Fix Her Up (The Fix Book 1)

by Carey Heywood

  As wonderful as that feels, this is bad. If his parents think we’re together, do his brothers think the same thing? It’s one thing for him to be helping me with my house out of friendship, but another entirely as a girlfriend.

  God, I don’t even want to know how they think I’m repaying him if that’s the case. If that wasn’t bad enough, I had to go ahead and suggest a family dinner with my parents. What was I thinking? It will only perpetuate their assumption we’re in some sort of a relationship and I don’t even have a table for anyone to sit at during dinner.

  My mom has been fishing for details about Noah every time we talk. Once she sees him in person she’ll have her heart set on him for me. The problem with that is I’m not ready for a relationship. Hell, I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for a relationship. His parents are going to be upset when they learn we aren’t really a couple.

  Noah and I need to talk but there’s no way we can now. For now, I smile, and answer his parents’ questions, and drink my frappe.

  When the bill comes, Noah pays, shaking his head when I reach for my purse.

  Noah and his damn need to pay for food. It dawns on me, he’s paid for every dinner I haven’t made myself. I stare at him.

  ‘What?’ he mouths.

  My head is spinning too much to reply. When the server returns with the credit slip for him to sign, we all stand.

  Noah reclaims my hand and his parents follow us out to the parking lot.

  “It’s a good thing you two didn’t get into a car accident. Dealing with insurance companies wouldn’t be a healthy way to start a relationship,” Mrs. Thompson jokes, pulling me into a hug.

  My eyes widen and it’s an effort not to gasp at her words. I had no idea Noah told her about the day we met, or that we were in a relationship. When she releases me, Mr. Thompson reaches out and gives my arm a squeeze. His movement reminding me of my dad. He’s not a hugger either.

  Noah and I stand side by side and wave once their SUV pulls away. As soon as they turn onto the road I turn on Noah.

  “They think we’re a couple.”

  He shrugs.

  My mouth drops open, panic setting in. “Why do your parent’s think we’re together?”

  With his hand on the small of my back, he guides me to his truck. “Abby knows we’re not dating.”

  He opens my door. What he doesn’t do is reply.

  I climb in and stare as he rounds the hood to get in on his side. “Why aren’t you answering me?”

  He shrugs, AGAIN, and pulls on his belt. “Noah. We can’t let them think we’re together.”

  “Why not?” He breaks his silence by asking.

  “Why not?” I repeat his words only louder and somewhat shrilly.

  “What’s so bad about people thinking we’re dating?”

  My mouth falls open. “It’s not the truth for one.”

  He turns his head, his eyes laser focused on mine, the intensity in them bringing the temperature of the cab up at least ten degrees. “There’s an easy fix for that.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “You should call them and set them straight.”

  When he doesn’t say anything I lift my chin and add, “Right now.”

  He swallows, his Adam’s apple shifting. “I had a different idea.”

  And then, Noah Thompson kisses me.

  Kiss isn’t the right word. Well, technically it is but it isn’t. To describe it as only a kiss would be saying it was like any other kiss I’ve ever been given before. It was not.

  The mechanics and required parts were all there, his lips, my lips, touching. It was most definitely a kiss, but at the same time it was absolutely not.

  Could it be the way his fingers threaded into my hair? Or the warm soft fullness of his lips pressed to mine?

  My heart racketed about like a pinball in my chest. Heat blossomed from my gut upward, creeping toward my neck. His lips part and he nips at my bottom lip before pressing firmly to mine again.

  This moment, this sweet lip press that didn’t even involve tongues affected me more than any experience during my ten-year marriage.

  It’s that thought that has me pull away, turning my face.

  “Finley,” he calls.

  I shake my head. “I want to go home.”

  “Come on. Talk to me,” he begs.

  I shake my head again, looking anywhere but at him. “Please take me home.”

  Where only seconds ago the temperature in his truck was skyrocketing, it now plummets. The ride to my house is packed with uncomfortable silence broken more than once each time he pleads for me to talk to him.

  I’m too upset and confused to do so. Each time he asks, I shake my head. He’s my friend. I’m not ready to wrap my brain around him being anything other than that right this second.

  It’s one thing to be attracted to him. I had that under control. It’s better this way, if we’re friends no one will get hurt. We can keep working together and when my house is done, we can find another project. He said something about extending the deck off the back of his house.

  Or we could do other things. I could cook for him and he can help me explore more of Woodlake. I haven’t ventured outside of the immediate area around my place. His parents seemed nice too. It’d be nice to see them again once he makes sure they know we aren’t dating.

  Other than my neighbors, the only friends I’ve made here are Noah and Abby. I don’t want things to get weird with either of them. But after that more than a kiss, that ship might have sailed with Noah.

  Why did he have to do that?

  When he parks in front of my house I jump out. His footfalls echo behind me. He overtakes me at the front door.

  “We have to talk about this.”

  I glare at his boots. “I’d like some time to gather my thoughts first.”

  Gentle fingers, pads rough from work, tip my chin up to look at him. “You’re pushing me away.”

  Lines mar his forehead, a frown etched across his jawline.

  “I can’t lose your friendship,” I whisper. All at once his face softens, the hardness vanishing.

  “Do you know what my dad always calls my mom?”

  He knows I don’t.

  His thumb brushes across my jaw. “Best thing he ever did was marry his best friend.”

  Does he think I’m his best friend and that we should get married?

  My nose starts to sting and my lips part. “Am I your best friend?”

  It’s silly to apply a term that evokes images of preteen girls and friendship bracelets to our relationship. What he’s come to mean to me transcends that.

  I was in way over my head when I moved here. If he hadn’t of swooped in I would have drowned without him. I thought fixing this place up would fix me. Without his help, this project would have broken me at my core.

  What Allen did to me shook my confidence and made me question my ability to trust again. I had a plan, a stupid sad plan to protect my heart by moving across the country to live in a place where no one knew me.

  I wasn’t going to make friends. If I didn’t make friends there’d be no risk of getting attached to anyone. He ruined everything.

  The right side of his mouth hitches up. “Yes.”

  His thumb continues to move on my jaw, heat pools in my belly.

  “No, I’m not,” I argue. “Jon is.”

  He shakes his head, that smile of his widening. “I don’t spend every night with him or miss him every time I leave him.”

  “Noah,” I murmur.

  “Shhh,” he replies, his thumb moving away from my chin to slide across my bottom lip.

  I gulp and stare up at him.

  His gaze is locked on his thumb as it moves across my lip again.

  “I wanted to kiss you the first time I saw you,” he admits.

  “Here?” I breathe.

  He shakes his head and moves closer to me. “You almost crashed into me.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  His thumb leaves my lip but
stays warm on my skin as his face dips close to mine. “Only crazy thing is that I waited this long.”

  I open my mouth to question his sanity. I was sick; I was exhausted, how could he possibly want to kiss me.

  I’m cut off from saying anything when his mouth crashes into mine.

  12

  Noah

  After finally kissing her, leaving Finley last night was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I wanted to take her home and to my bed. As much as I want her, I would have been happy just sleeping beside her. The only reason I did leave her was because she said we could talk this morning.

  I park in front of her house, a place that feels more like home at this point than my own. By the time I make it to the front door, she’s opening it.

  “Good morning,” I murmur, wanting to kiss her again but wanting her to slam the door in my face even less.

  “Hey. Come on in,” she replies, her tone uncertain.

  Each time I enter her home the magnitude of the changes we’ve made strikes me. The bulk of the renovation to her first floor is complete. It’s taken three months of working almost every night and on the weekends. All that’s left is to finish furnishing and decorating.

  Upstairs, the walls are up and primed, plus the floors are down. We need to do some more painting and install her hall bath.

  We’ve done so much, part of me is scared she doesn’t need me anymore. She can paint on her own and leave the hall bath until she can hire someone or, after helping on the master, try to tackle it on her own.

  If she doesn’t kick me out it’s because she wants more than my ability to swing a hammer.

  “I made some muffins,” Finley offers, gesturing toward her kitchen.

  With a nod, I catalog her stance, her expression and her tone. I’m on edge waiting to see what she’ll say, but she’s cool as a cucumber.

  She twists, her movements smooth as she walks away from me. I follow her.

  “About last night,” I start.

  She looks over her shoulder at me, her hazel eyes weary and shakes her head. “I need more coffee first.”

  Her putting off our conversation for coffee is both infuriating and endearing. This isn’t the first Saturday morning I’ve been over here this early. Her coffee first demand isn’t new.

  “Of course.”

  We move together well in her kitchen, reminding me that this isn’t our first dance. I’m hyperaware of her body in relation to mine. Her dark chocolate locks are pulled up in a ponytail and she wears loose track pants and a snug tank.

  The material of the straps on the back of her shirt coming up in a t-shape, and the thick straps of an exercise bra visible on either side of it. There’s something about the small vision of creamy skin exposed between each strap that makes me unable to look away.

  My eyes glide over her skin in ways I wish my hands could.

  Her hands hug her coffee mug as she walks into her den. I follow with a mug of my own and a plate of muffins. When she sits I pause. Her couch is a sectional and could easily seat seven adults. Do I sit next to her or give her space?

  Patting the cushion to her right, she answers my unspoken question. Stacked milk crates wrapped with a bungee cord serve as her coffee table. Sitting where she motioned, I lean forward to set my mug and plate down.

  As good as her cooking is, I can’t eat until I know what she’s thinking.

  “About last night,” I start again.

  She lifts her hand, stopping me. “I need to say something first.”

  Swallowing, I nod.

  “You know I’m divorced.”

  “That isn’t an issue.”

  She shakes her head. “That’s not what I’m trying to say. Please listen.”

  I inhale but don’t speak.

  “My divorce was finalized only months ago. I’m a mess. My decision-making skills at the moment are terrible. Look at this place.”

  I look from right to left when she glares at me for not looking.

  “I bought this house. If you hadn’t talked me into letting you help, I would still be sleeping on two air mattresses in my office. And, it’s starting to get colder outside. You cleaned my chimneys and found that bird nest saving me from dying in a future house fire.”

  Future house fire?

  Oh shit, she’s having a what if spiral. Abby is famous for them.

  “No what ifs. If you want to argue you can’t make good decisions I’ll argue you made a helluva good one the day you agreed to take my help.”

  A frown line forms across her forehead.

  “You also made a very good decision wearing that dress last night,” I blurt.

  Her frown line deepens when her eyebrows shoot up. I reach for her mug, taking it from her. Turning away from her, I set her mug next to mine on the milk crate.

  Her eyes are on it when I turn back to face her.

  “And, another one when you let me kiss you.”

  She only looks at me when I take her hands in mine.

  “You can’t look me in the eyes and tell me you didn’t feel anything last night.”

  Her gaze shifts from my face to our joined hands. “It’s too soon.”

  “That’s your fear speaking,” I argue.

  She looks up, her eyes glassy.

  “It is,” she agrees.

  I want to kick myself. Using my hold on her hands, I pull her closer before wrapping my arms around her. She tucks her face into my neck. I rest my cheek on the top her head.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” I whisper into her hair.

  “There’s no way to avoid it,” she whispers back.

  I pull away slightly. “What does that mean?”

  She gulps. “My parents have been together for forty years and I was married for ten. When you let someone in, two things happen. Their hurt becomes yours as well and if one day they decide they don’t want you anymore, they leave. When they leave, it isn’t a surprise for them. They’ve been doing it without you knowing it for months. They’ve already started seeing someone else. When they leave, it’s just another day, but for you it’s a shock.”

  “Finley—“

  “I had a plan. It was a bad plan but it was all mine. My friends and family were going to stay in Texas and I was going to be here all by myself.”

  “Why are you so sure you should be alone?”

  “It’s safer that way.”

  “You’re not built that way.” I ease her even closer. “You’re trying to punish yourself for picking the wrong man.”

  She pulls back and I lift my head, watching as she tips her chin up until her eyes lock on mine. “You don’t know someone is wrong until it’s too late.”

  “I’m not wrong.”

  “I need you to be my friend,” she whispers.

  “Nothing more?” I ask.

  She nods and I fight back my impulse to throw her over my shoulder like some caveman.

  “Forever?” I push.

  She nods again. My chest tightens as my fingers itch to pull out my hair. Knowing she’s only trying to protect her heart is what stops me from losing it.

  Still, not wanting to let this farce go on anymore, I shake my head. “Nope.”

  Her lips part and I can’t take my eyes off them.

  “You’re wrong about this and I’m going to prove it to you.”

  “Noah—“

  “No, listen to me. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I press my lips to hers and am encouraged when she doesn’t pull away.

  It’s not a long kiss. I don’t want her to push me away. For now, we’re going to be friends that kiss. As soon as she settles into that, we’ll be friends that do more than kiss.

  Much more.

  “I’m not sure I can do this.”

  “It’s okay,” I reply. “I’m sure enough for the both of us.”

  I reach around her to reclaim her mug and then pass it back to her. Then I keep her close tucked to my side.

  “Is this okay?”

&
nbsp; She’s skittish at first but tentatively lifts her mug to her lips for a sip. With each second that passes, her body relaxes against mine.

  She never answered my question so I ask differently. “This so bad?”

  “It’s—“ she hesitates before saying, “not.”

  I grin. I can work with this. After she takes another drink, I shift both of us to grab my plate.

  “I know you’re freaked.” She stiffens and I keep going, “I’m not going to push it anymore now, but this conversation isn’t over.”

  She gulps but doesn’t pull away.

  “Did you hear back from your mom?”

  My question gets her moving, out of my arms and off of the couch. “I was so distracted I forgot to tell you. They’re coming today.”

  I forego my muffins and coffee. “Are they flying into Manchester?”

  She nods and I stand. “When does their flight land?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “Alright. Is there anything around here you want done before they get here?”

  She nods again and I bite back a laugh. “We’re tight, babe, but I can’t read your mind.”

  Her face softens, a smile peeking from the corners of her mouth. “Can we paint upstairs?”

  I grab my coffee and down it. “You cut the edges, and I’ll roll.”

  All tension from earlier is gone. We’ve worked together long enough it’s easy to ease back into the routine of it.

  “What are your parents like?”

  When she doesn’t answer, I set my roller back in the tray and turn to look at her. “Finley?”

  She’s on a stepladder, paintbrush suspended in midair. “They’re best friends.”

  Just like my parents.

  She rests her brush on her paint filled cup and climbs down the ladder. “I’m going to open the windows in the other room to help with fumes.”

  She’s running away. I get back to painting and let her come to terms with the epiphany she just stumbled upon. She’s trying to protect herself. As soon as she figures out I’m on her side she’ll get that she doesn’t need any protecting from me.

  “Okay, all better,” she chirps, coming back in.

  It doesn’t take long to get one coat of paint on the walls. There’s no furniture to move and the floors were already covered.