Page 1 of Dear Handy Silver Fox
1
CAMMIE
I bought this house to fix it into the dream home I always wanted since I was a little girl playing with dolls. But instead of a dream house, all I got was a money pit that I've already sunk half of my savings into. If it weren't for the advance from my publisher, all the work on this place would have had to stop a couple of months ago.
The only good thing that came out of all this mess is Sam—the sexy handyman, my brother-in-law, recommended to fix the mistakes made by the guy I'd initially hired. I try not to think of the money I’ve wasted paying that useless asshole. But Sam has already done so much to turn this project around in the weeks he’s been working for me.
The sound of his boisterous laugh has me glancing up from the screen of my laptop. He's up on the roof where he's been working with a few of the guys on his crew. They are working on finishing up the roof before the storm comes in this afternoon.
I shield my eyes with my hand and take in the silver fox in all his manly glory—the way his white V-neck shirt fits tightly over his chest and shoulders and the way his worn jeans sit snuggly on his hips and ass.
I may write about romances between high-powered billionaire CEOs and the innocent virgins swept up into their extravagant lifestyles but give me a man who is good with his hands and a bit of silver that peppers his hair, and I'm a goner. When Sam first showed up to talk with me about the project, he had the job when he flashed his boyish dimples at me.
My laptop pings, alerting me to an email from Brenda, my agent. I've been dodging her calls and emails for a week since the deadline for my next book is due soon. But I've got nothing to show her. Writer's block has hit me hard since my last book became an overnight bestseller. The pressure to deliver another hit is crushing the creativity in my brain and leaving me to spend most of my time fantasizing about the silver fox on my roof and catching up with the newest posting on my favorite lifestyle blog,Summer Says.
I lean back on the lounge chair in my backyard and click on the newest post uploaded this morning called “Letters for Letting Go.”
There was a time when I thought that the only love letter written to end a relationship was a Dear John letter—but what if your love is unrequited? What if, instead of trying to end a relationship, you write out your feelings as a way of allowing you to let go of your feelings. Like a cathartic burning of the past that enables you to rise out of the ashes, like a phoenix, and move forward with your life. To open yourself up to finding new love. Sounds simple enough, right? Who does it hurt to get the words down on paper so that you can move on? But what if the universe has other plans for you and your letter?
Well, when I met up with my best friend for pedicures last week, I found out just what happens, and you won’t believe it.
She told me about how her sister and her three best friends, tired of the relationship ruts they found themselves in, decided to do something about it. With only a pen, a sheet of paper, and the unrequited feelings they were holding onto, they wrote out letters to each of the men in their lives. They had no intention of sending them, but fate—or rather one of the ladies—took it upon themselves to mail out the letters.
I stare at the screen transfixed, reading about the unlikely way four women found love by writing letters to the men they were in love with and somehow managing to find their own happily ever after.
Ideas spark in my mind about possibly taking this story and fictionalizing it into a series of books. Brenda’s been on me about broadening my writing from standalone novels to series, and this would be a fantastic idea. It’s different from my other books, but I love the idea of branching out and trying something new.
I open a new Word document on my laptop, and for once, I don't feel the dread of that damn blinking cursor. I type out some notes about characters and scenes that I'd like to add. The ideas are coming so quickly I'm barely able to move my fingers fast enough to type.
The sky grows darker around me as I work, but my focus is entirely on getting all the ideas down. I pause when I get to the part of how I want to write out the letters. I’m a bit of a method writer, so if I have to write out a letter to someone in my story, I like to open my email and compose it there before cutting and pasting it back into my Word document.
I pause, wondering briefly how I will compose this until Sam’s face pops into my mind. Suddenly my fingers are flying across the keys. Everything I've felt since we met pours out of me. I don't stop until I write the final words, "Sincerely Yours, Cammie.” I lean my head back on the lounge chair, my laptop balancing on my thighs, and I sigh in relief. Few things feel better than when I can get some words down for one of my stories. It's almost better than sex—almost.
My gaze drifts up to the rooftop again to Sam. He's standing near the edge, looking down at one of the guys on the ground as he gathers some new shingles. I watch with rapt attention when he lifts up the bottom hem of his t-shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow. Even from this distance, I can see the contours of muscles in his abs. Heat pools between my legs, and I press them together to ease the pleasurable ache.
Almost as if he can sense the effect he’s having on me, Sam glances over at me and catches me watching him. He smiles, flashing those gorgeous dimples, and lifts his hand to wave at me. Without thinking, I lift my hand to wave back by my grip on my laptop slips. It falls forward towards me, and I grab for it. My palm slaps against the keyboard, and the familiar but now horrifying whooshing sound of an email getting sent off makes my heart sink like a stone in my chest.
“No!” I groan, trying to sit up. “No, please don’t tell me that just happened!”
I can only watch in stunned disbelief as the graphic icon animation of an envelope with wings flying moves on the screen and into a mailbox before a green checkmark appears over the mailbox with the word, "Delivered."
That did not just happen.
I glance up at Sam, and his smile falters, but he’s not looking at me. His gaze is out on the darkening horizon. I glance over my shoulder and see the dark gray clouds moving closer.
Usually, I'd be gathering my stuff to head inside—I hate storms—but I need to try and pull back that email. I can't have Sam knowing how I feel about him. He's never looked or acted around me as anything but a big brother type. I can't have him finding out about how I feel.
I start clicking around the screen, hoping and praying for some sort of way to get the email back from Sam before he sees it. Somehow, I manage to find the option to pull back the email, and it says to wait for a confirmation email to confirm that it was successful—but it’s taking its good, sweet time showing up.
2
SAM
She has to know what sitting outside on her sun chair in tiny shorts, and a tank top does to me. It’s nearly impossible to concentrate on work when Cammie is outside, reclining in her chair and her legs are on full display. My dick twitches, just thinking about what it would be like to feel her curvy stems wrapped around my waist as I pump deep inside her.
I’m not the only one on the crew that’s noticed, but I've made it clear to all the guys that if they do or say anything inappropriate to her or about her, that they will be finding employment somewhere else. Not that I don’t think she could handle herself, it’s just the closest I’m ever going to get to taking care of her. I’m the last guy that she’d ever look at with feelings of anything more than just her employee.
I know that she writes romance novels for a living. I’ve seen her spend hours working on her laptop typing away. I even bought a few of her books online. I’m nothing like the leading men in her books. I’m not rich or powerful. I’m just a hardworking, blue-collar guy that can't give her the finest things in life, but if given a chance, I'd spend the rest of my life trying to provide her with everything she could ever want.
