by C L Cruz
Fixer Upper
A Curvy Woman Romance
C.L. Cruz
Fixer Upper Copyright © 2021 by C.L. Cruz. All Rights Reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Cover designed by Cormar Covers
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
C.L. Cruz
Visit my website at www.clcruz.com
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Epilogue
It’s Raining Men!
Get Your Free Book
Also by C.L. Cruz
About the Author
Chapter One
Tara
I peek open one eye, squinting against the burst of orange sunlight streaming in through the bare windows. The air mattress I only half-inflated last night before collapsing onto it after driving for two days has sunk so low that I can feel the hardwood floor beneath my back. Rolling to one side, I take in the rest of what I barely paid attention to when I arrived last night.
Cobwebs in the corners. Ripped window screens. Crumbling deck railings. Ugly Formica countertops and even uglier wood paneling on the walls.
And still, I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.
I stand, stretch, and take a deep breath. The smell of salty sea air floods my lungs, making me smile. It’s a comforting smell that reminds me of one of the happiest times of my childhood when my mom married Ted, a software engineer who lived right on the beach. I didn’t care much for Ted, but I loved swimming every morning as the sun rose, watching for dolphins and pretending I was a mermaid. I think I was more distraught than my mom was when he dumped her a couple of years later. For her, it was just par for the course.
My phone rings, and I find it on the bathroom counter where I must have left it last night. Seeing my agent’s number, I answer it. “Hello?”
“Tara!” Angela says, always chipper. “So, how is it?”
“It’s amazing,” I tell her, even if she wouldn’t think so. Then again, she’s sitting in a beautiful office somewhere in Manhattan. Our standards are a little different. “I mean, it’s a bit of a fixer-upper.”
“Yeah, well, who isn’t?” Angela says with a laugh.
“The realtor says it has good bones,” I say as if trying to justify the biggest purchase of my life. “She said that a lot.”
“Well, I suppose that’s important,” Angela says. “Good bones make for a good foundation. It will be up to you to make it a home.”
I open the door onto my screened-in back deck. The air is already warm and muggy, and the tide is high, nearly reaching the dunes just on the other side of the house. The screen needs to be replaced, and the previous owners took the rickety porch swing that was featured in the pictures, but it’s the view that takes my breath away. White sand and blue water stretch as far as I can see in either direction, and there’s not another soul out here. The sun is rising over the ocean to my left. It’s peaceful, beautiful, and quiet—everything I want in a home. Everything I want in life. From now on, the drama will be confined to my books.
Angela continues, “I’m just glad you’re putting your advance to good use, as long as you don’t turn into a reclusive, eccentric writer who only corresponds via snail mail.”
“I mean, that’s my dream, so…” I’m teasing, but it’s also kind of true. When I sold my first manuscript, a historical romance called “The Viking’s Victory,” it was a dream come true. It’s been a pretty steady seller since then, but when the publisher offered me a six-figure advance on subsequent books in the series…it was still beyond my wildest imaginings. But I knew exactly what I wanted to do with the money.
Leave the shitty, studio apartment in the city that I’d moved into when my ex had broken off our engagement a few months ago and move as far south as I could reasonably afford. Somewhere with sun, sand, and as little human interaction as possible.
This house, isolated at the end of a road that’s half-sand, had been perfect for me.
“And how are you doing?” she asks.
“Good,” I answer, pushing the screen door on the back deck. There’s a crumbling stairwell leading down to the dunes, the last few steps covered with sand.
“You sure?”
“Really,” I tell Angela, pressing the phone to my ear. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m a bit of a fixer-upper, but I have good bones.”
She gives a little hum of disapproval at my attempt to deflect with humor. “Have you been able to write?”
I laugh, letting the screen door slam shut. “I just got here. Give me time. The words will come.” Never mind the fact that they haven’t been lately. “Deadlines will be met,” I promise, even as the words spark a little bit of panic inside of me.
She smacks her teeth. “You know I’m not worried about deadlines,” she says. “At least, not exclusively.”
I slip on my flip-flops and push out the front door. The stairs here are at least a little sturdier. My car is parked beneath the house, full of everything I didn’t unload the night before.
“Please don’t worry about me,” I tell Angela as I trot down the stairs. “I’m happy. And Spring apparently has a surplus of single men, so who knows, maybe I’ll find a boyfriend and inspiration.” Stranger things have happened.
We end the call, and I open the back of my car to study the contents. My whole life, everything I own, is crammed back here—a card table, a couple of folding chairs, bags of clothes, and boxes upon boxes of books. Only the essentials. I should carry everything in and get settled, but I can’t work up the motivation.
Leaving the trunk open, I instead follow the rickety wooden fence that marks the path to the beach between the dunes. My feet sink into the soft sand, and I kick off my flip-flops as I start to run, sending seagulls flying out of my way. I don’t have a bathing suit, but that doesn’t stop me. I’ve always wanted to go skinny-dipping and now seems as good a time as any. The contractor won’t be here for a couple of hours still, and there’s not another person in sight.
I strip my nightgown off over my head, tossing it to the side, and by the time I reach the water, I’m completely naked. Laughter bubbles up inside of me. I can’t remember the last time I felt so happy. So free.
I run deeper into the surf, splashing my way past the crashing waves. Then, I take a deep breath, lean back, and float, letting the water wash me clean and carry me away.
Chapter Two
Roan
Just as I turn my truck right onto Beach Road to head out to the old Hackett place, my phone rings. I press it to my ear as I follow the curve of the road.
“Hello?”
“Roan,” my mother says, “have you met her yet?”
I roll my eyes. She’s never one to beat around the bush. No…she runs straight through it. I love my mother, but the woman is an incurable gossip. She and Ms. Dierdre May are in constant competition to find out things before the other. Admittedly, with me working this job, my mom has the upper hand.
“Not yet,” I answer. “I’m on my way now.”
Everyone in Spring is glad that someone
is finally moving into the eyesore at the end of the island and doing some work on it. And not just anyone, either. A single woman who is, apparently, an up-and-coming author, according to the Women’s Book Club. “The next Johanna Lindsey,” they say, although that doesn’t mean that much to me, admittedly. It’s the “single woman” part that has me most intrigued.
“You’re getting there awfully early,” my mom comments.
I shrug even though she can’t see it. “Time is money,” I tell her, only half-joking.
She tuts. “You work too hard. Why don’t you come over for dinner? Let me feed you. And your Dad could use your help installing shelves in the garage.”
I feel a twinge of guilt. “He’s still working on that?”
“He’ll be working on that until the day he dies,” she says with a laugh. “You know the old man needs to stay busy.”
Like father, like son, I guess. I’d love to have a day off to take the boat out with a cooler of beers and just relax, but I haven’t had the time with work. Not that I’m complaining. Business is booming and life is good. The only thing that could make it better is someone to share it with.
When I hit the end of the road, I end the call with my mom and ease the truck onto the soft sand. There are fresh tire tracks, and my suspicions that the resident has already arrived are confirmed when I see a red SUV parked beneath the house, its trunk open to reveal boxes and suitcases and a folded card table.
I park behind the car and take the stairs up to the front door, noting that the whole set will need to be replaced. But when I knock on the door, there’s no answer. A covert peek through the bare windows reveals that no one is home, so I let myself in using the key that Rita Fisher, our local realtor, gave me.
Poking my head into the hall, I see a deflated air mattress in the bedroom. I find my way onto the back porch, thinking I might find her enjoying a cup of coffee out here, but it’s also empty. I’m about to turn back inside when something out in the water below catches my eye. A shape bobs up and then disappears as a wave swells. At first, I wonder if it’s a bird, and then, as the water recedes, I see that it’s a woman’s body. She’s on her back, her arms splayed out to the side, her hair a dark cloud around her head.
What the hell?
“Hey!” I shout, waving my arms. “Hey! Are you okay?”
There’s no response.
I’m down the stairs before I know it, kicking off my shoes as I run through the sand to the water. I manage to get my t-shirt and jeans off just before I hit the waterline, and I toss them to the side as I wade in. Once the water is deep enough, I dive under, heading toward where I think I last saw her. A few seconds later, once I’m past the breaking point of the crashing waves, I surface, spinning to try to find her. A wave bobs, and—there, an arm.
I push off toward her, and as I get closer, she comes into view again. And she’s still not moving. Am I too late? My fingers brush her arm, and—
“What the fuck?” she shrieks, bolting upright and immediately going underwater.
I reach under the surface and wrap my hand around her arm, tugging her back up. She surfaces, sputtering, her dark hair covering her eyes and dripping water down her face. With one arm, she flicks it back and turns wide, brown eyes at me.
“What the fuck are you doing out here?” she asks indignantly as both of us tread water and stare at each other—her in anger, me in shock. That’s the same moment that I realize she’s naked.
Talk about first impressions.
I hold my hands up in a defensive gesture. “I thought you were dead. Or on the way to being dead.” Now that I see she’s not dead, I can’t help but let my eyes wander a little from her angry face to the slope of her freckled shoulders to the curve of her breasts just above the water. I catch a glimpse of a dark nipple that has me glad she can’t see the parts of me that are underwater. She’s like a siren sent from the sea to lure me to my death.
“Well, I’m not,” she says.
“Well, I’m glad,” I retort.
A wave pushes her forward, and I wrap my hands around the tops of her arms to help her. Her skin is soft and supple beneath my calloused fingers.
“I’m guessing you’re Tara Tessener,” I say.
She glares at me. “And you are?”
“Roan Waters. Your contractor.”
“And personal lifeguard, apparently,” she quips, which makes me laugh. The reluctant smile that creeps across her lips tells me that she’s not as mad as she seems. Still, she bites out one last jab. “You’re early.”
I shrug. “The early bird gets the worm.” And by worm, I obviously mean the beautiful naked woman.
This time, she actually laughs. A wave recedes, and she crosses her arms over her chest as our feet touch the sand. The water has been pushing us back toward the shore. “Could you maybe give me some privacy to get out? I’ll meet you at the house.”
“Yeah, okay. You’re sure you’ve got this?”
She narrows her eyes at me again. “I’ve got this.”
“Okay, okay.” I turn and start toward the shore. Waves batter my legs, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to turn around. As I stop to pick up my jeans and shake them out, I find her nightgown discarded just a few feet away, and a few feet behind that, what looks like black lace panties.
I wait for her at the bottom of the stairs, and when she appears, I decide that she is no less beautiful dressed. The nightgown drapes over her full breasts and gathers at her wide hips, and her legs are long and thick. I can just imagine them wrapped around my waist. And I don’t miss the ball of black fabric in her hand that tells me she’s still very naked beneath the thin material. My dick strains against my jeans and I have no way to hide it.
“I’m actually glad you’re here,” she says, nodding toward the car behind me. “I was dreading carrying all of that up the stairs by myself.”
I grimace. “We’ll have to be careful. Those stairs are on their last leg.”
She shoots me a beautiful smile. “Well, then you can catch me if I fall.”
With that, she wraps her hair in some complicated-looking knot on top of her head and struts past me, leaving me to follow in her wake.
∞ ∞ ∞
“Why are these so heavy?” I ask as I drop the last box onto the floor in the living room.
Tara smiles at me from her spot in the kitchen, where she’s unpacking a box of White Claws into the fridge. “They’re books,” she says.
“Of course.” I look around the room. “Books but no bookshelves?”
She shrugs. “I couldn’t leave them behind.” She tries to hand me a White Claw but I wave it away, and she passes me a chilled bottle of water instead.
“But you left your couch behind?”
“Priorities,” she says, uncapping her own bottle of water and drinking it down. Her hair has mostly dried now, revealing itself to be a chestnut brown that matches her eyes. It cascades across her shoulders in messy waves, and there’s a smattering of endearing freckles on her cheeks that match the ones I spotted earlier on her shoulders.
She’s fucking beautiful, and once word gets out, all the bachelors in town will be knocking down her door. For whatever reason, Spring’s population is dominated by men, turning the arrival of any eligible woman into a free-for-all.
I’ve always played it safe and kept my distance. Mainly because I don’t want a fling. I don’t want a tourist just passing through for the summer. I want a relationship. I want marriage and babies. I want to sit on the porch and drink sweet tea with the woman I’ll grow old with every night as our kids and grandkids build sandcastles and collect broken seashells that we’ll keep in baskets all over the house. When I fall in love, I plan on it being forever, just like my parents. So, I usually watch from the sidelines.
But for the first time ever, I want to throw my hat in the ring.
My desire for her only deepens as we talk about her plans for the house. I can tell that she’s intending for this house to be
where she lives for the rest of her life, and that makes her just as passionate as I am about the upgrades and changes we can make.
“I hear it has good bones,” she says, pulling up inspiration pictures on her phone. “So, I want to restore as much as I can while still preserving its original character.”
As I peer over her shoulder to study her phone, she points things out to me, features that she likes, things she doesn’t like, but I find my mind wandering to her nearness. She smells like the beach—salty air and water—and she’s so close that whenever her wet hair drips, it lands on my arm. I lean in even closer on the pretense of looking at her phone, and I swear her breath hitches as she looks up at me.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but the sound of a door slamming downstairs breaks the spell.
“That must be Joe,” I say. “He’s here to help. We’ll start on the roof today, deck and steps next, then…” I point to her phone. “The inside.”
She nods, locking her phone and putting it on the counter, clearing her throat. “Okay, well, should I…?”
“You can stay, obviously, if you want, but if you want to get out, I know a place in town you could go for a few hours.” Even though I’d rather keep her here, I worry what kind of distraction she might be for me.
“What kind of place?” she asks.
“It’s a diner, the Munch Box. My friend, Collin, owns it. He won’t mind giving up a table to you.” And with him recently off-the-market, I know I can trust him.
Tara twists her lips thoughtfully. “A table with a window?”
I raise an eyebrow. “All the people-watching you could desire.”
“Perfect, give me a minute to get ready and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Chapter Three
Tara
It takes me more than a minute to get ready, but not by much. After a quick rinse in the shower, I throw on jean shorts and a t-shirt, grab my computer, and head out. I don’t bother with makeup or with my hair, but I do at least wear a bra even though I hate them. Roan’s already seen my nipples—the whole town doesn’t have to. I feel like I should be more embarrassed than I am about that whole encounter, but there’s something about Roan that puts me at ease, and it’s not just his dazzling smile. He seems like a genuinely good guy with a fun sense of humor, not the type to gossip.
