Page 14 of Fixing Up My Love Life

His mouth tips up. “I’ll get the crew ready. Monday okay?”

I grip the old chair for balance.

Working with Jack might cost Grandma a fortune, but the cost for me might be far more dangerous.

CHAPTER 6

Jack

Ipull up to the Hensley House in my truck loaded with power tools for our first official day of renovation. The Victorian sits like a grand old lady on the bluff, its wide wraparound porch sagging slightly with age, but still proud. Weathered clapboard siding peeks from beneath flaking paint, and a turret rises on the right side, topped with a finial that once gleamed. Ivy clings to the stone foundation, and the front yard is littered with cracked stepping stones and wind-tossed leaves. The stained glass above the door catches the morning light, casting soft colors across the porch.

Hopping out, I strap on my tool belt, mentally gearing up to tackle the beast.

A plaque above the front door readsHensley House—Est. 1898. It might sound charming to some, but to me, it screams red tape. Renovating a historic home means strict building codes, countless inspections, and the ever-watchful eyes of the Twin Waves Historical Society. If we’re going to stay on schedule, every step needs to be calculated.

Hazel arrives in her gray Toyota minivan a moment later, brushing windblown hair from her face. There’s something about the mom vibe that’s so attractive.

“Sorry I’m late. Spring Break has been insane at the boutique.”

“It’s all good,” I say, not mentioning I’d only just arrived myself.

She leads me to the front door and unlocks it. Inside, worn hardwood floors stretch beneath a sweeping staircase. I trail my fingers along the curved bannister. “They don’t make them like this anymore.”

“Grandma always said, ‘This house survived hurricanes and heartbreaks. You’ll find your way too.’”

I don’t know if she meant that after Hazel’s divorce or after I left. Either way, the words land heavy. I want to know what happened in the years we’ve been apart, but I haven’t earned the right to ask.

“Let’s start in the kitchen,” she says. “I found the perfect faucet online.”

We make our way through the house. The kitchen overlooks the crashing surf, and the view alone is worth every bit of hassle this renovation will bring.

I spot the dripping faucet and crouch to shut off the water main, and Hazel kneels beside me in the tight space. Our thighs touch as we work together, her hands guiding mine to the right valve. When the water finally stops, we’re both breathing hard—and not from exertion.

“Good teamwork,” she whispers, but neither of us moves away. Her face is inches from mine, lips slightly parted. Gold flecks glitter in her brown eyes, her breath close to mine.

I trace a water droplet from her cheek with my thumb. “Hazel . . .”

She leans closer, and for a heartbeat, I think she might kiss me. Then her phone chimes, and reality crashes back.

“Pipes hate me today,” she mutters. “First, the water main breaks at my place this morning, and now this,” she says. “The plumber’s booked for weeks. I moved the kids in today.”

“You live here now?”

She nods. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

“Is this place ready for that?”

“It’ll have to be.”

“I get it,” I say. “I have my hands full with my daughter too.”

Hazel raises a brow. “Creative troublemaker?”

I let out a short laugh. “Last year, she and her boyfriend thought it’d be funny to steal chickens and hide them in my bathtub. Neighbor pressed charges after wild animals attacked his flock.”

Hazel giggles. “Please tell me you made her clean it up.”

“Every last feather. Still didn’t stop her from bringing home a parade of equally charming boyfriends.”

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