Life in a Rut, Love not Included (Love Not Included series Book 1)

by J. D. Hollyfield

  “Junk, huh?!”

  “Yeah, junk—” As I try to finish spitting out my sentence, he bends over and picks up a pair of my shiny stilettos. Dangling my Jimmy Choos over my head, he then proceeds to throw them across the garage.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I scream.

  “Oh don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m just helping you make room for my ‘junk’!”

  “Oh no you didn’t!” I get right in his face. He follows suit which brings us nose to nose, ready to face off. His eyes are flaming orbs and I can feel his breath hitting my cheeks.

  “You’re going to regret this,” I hiss.

  “You have no idea.” In record speed, he raises his hand and throws it behind my neck, then he grabs my head and slams his mouth on mine. I have been pondering the feel of his mouth pressed against mine for days, but it’s nothing like the real thing. Too shocked, I don’t know whether to fight him off or wrap my arms around his neck to deepen the kiss. Before I can find out, he releases me.

  “Don’t touch the equipment,” he says, out of breath, and walks out of the garage.

  What the hell?

  “What the hell?”

  I press my fingers to my lips. I can feel them a bit swollen from his aggressive kiss. I want to storm out of here screaming assault, but holy hotness that was seriously the hottest kiss I have ever experienced. Who is this guy?!

  As I make a pathetic attempt at moving my boxes, I can’t get the feel of his mouth out of my mind. One minute, I’m pretty sure he is going to kill me and hide my body under my parents’ soon-to-be new addition, then the next minute he is kissing me. Like a man in heat. Like a hot wild man in heat. I mindlessly move stuff around, picking up a box, trying not to touch his tools.

  And all the while, I can’t stop thinking about touching his other ‘tools.’

  IT HAS BEEN A week since my last run-in with Hottie McMacho Pants and my hopes are that it continues. As I lay in bed I can hear the trucks coming in and out of the driveway dumping supplies, and voices in and out of the house. The one most stinging is the one of the tall, strong, handsome jerk who keeps invading my head and my dreams. For some insane reason my dreams at night now include the hands of that one man in particular. Why can’t I just dream about someone I don’t know? So I don’t feel wrong asking for it rough? Instead, in my dream I have McSteamy’s hands all over me while he kisses me with need and hunger just as I remember it in the garage. The even more horrid thing is that I am completely enjoying it. I need to check on the status of where I’m at with getting some real action. I should write that task down.

  I decide that today is going to be a motivation day. I am going to shower. I am going to shave. I am going to put on my best stilettos and get my highly qualified ass a job. My parents are right. I have a great degree. And I am hugely talented. I didn’t work at the biggest marketing firm and under the most highly respected clients in the business to not be good at what I did. Too bad seven years of the hardest work I have ever performed ended in a seven-minute blowout freak show.

  Well . . . moving on. First plan of action is to find a coffee shop and pump myself with caffeine, then search the wanted ads. I’m feeling good about this. Positive. Can’t say I’ve had this much motivation in quite some time. I get out of bed, sheet free (I’m catching on). I head for the shower. Not going to lie, it’s been a while since I’ve primped so I make sure to swap out the semi-used can of shaving cream for a full bottle. There’s definitely some work to be done in there.

  Having hot water hit my face feels glorious. I actually forgot how good it feels to stand under the hot water and let all the day’s wear and tear melt away. I remember how Steve and I would work late together, then head back to his condo, order takeout then jump in his gigantic shower, and just stand there holding each other while making love until we were pruned and our legs were shaking. He would wash my hair and caress me while leaning over me and being gentle with every scrub of my body. He would pat me dry and place me in his big T-shirts while we ate our takeout and discussed our latest clients and projects. I thought that was perfect. I thought things were exactly how they were supposed to be. I was so wrapped up in my perfect world that I never took the time to even question or realize then why one night I spotted one of Stacey’s hair bands on his counter. The things you know now that you wish you knew then.

  Quickly deciding that showering is way overrated, I opt that a quick one is better. As the water turns tepid, I also now confirm I hate showers. I mean, it’s a simple task, why do people make such a big deal of it? Wash, scrub, shave, and get out. People waste too much time in this—

  “HOLY!—”

  What the . . .

  Just then, cold water starts spurting straight at my face. I attempt to quickly scrub the remaining shampoo out of my hair. While dodging ice splatter, I throw myself out of the shower, of course slipping right off the mat and onto the floor. What is the obsession with my face wanting to connect with the floor?! Pulling myself up, I try to get my eyes to stop burning since I have shampoo seeping in them. I focus on my current state of mayhem, grab the nearest towel and barrel out the door.

  “Mom!” I scream because there is no way she forgot to pay the water bill. “MOM! Why is the hot water not working? I was in the middle of—”

  Oomph! Walking into the living room and slamming right into a hard hot body was not what I was expecting. As I look up while adjusting to my foam-glazed vision, I see Sexy McTouch Me staring at me with that damn grin again.

  “How did you get in here?! Where is my mother?” I spit out angrily, trying to look around for my mother while preparing for the lecture of a lifetime on how she has to stop letting this hunk of a man into our home!

  “She left the door open for me. We are starting the addition today. We had to turn the water heater off to get the wires under the old deck,” he explains with a hint of humor. God, I hate this man.

  “Well you could have warned us that you were shutting it off. Some people were actually using that hot water!” I state as rudely as I possibly can while not staring at the day-old stubble lining his oh-so-attractive jaw line. “You interrupted my hot shower, you know!”

  “I can see that.” He dips down to my feet and stands up, handing me what looks like—are you flipping kidding me—my towel.

  I storm back up the stairs listening to the chuckle echoing behind me, then I slam the door to the bathroom shut and press myself against it. Bashing my head against the door, I attempt to wake myself up, because this just cannot be happening to me. Two times now, Mr. McSeductive Eyes has seen my goods and not in a willing, would-you-like-to-touch-me kind of see my goods. Don’t get me wrong, I have goods to show, but I’m slowly starting to feel like this guy was sent to finish me off. If my life slipping from right under me like a tacky 70s rug was not enough, let’s send Mr. McDo Me Sideways to complete the job.

  Things are not looking good for me and my emotional psyche. Someone out of this is going to be paying for my therapy bills. Note to self: definitely find a therapist.

  I’VE ALWAYS THOUGHT OF myself as a lucky person. I thought when I left college with that degree still warm in my hands that I was destined to become something great. I pinned myself as an independent, willing to go out in the world on my own and become a person of greatness. I would see an opportunity and indulge in it until I owned it. Now I look back and wonder when I became this person who missed that drive. When did I lose who I was and fall into the background of what others were becoming? I try to think of when exactly things started to crumble in front of me. When did Steve stop seeing me as his only one? When did Stacey look at me and not see enough love and trust to turn away from my boyfriend? When did I decide I wasn’t that girl who loved wearing her Converses and hoodies and drinking beer, and I swapped it out for the life of heels, fancy clothes and cocktail dinners? When did I stop being me?

  I dig through the boxes to find my Prada wedges and Fendi wrap about two seconds after I dec
ide that I am not going soul searching. Luckily enough the next box over has my old green Converses in it, which happen to go great with my old-school Lucky jeans. Maybe tomorrow will be the day. Today, just coffee. It’s all about getting back on the horse. Albeit slowly. Because I’m not sure anyone got back on the horse without caffeine.

  I walk out of the house and slam my oversized sunglasses on my face. The sun is shining and birds are chirping and I am coffee-less and not in the mood. I beeline it for the Stabbin Wagon hoping not to run into my nemesis. One could only hope, right?

  “So I see you were able to get the rest of the shampoo out of your hair.”

  One. Could. Only. Hope.

  I turn to see Macho McSnuggly Arms walk towards me while wiping off his hands with a rag. “Well thanks to you, it was a cold process,” I reply like any mature twelve-year-old would.

  “Listen,” he says. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. The accident. I was late for an appointment. Funny enough it was to meet you. I’m sorry.” Well, that was not what I was expecting. He continues. “I owe you a phone. If you want, I’m letting the crew take a break here and need to head up to my site for some supplies. If you want to join me we can stop by a phone store and I can replace your phone.”

  I would have responded if I wasn’t too busy just staring at him with my mouth open in utter shock. Who is this guy standing in front of me? I want desperately to tell him where he can shove his gesture and apology, but then the image of him and shoving turns into me thinking about his strong legs around me, shoving . . .

  “So is that a yes or are you just going to stand there and stare at me all day?”

  “Oh . . . Um . . . Well, I was just . . .” What was I just going to do again? Oh yeah, act like a human! “Well, I was just going to get some coffee. I guess it would be all right, as long as we can stop at a caffeine pump so I can fill up.”

  As he now stares back a little thrown off, he adjusts his raised eyebrows and says, “Sure. There’s a Starbucks on the way.”

  I nod an “OK” and start walking with him toward his truck. What am I doing? I have a feeling this is not a good idea. He is probably luring me in with his strong arms and even bigger shoulders so he can finish me off, and not in a good way. I’m leading myself into my own death. I just know it. I hope he at least feeds me my coffee first.

  “So I guess maybe a proper introduction would work here too, huh?” He reaches out his hand to me and says, “I’m Jack Calloway.” I extend my hand and our palms glide together in a slow handshake. My body temperature instantly rises, and I can feel my palm getting sweaty against his. What is wrong with me? I pull away because this instant friction is weirding me out and since I can feel my cheeks warming, I’m sure he notices it too.

  “Oh yeah,” I stutter. “Sarah Sullivan”

  “Nice to properly meet you, Sarah Sullivan. Let me go release my guys and then we can get you fueled and back into the world of technology.”

  I nod and watch Jack (kind of weird using his real name) dismiss his crew and head back over to his truck. “You ready?” he asks, then directs me towards the passenger side of his big manly truck. He opens the door for me and I hesitate a bit.

  I am not too sure how someone of my stature is supposed to climb into this massive vehicle. As I pivot and begin to lift one leg to reach the stepping base, Jack grabs my waist and boosts me into the seat. Oh, lordie. “Um. Thanks.” I try not to make eye contact because at this point I’m probably as flushed as a tomato. Was I just blushing? Who am I? I mean, just because I can still feel his fingers pressed against my sides, there is no reason to blush like a fifteen-year-old girl. So get a hold of yourself, Sarah . . . And your libido.

  Once I’m settled in, Jack rounds the truck and jumps in, pulls it from the curb and gears down the street with ease. As we hit the first light out of the neighborhood, Jack’s phone starts ringing. “Jack Calloway,” he answers. He looks professional and comfortable in his little work bubble. Sitting so close and assessing his motions is starting to make my skin boil. For the first time I am actually getting a good look at him, and watching him speak with ease to a client about what sounds like a big project is totally turning me on. He is kind and so businesslike with his feedback. He spits out some numbers and dimensions like it’s already sitting on his tongue. I observe his mouth move while his fingers glide over the steering wheel with gentle yet assertive force. Hmmmm . . . Those fingers. Did I just catch myself licking my lips?

  “Thank you,” he says. “I will have the foreman on the site retrieve the fax. Great. We’ll be in touch.” He shuts his phone off and sets it back on the dash. “I’m sorry about that. This phone seems to be ringing nonstop lately.”

  “Oh. Um, no worries,” I say. “So . . . Calloway Construction. Is this all yours or is it a family business?”

  “It was my father’s, but he died in an accident a couple years back. I had been working for him for a few years when the accident happened, then everything went to me. I jumped in the hot seat and have been running it ever since.”

  “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

  “Oh no, it’s OK. Long time ago.”

  I settle back into my chair a little less comfortable. What an ass. I mean, who brings up something like that at a time like this? Probably sensing my discomfort, Jack starts in again. “So, Sarah, what do you do?”

  Ugh. Wrong question. “Uhh, nothing at the moment. I’m in-between jobs. I decided to take a leave from what I was doing. Find something else,” I say, not sounding confident at all in my explanation.

  Probably feeling the awkwardness in the air, he changes the subject. “So what kind of phone did I decide to let die in the middle of Waverly Street?” he says, slowly grinning and looking my way. Wow, those eyes. I used to think they were a hazel color. Because I cared or something and I was not having dreams about those eyes. To my mistake they are actually more of a gold color. He looks at me with a sexy gaze, waiting for me to respond.

  “You know, the average smart phone, with all the latest accessories. It was fully stocked with music and apps.”

  Jack chuckles at my stab at humor. “We will just have to see then,” he replies and then pulls into Starbucks.

  After Jack helps me climb out of his beast-mobile, we walk up to the Starbucks. He opens the door and tells me to go ahead of him. Gotta respect a man with chivalry. We walk up to the counter, with a few people in front of us while we stare at the menu. Not that I need a review of what a coffee place has to offer. Let’s be honest. I just don’t know where else to look. I don’t need to look at Jack to feel the heat that is pouring off of him. Or is it me? Either way, I’m not sure drinking coffee and adding any more adrenaline to my already on-fire body is such a good idea after all. I am seriously considering decaf.

  “You sure are studying that menu.” Jack breaks my train of thought.

  “Um, who me? Yeah, you can never be too sure. They add stuff all the time. Gotta keep my options open.” Oh. My. God. Shut up now. I sound like a babbling moron.

  Jack just laughs and rolls his eyes. Once the customers in front of us put in their orders, Jack gently presses his hand against my back to guide me forward.

  “Welcome to Starbucks. What can I get you today?” Is it wrong to order an iced water right now, then ask this tweener girl cashier to dump it on my head?

  “Yeah, I’ll take a Grande Caramel Mocha with skim milk, double shot espresso in a Venti cup, and add extra whipped cream. Thanks.” The girl just stares at me. They always do! What? I’m a paying customer and sugar is just as important as caffeine. She reluctantly types in my order and adjusts her eyes to the next paying customer. I see her eyes wrap behind me and lock on Jack. As in not being obvious AT ALL! Seriously? This guy can be my boyfriend and tweener-bop over here is openly just gawking at him! How rude! Then, in her lamest attempt to sound seductive, she asks Jack what his order will be. Amazingly enough, he doesn’t seem to take note of her flirtatiousness.
He simply spits out his order for a large black coffee and proceeds to dig in his wallet to pay.

  “Oh here, I can pay for mine—” I start to say, but he cuts me off.

  “It’s on me. The least I can do.”

  I’m not entirely sure what the “most” he could do is, but if he is offering I might have a few ideas—

  “Sarah! Is that you?” Catching me off guard, I turn to my right and dead center in my line of vision is Becky Longhorn. Otherwise known as Steve Hamilton’s big-mouthed secretary. Also known as the victim in the formerly mentioned Freak-Out Show in which I took his plant and tossed it Olympic-style at Steve, barely missing Becky’s head.

  “Becky, wow, nice to see you,” I choke out, wishing that at this exact moment a bomb goes off in this specific Starbucks, killing me first. “What are you doing all the way out here in the suburbs?”

  “Oh, we are out here doing some baby registry shopping. You know Bill, it’s so hard to get him away from the office to do anything and we have our little bundle of joy coming so soon!” she squeals, while taking the opportunity to lift her hands and obnoxiously rub at her growing belly.

  “Wow, that’s great. Beautiful maternity dress, by the way.” I watch her scrunch her nose at my comment because I’m pretty sure that is nothing close to a maternity dress and I just got one in on little ole’ Becky. Seeing Bill back up a bit, I’m pretty sure he’s going to feel the wrath of that later. Sorry, Bill. “When’s the little squirt due?” I ask because I seriously care. Not.

  “Just a little more than eight months!” Eight months?! I believe a bit of a snort escapes my lips. Talk about early planning. With eight months to go, doesn’t that make someone, like, just pregnant?

  I’m taking bets in my head that Becky is divorced in twelve months, when her squawking voice brings me back to reality. “Bill says . . .” Ugh. Bill, who cares about Bill? I’m not sure he has had his own personal opinions since he met Becky. Poor Bill. Maybe I would be doing him a favor as well with the whole bomb thing. We can only hope.