Page 12 of Fixing Up My Love Life

Except mine. Never again.

“I can be there at one,” Jack says.

Goosebumps rise. I ignore them. The only reason I’m considering Jack is because there’s no one else. I called every single person on that list, and they were all booked or unavailable until after the wedding.

“You might want to block out a chunk of time for this walkthrough. You had quite the extensive list. We’d be lucky to hit a dozen projects in six months. But if you have the budget, we can move faster.”

“We can talk more at one.”

I pull into the boutique’s back lot, leaving the good spots for customers. I need to get off this call.

He hesitates, like he wants to say something more. Then, “See you then.”

I hang up and rush through the crowded store to the office, gripping my iced latte. The boutique is a good distraction from that broad-shouldered man with the rough voice who has no right to still get under my skin.

And I can’t get too attached.

“Does this look good? I can’t decide,” Mrs. Penelope Waters asks, modeling a floppy straw hat in front of a mirror perched near a driftwood table stacked with pearl-detailed sandals and linen cover-ups.

“You want my honest opinion?” I swap it for one with a sage ribbon. “Try this. It brings out your eyes. The mayor will love it.”

She snorts. “Honey, we’ve been married thirty-five years. I could wear a rooster, and he wouldn’t notice.”

Penelope slowly turns, taking in the boutique with a keen, calculating eye. Natural light spills through gauzy curtains, casting a golden haze over the whitewashed floors. Near the windows, handmadesoaps are tied with twine and arranged in pastel baskets. A basket of hand-painted Easter eggs sits on the checkout counter, nestled beside a dish of foil-wrapped chocolate bunnies. A chalkboard sign by the coffee nook reads: Rest, You’re at the Coast, and Patsy Cline hums softly from the record player near the counter.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” she says, voice syrupy sweet. “It’s so... homegrown. Very authentic. But this town needs more shops—a makeover, really. Half of Twin Waves is stuck in the sixties.”

“Isn’t that part of the charm? Like stepping back in time?” I ask, forcing a smile.

She arches a brow. “Sure, if peeling paint and fading signs are charming. Herb won’t listen, of course. Thinks everything’s fine.”

“What if we brought in mini golf? A classy kind. Not the cheesy ones you see in Myrtle Beach.”

Her eyes light up. “The cheesy ones make bank, though. Tourists eat them up.”

She trails her fingers along a basket of rolled sarongs and lifts one of the hand-stitched pillows. “I heard about you inheriting the Hensley House. What a surprise to all of us. No one knew your grandmother was planning to leave it to you. Must feel like winning the lottery.”

She fluffs her perfectly styledhair in the mirror. “Running a business and managing an estate like that? That’s a lot. Especially for a single mom. But you seem . . . plucky.”

She plucks the sage-ribbon hat from my hand, holding it up to the light. “This one will do. I’ll charge it to Herb’s account. He never notices the boutique charges. Or anything else.”

I smile, but my stomach dips.

“Anyway,” she says airily, eyes sweeping over the small Easter display near the dressing rooms, complete with bunny-ear scrunchies and pastel beaded bracelets, “I just hope you’re not biting off more than you can chew, dear. This town can be hard on dreamers.”

She leaves with a smile, but it lingers in the air like a trap. For a moment, I don’t feel like the town darling. I feel like the competition.

Jack steps into Grandma’s living room, glancing around with calm focus. “Let’s see—kitchen remodel, bathrooms, floors, siding, paint, electrical, HVAC, landscaping. And a sound system for events.”

He’s wearing a hard hat and tool belt, ready to get started even though the house still holds its charm.Maybe he’s just being thorough. Prepared. The way Jack always was when something mattered.

“That’s everything,” I say. Barely believing we can pull it off.

He scribbles notes on a clipboard. Jack moves closer to show me the estimate, close enough that I catch the scent of sawdust and something distinctly him. His shoulder brushes mine as he points to the figures, and I lose track of what he's saying entirely. All I can focus on is the warmth radiating from his skin and the way his voice drops when he leans in.

“The timeline’s aggressive,” he murmurs, his breath tickling my ear. “But I think we can make it work.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. When did Jack Sanders become this devastating combination of competence and raw masculinity?

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