Page 30 of The Woman in the Garage

“Sounds about right,” I grumbled, pressing my head back into the rest.

I had a car still half full of junk, a missing box from my storage unit, a bruised butt, and something wrong with the books at work.

I moved around my car, the rain plastering down my hair as I slammed the trunk with more force than necessary.

By the time I got back into the car, I was soaked, shivering, and stewing in my own sour mood.

I mean, really, what had I been thinking? Picking up my whole life, leaving everyone I knew and cared about behind, to move to some random town in New Jersey to live in a messy, run-down house that perpetually smelled a mix of dusty and musty, and working at a repair shop. When I knew nothing about cars. And was painfully aware of how unwelcome I was.

I mean, really, what was I thinking?

I guess I felt like I, I don’t know, owed it to my uncle to take over things since he’d left it all to me.

And, fine, my life had become a bit stagnant in Washington. I was hanging with the same friends, doing the same things, living in the same apartment, dating the same losers.

I’d seen the news of a new house, a new business, and new opportunities as some sort of sign from the universe that it was time to move on, to try something new.

Now, though, I wasn’t so sure.

I was barely keeping my head above water financially. I was working myself to the bone on both the shop and the house, but feeling like I was making next to no progress. I’d made no new friends.

And, God, I was so, so lonely.

I think I’d been expecting to form some sort of kinship with the guys at the garage, to be able to foster some built-in friendships there.

But in the face of their hostility, and with no money or time to try to join any clubs or something like that, I was really struggling.

“Stop,” I grumbled to myself as I felt water flood my eyes on my way home.

But by the time I was pulling into my driveway, there was no stopping the stream of tears. So I just sat there and let them come, knowing I always felt better when I let the emotions out rather than bottling them up.

It wasn’t all hopeless.

If I came to the conclusion that I simply couldn’t tolerate this new life, well, I was in a better position than I was when I came to Navesink Bank, right?

I had a house that I could finish fixing up and sell for a hefty profit in the current market.

Then there was the shop.

I had no idea what you could expect to sell a business like that for, but I imagined it was a nice chunk of change. More than enough, I was sure, to move back to Washington, but to do so with enough money to buy a house or condo, to maybe, I don’t know, go back to school or something. Figure out a new path in life.

I just had to stick it out for a little while. Suck it up and get the clearing out and cleaning up done, figure out the bones of the house, and give it some curb appeal. Then I could slap some paint on all the walls of the shop, thrift some nicer chairs for the waiting room, and bring in a real estate agent who could tell me what I could get for it all.

Feeling a little bit less hopeless, I wiped my tears and climbed out of my car, my dress sticking to my legs as I went, and I made a mental note to bring a towel with me to the car in the morning, knowing the fabric seats would likely still be wet.

At least the house was starting, little by little, to feel a bit like home.

Sure, the brown plaid wallpaper gave me a headache almost immediately, but the trick I found online for using fabric softener to get it off not only worked, but made the place smell a hell of a lot better.

I’d peeled up the run-down brown carpet to reveal… a slightly less hideous light brown carpet. And I’d rented a carpet shampooer to get the stains and stink out of that.

I had my cute pearly pink coffee maker on the kitchen counter, right next to my mug rack featuring all my favorites—minus the one David had stolen. There were light, airy drapes on the window to replace the thick, oppressive ones that had made the whole house feel like a morgue.

And, of course, there was my freaking amazing pink velvet couch. With my bunny lamp on one of the old end tables.

I twisted my wet hair up into an elastic band, then reached back to slip down my dress zipper.

Then, in my bra and panties, I dropped down on said couch, pulled down my blanket covered in little hearts, and closed my eyes to thoughts of cocoa coffee and warm brown eyes; to a bedroom-sexy voice; and warm lips pressing kisses to my neck, down between my breasts, up my thigh, inward.

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