Mister Fixit (Love in New York #3) (4 page)

“Sorry,” I say out into the car’s interior as I reverse out of my parking space, “I’m busy moving into my new place. I’ll catch you next month, maybe. And oh, by the way, if Robinson’s going to be there, I won’t be.” I know it’ll cause a stink to throw in that little caveat, but that’s too bad. If they want me there, they’re going to have to choose: me or him. And if they choose him, fine. It might be easier that way. I have a lot of work to get done on my new house. I could dwell on how painful it is for me to see Cassie now, but I won’t go there. Those are floodgates I just can’t open right now.

My first stop after signing for the title to the house is the home improvement store. I spend an hour in there, interrogating a poor salesman about how to do drywall repair. I also purchase a set of work overalls, shoe covers, a gas mask, and a painter’s hat. I don’t want to get my clothes dirty, do I? Also in my cart go the materials recommended for my drywall repair, a new door lock, and some tools. Several men in the aisles were happy to give me advice about what I’d need. One even pointed out a shiny, red toolbox he said he wished he could buy for himself. He put it in my cart for me since it was kind of heavy.

My car sinks down in the back with the weight of everything I bought. I frown at it and look over at the other vehicles in the lot. It makes me wonder if a GC should be driving a truck and not a Volvo. I’ll have to think on that while I’m covering up all the holes in my walls and installing a new front door lock with my brand new tools. I’m so excited, I practically skip over to the driver’s side door and get in. So far, this general contractor stuff has turned out to be a cakewalk. At least I know I’m good at the shopping part.

My second stop after getting my keys and construction materials is the grocery store. I can’t very well get started on a long workday without something to eat or drink, now can I? I stock up on the basics and grab a cheap coffee maker while I’m at it. I have one back at my apartment, but I plan to rent the place out furnished, so I need to leave almost everything there. I’ll get the rest of what I need later.

Two hours after signing the papers, I pull into the space in front of the house and smile at my new home. It’s all mine, bought and paid for with cash. I can already see what the exterior will look like; I’ll bring out all the Craftsman details and get rid of the changes that were made to it by people who didn’t know what they were doing. I’ll start by demolishing that sagging porch and putting it back to the way it should be. I’ve got several photos on my
Pinterest
boards with inspiration for the whole project.

The first thing I notice when I enter is a terrible odor. My nose crinkles in response. Why didn’t I smell that before? Is it new? I haven’t been here since my inspection walk-through two weeks ago. The stench is a cross between old cheese and rotten garbage. I tiptoe over some random trash strewn across the living room floor and enter the kitchen. There, in the middle of the linoleum, is a dead rat.

“Oh my god!”

I scream, running back to the front door and out onto the front porch. Standing on what might someday be a lawn, huffing and puffing, I wonder what I should do next and how I got in this situation in the first place. Why is there a rat there? Did the former owners come in and put it there, or is my new kitchen the place where vermin come to die? The thought makes me shudder.

Five minutes later, I’m freezing my ass off and no closer to a solution. The only thing I do finally figure out is that I can’t let this stop me. The sub-zero temperature may be contributing to this thought process, but I’m going to go with it. I’m the GC, so what would a real GC do in a situation like this? He’d call someone, that’s what. I pull my phone from my purse and call my cleaning lady.

“Estelle? Hi, this is Jana.”

She says a bunch of things in Spanish, and when she stops, I speak again. “Are you free? Because I bought that house I told you about, and there’s a dead rat in here on the floor, and I need someone to come clean this place up.”

The tone of her voice goes decidedly rude and then she hangs up.

I’ve told her a thousand times I don’t speak Spanish, but does she listen? No. But for the past six months, that hasn’t interfered in our ability to communicate. At least not until now. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her about the rat until she got here.

I chew my lip, wondering what to do next. Since I don’t have wifi yet and my computer’s at my apartment, I have no way of looking up a business that deals with this sort of thing. What would I use as my search terms? Rats-B-Gone? It wouldn’t be an exterminator because the rat already exterminated itself. Is there such a thing as rat removal services? I’ll probably never know, because the longer I wait out here, the longer it’ll be before I’m fixing all those holes in the wall, and I promised myself I’m going to move into this place by the weekend. That gives me five days to get things done.

Just the idea of smooth walls gets me pumped up again. I walk into the front hall with a confident stride and my gaze falls on my shopping bags. A smile lights up my face as the solution comes to me — the solution that’s been staring at me this whole time. I tear into several packages and relieve them of their offerings.

Now dressed in my worker overalls, thick rubber gloves, a painting gas mask with canisters attached, a painter’s hat covering every strand of my hair, and rubber workboots that go up to my knees, I am properly attired.
Bring it, you nasty dead rat.
The disgusting broom that I found in the pantry, its bristles permanently folded to the side and covered in old dirt, will be perfect for what I need to do.

In the kitchen again, I prod the rat a couple times to be sure he’s really dead and not just taking a ratnap on my kitchen floor. His entire body moves with the stiffness of a corpse, so I’m no longer worried about him waking up and making a mad dash for my leg.

I use the small kitchen broom like a big industrial push broom, moving him across the floors and out to the front hall. As I pass other garbage, I add it to my pile. Pretty soon I have what looks like an entire bag’s worth in front of me.

Seeing the somewhat clean streak behind me inspires me to do more. Soon, I have half the trash from the living room pushed into the front hall, and it’s knee deep against the wall. I’m actually making progress. At this point, I’ll be able to move in by Friday!

Taking a moment to relish the fruits of my labors, I lean on my broom in the middle of the living room, nodding. So far so good. I don’t know why everyone kept giving me that funny look when I said I was going to be the GC.

It’s just at that moment when I’m patting myself on the back that Fate decides to remind me that I should always find some wood to knock on when I speak out loud about being in control of my life.

Something, I have no idea what, lands on the top of my head, hits my shoulder, and then falls to the floor next to my leg.

My first thought arrives with a flash of fear:
Is the ceiling falling down around my ears now? That can’t be good.

When I look down and see a mouse, stunned, but still very much alive lying on its side just next to my foot, I have a second thought:
Is it raining mice in my house?
In stunned horror, I lift my eyes to the ceiling, trying to figure out how a mouse managed to land on my
head.

There, where there should be a light fixture, is a hole in the ceiling and another tiny mouse face looking down at me. His whiskers twitch and then he leans out farther, his entire upper body straining downward. At my face.

I run screaming from the living room, tripping over the giant pile of garbage in the foyer and landing on my knees, before crawling the rest of the way out of the house on all fours. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I try to get enough oxygen through the stupid canisters attached to my gas mask. Once I reach the porch, I get back on my feet and run, not stopping until I’m locked in my car with my phone in my hand. Ripping first my gloves off and then my gas mask, I start dialing. I don’t even realize who I’ve called until an operator comes on the line.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

Chapter Six

GREAT. SO NOW I HAVE holes in the walls and ceiling, a dead rat, live mice having a party in the attic, and a $50 fine for calling 9-1-1 for a non-emergency. Thank you, Destiny. Thank you for screwing me over royally. What would you like to do to me next? Have someone steal my car while I’m sitting in it?

I hiss out a sigh of annoyance and frustration. What. The.
Hell
. What am I supposed to do now? It’s already four in the afternoon, and I haven’t gotten a single thing accomplished, other than moving trash from one end of a room to another. And I’m afraid to go inside the house now, too. That’s going to make it kind of difficult to fix it up, I’m pretty sure. Even if I hire subcontractors to do all the work, I still have to inspect what they’ve done.

I stare out the side window of my car at the front of the house with its ridiculous sagging front porch. And I thought I was going to live inside there by this weekend? Ha. That’s a hell of a joke I played on myself. I’m my own worst enemy. What was I thinking buying this rat trap?

All my plans fizzle out like air from a dying, squealing balloon. I’ve never felt so defeated in my entire life. This project was supposed to get me back on my feet, give me something to occupy my mind and broken heart, but it’s turning out to be just one more thing bringing me down. I think the universe is trying to tell me something, and it’s not good, whatever it is.

My phone rings and Robinson’s name comes up on the screen. All my contacts from my old phone have transferred over, even the ones I didn’t want. I press the red key, sending him away. I can’t think of anyone I want to talk to less than him right now.

My text alert beeps, telling me someone just left me a message. I click over and look at the screen, knowing full well it’s going to be
him
again. Jerk. Baby-stealing, heart-breaking jerk.

Where are you right now?
Robinson’s text asks.

I consider not answering, but I’m cranky. Being angry at him feels like a great way to express myself and cleanse the bad emotions from my body. It’s like therapy in a way.

None of your damn business.

My evil heart sings with happiness. There! That’ll show him. He’s not a part of my life and he never will be.

I hear you bought a fixer upper
.

I stare at my phone, confused and doubly frustrated. How in the hell…? I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing. How would he know about the house? This text exchange is supposed to be my mean-girl therapy, not the Robinson-one-upping-me therapy.

Who told you that?
I ask. I need to know who I should yell at next.

I glare at my phone, waiting for his answer. Someone’s going to get an earful from me about sharing my private business with people like him — baby-stealing snake in the grass.

Your neighbor Rose. Nice lady.

“Dammit, Rose.” I never thought to tell her to keep the news to herself. I guess because I never figured Robinson would stoop to spying on me. I’m going to be super-pissed if he slyly interrogated her about me while she innocently served him Earl Grey in her pretty pink teacups. That’s practically elder abuse.

My fingers hammer out a new message.
Stop spying on me.

I’m not spying. Just worried. Can I help?

I laugh out loud in my car. Robinson? Worried about me? Yeah, right. More like worried I’m going to tell James to stop sending him business. And
help
me? The guy never steps out of his front door not in a suit or dressed to kill. If a mouse had landed on
his
head, he’d run screaming into the next county. At least I stopped at my car.

It puffs my ego up a bit to think about it, actually. I’m tougher than he is. I’m tougher than most people when I put my mind to it. I survived a dead rat and a mouse attack, and that’s not nothing.

Not sure you could handle it,
I say back, smiling at the image I have playing in my head. Maybe I should let him come over here, make him get his hands dirty. That’ll teach him to screw me over. Maybe I could even orchestrate a situation where he’d be standing under that hole in the ceiling when a whole pack of mice fell out. I giggle when I picture a tiny mouse running up his pant leg and biting him where the sun don’t shine.

Yes, I’m feeling positively evil right now, and I don’t care. Evil feels good. It matches the blackness that’s swallowing my heart.

Pretty sure I could.
He says.
Give me the address.

I shrug. Fine. He wants to get dirty and covered in mouse poop, who am I to stop him? I will gladly watch him destroy his manicure. After typing out the address, I wait for his reply. This is going to be a beautiful disaster I can’t wait to witness.

See you in an hour.

I drop my phone into my purse and turn my ignition halfway so I can listen to some tunes. In sixty minutes, I’m going to be serving up a nice big platter of hot, steaming revenge. My day is finally turning around. Oooohhh yeah, baby. It’s all coasting downhill from here.

Chapter Seven

SOMEONE TAPPING ON MY WINDOW wakes me from a catnap I fell into waiting for Robinson to arrive. All I can see is a red and blue flannel shirt, a puffy goosedown vest, and jeans. Did a subcontractor see me sitting here and stop to offer help? That would be eerily convenient. Maybe the universe has seen fit to give me a helping hand instead of a smackdown for a change.

I sit up, glancing in my rearview mirror as I move to open my window. There’s a black BMW there, the same car that Robinson drives. There’s no truck in sight.

When the man bends down and his face shows up in the window, my heart lurches. I can’t quite justify my earlier thoughts with what I’m seeing now.

Erp
. Does. Not. Compute.

It’s a sub-contractor body with Robinson’s stupid head on it — same perfectly coiffed hair, same annoyingly straight and blindingly white teeth, same nose with a bump on it, and same chiseled good looks that had me drooling after him for way too long.