Page 2 of The Handy Men
For once, Fred had real old information. Someone's head was going to roll for that oversight—not only was the house already sold, but the new owners had already moved in. After she caught him red-handed, Paige couldn’t stand to look at the home she had made for Fred. So she went on an extended vacation.
Her parents used to have a summer home on Hamlet Island. Paige had come here a year and a half ago to see if she could find the happy little girl she used to be. She found the Nutmeg Inn and never left. When the owner told her he was going to put the bed and breakfast on the market, she called her realtor right away. The house in Long Island had sold immediately and she put the deposit down on the Nutmeg Inn as soon as the escrow cleared.
Fred had more to say in his nasty gram of an email, but Paige just didn't have the energy to read it. She took her coffee and walked down to the beach. It was cold for May and she should have put on a hoodie. The sleep T-shirt and shorts she wore weren't enough to stop the goose bumps. Still, it was too much effort to go back inside—especially when the ocean called to her with the crash of waves that soothed her jagged nerves. In the pink light of sunrise, she saw two joggers down the beach.
It made her boobs hurt just to look at them. Wrapping her arms over her chest, she shook her head. Even if she wanted to jog, she'd need two bras to keep the girls from bouncing into her chin. Plus, the thought of jogging right now made her sick. She was more a swimming type of girl. Floating really. On an inflatable raft. With a margarita.
That first summer here had been like a bandage on her soul. She’d gotten to know the charming little island again, this time as a resident instead of a tourist. She’d made a few friends who didn't care if she didn't have matching plates or if she liked to wear maxi dresses with large sunhats. This island represented peace as well as the start of her new life. Of course, it wasn't all sunshine and roses. The community tended to be archly conservative and distrustful of newcomers, but some old-timers remembered her and her family, so she'd been given the benefit of the doubt, no matter how grudgingly. She resolved to ignore the grim discussions around the town square over politics, and concentrated instead on the beach and her inn.
As she stood on the beach, Paige kept circling back to Fred and his damned email. They were divorced. Happily divorced. And it had been his idea. After she found out about his torrid affair.
When Fred had told her his conference was in Manhattan two years ago, she had taken the train into the city to surprise him. She had been such an idiot. All happy about getting away for a weekend and acting like a newlywed again.
Paige shook her head in disgust, no longer seeing the beautiful ocean as the memories overwhelmed her like a rogue wave.
She had dressed up in a French maid costume and ordered champagne and chocolate to be brought up to her husband's room. She had even bribed room service to allow her to take the cart to the room. Once she had been alone in the hall, she had pulled off the trench coat she had buttoned up to hide her skimpy outfit and stuffed it under the trolley. The lace had made her crotch itch and the fabric of the costume hadn’t been forgiving on her belly, but Paige hadn't cared because her breasts looked fantastic. She had been as excited as a teenager and eager to give her husband the ride of his life.
"Room Service. Complimentary champagne," she'd said, barely able to contain the giggles.
The door had opened and a gorgeous woman in a robe, wearing a towel on her head, gestured her in. The woman barely looked up from texting on her phone. Her skin was still glistening from the shower. She was a perfect size eight, with huge knockers peeking out of the robe. The belt cinched a tiny waist and was short enough to show off her long, shapely legs.
Paige froze. Shit. Wrong room. Should she leave the champagne and get out before the woman figured out she didn't work here?
Wearing just a towel around his waist, Fred came out of the bathroom. "Who was at the door, darling?"
Paige had rammed the cart full speed into his knees.
The woman had screamed.
"You cheating bastard!" Paige had yelled at him.
Fred staggered over to the bed, howling at the pain in his shins.
Sex toys got knocked onto the floor, some that she had no idea what they were.
For years, sex with Fred had gone like a well-choreographed dance. It was efficient and pleasant, but not earthshaking by any stretch of the imagination. She'd wanted to spice things up, surprise him. She could have saved herself the humiliation and just bought a vibrator.
"I want a divorce," Fred had said.
They had to call the ambulance.
For her.
Paige had gone into a full-blown anxiety attack and had forgotten how to breathe. She passed out in their hotel room next to a pink dildo and woke up in the emergency room, still in the naughty maid's outfit. At least someone had been nice enough to put a sheet over her.
"Earth to Paige?"
Paige took in a deep, shuddering breath. She had been so lost in the ugly memory that she hadn’t realized the joggers had caught up with her. As her eyes focused, a gray UConn sweatshirt filled her vision. Warm hands on her upper arms made her shiver.
"Jeez, Paige, you're an icicle."
"D-Dean," she said, still gulping breaths. Now was not the time to have another anxiety attack. Jack and Dean were the only two people who didn’t treat her like she was going to shatter into a million pieces at the first sign of adversity. They were the first friends she made on Hamlet Island and she had hired them as handymen to get the Nutmeg Inn back into shape for the summer tourist season.
She didn't protest when Jack took the coffee out of her hand. Didn't move when Dean stripped his sweatshirt off and plunked it over her head. Then he started rubbing her arms, and reality snapped back into place. His shirt was toasty warm and smelled like his spicy aftershave.
"I'm okay," she said, stepping away from the vigorous caress that she was enjoying too much. Dean was naked from the waist up, his six-pack in full display. Paige tore her eyes from his tight jogging shorts as she slipped her arms through the sleeves of his sweatshirt. The shaking subsided as the fleece covered her like a comforting blanket.
"Thanks," she said to Jack, who handed her back the cup of coffee.
