and give it a look-see and then come right back here. Done.

  I text back. Okay. Send me the info, and I’ll check it out.

  He texts me a number, and without hesitation, I tap it. The phone rings and rings until I get voicemail.

  “Hi, this is Jax Roland with Pearson Real Estate. I’m in the area, and I wanted to touch base about the property you’re looking to sell. Give me a call at this number, and we can set up a meeting.”

  I leave my number and toss my phone on the dresser. Contact made, now I’m ready to get comfortable and dig in here. Unfastening the top two buttons of my long-sleeved shirt, I pull it over my head then slip into a tee and cargo shorts and grab my digital camera from its bag. I plan to shoot B-roll of the scenery and the local wildlife now to use for scene breaks and under credits.

  Stopping at the window once more, I see Ashton’s head is still on her arms, but the goat has chewed through the rope tying him to the fence.

  “Damn goats,” I laugh to myself as I gather my things and head out of my room and downstairs. I’m on a mission, and there’s pep in my step.

  I enter the kitchen and look at the bay window just in time to see the goat run straight into the waves. It looks like a small seagull might be taunting him, and the scene would be funny—if it weren’t for the fact he’s about to be swept out to sea.