Page 12 of The Small-Town Seduction Plan

I load up the truck, and head out back to my current construction site. I wasn’t lying to Earl: business has never been better. These days, I’m turning down more work than I can take. It’s definitely a turnaround from the days I was just starting out, making cold calls trying to drum up work and moonlighting making furniture to keep the bills paid.

Back then, all anyone wanted was new, new, new. Flashy modern architecture, and concrete box townhomes. My specialty is historic restoration and redesign: building new homes using the old original plans and techniques from a hundred years ago. See, there’s a reason those Cape Cod saltbox houses are still standing a century after they were first constructed.

They were built to last.

Most contractors just want to make a quick buck, so they don’t bother to do things right. They cut corners and pick cheap materials, I hear it all the time – usually from the stressed-out homeowner trying to patch up their mistakes when all those shoddy choices add up to serious problems. It doesn’t matter if it takes one year or five before things start falling apart. If you don’t build it right from the beginning, nothing’s going to last.

And I’ve learned the hard way, that doesn’t just apply to construction.

Me? I’m all about the details. There’s something beautiful about a handmade built-in bookshelf; a wrought-iron banister that you know is going to last for generations; historic trim and details that echo the past in an updated setting. Yeah, craftsmanship, care, historical preservation – those are the foundations I’ve built my business on. It may not be flashy, but as far as I’m concerned, quality never goes out of style.

And sure enough, after struggling through a lean few years trying to get my business off the ground, historic homes came roaring back in fashion again. All the high-end buyers are tired of those cookie-cutter McMansions and want something historic again – unique – and they’re willing to pay a premium to get it. One job led to another, and soon I had a steady flow of clients. Then one of my projects got featured in Architectural Digest, and things really got crazy. The calls started pouring in… and they haven’t stopped yet.

It's funny, my ex used to roll her eyes at my sawdust-covered boots, and complain when I came back all dirty from the construction site. Now, I’m featured in the pages of all the glossy design magazines she used to leaf through, back when all she would do was remind me of all the things we couldn’t afford just yet.

But then, that was Rachel: always wanting more. More than I could offer her, anyway. I guess that’s why she figured hooking up with her mega-bucks corporate boss would get her all those exclusive places she wanted to go.

It just would have been nice if she’d broken off our engagement before screwing him.

I snap out of past memories, and realize I’m driving by the old artist’s cottage on the outskirts of town. Aka, Avery Lawrence’s rental.

An inconvenient stab of guilt lodges in my gut. I really shouldn’t have left her on the side of the road like that. And now Earl says she’s got a leak, and can’t find anyone to fix it…

Dammit.

I pull over outside the cottage and grab my toolbox, then make my way up the overgrown front path. The cottage’s owner is a real eccentric character, and I figured Avery would be staying in some swanky beach house, not hidden away out in the woods like this. Not that I care. The sooner I fix this damn water problem she has, the sooner the scales are even again and I can go back to avoiding her.

“Hello?” I rap on the door, but there’s no answer. “Anyone home?”

I hear music playing around the back of the house, so I circle the old stone cottage, following the lyrics of some country singer listing all the ways she’ll make her man pay.

Perfect.

I fight my way through the blackberry bushes, grumbling. So much for doing a good deed and helping out a neighbor. Now I’ve got brambles in my shirt and thorns in my jeans, and as I round the corner to the backyard, let out an almighty yell, stumbling back in surprise at the sight in front of me.

A strange figure with pink goo in their hair, blue smears all over their arms and legs, and a face covered by some kind of freakish horror-movie mask.

“What the hell?!”

4

AVERY

I scream.

I’m just sitting down to a relaxing lunch on the patio when someone comes barging out of the bushes. I react by instinct: grabbing the nearest thing to me and hurling it right at them.

Of course, it would be better if that thing was a fearsome weapon and not, you know, my salad bowl.

“Get back!” I yell, waving my arms in what I hope is a threatening defensive stance. “I know Krav Maga!”

The trespasser brushes arugula off his shirt with a growl. “Jesus Christ, woman, you damn near gave me a heart attack.”

It’s Duke. Covered in lemon-shallot dressing, shaking sunflower seeds out of his hair – and glaring at me with pure loathing.

Whoops.

I sag back against a chair. “You’re the one who scared me!” I blurt, my heart still racing from the shock.

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