Page 8 of Her Christmas Fix
I head upstairs, which is no better. The bedrooms are stripped to their bones—bare walls, subfloors, two en-suite bathrooms gutted to their studs. No tile or fixtures or hope of a functioning toilet.
Rolling up my sleeves, I start with the obvious. I pick up debris and sort through the scattered tools left behind, trying to create some semblance of order. It’s mindless work, which gives my brain too much time to catalog everything that needs to be done.
Flooring. Walls. Electrical. Plumbing. The primary bath and powder room. The list goes on and on, each item representing weeks of work under normal circumstances. And I want it finished before Christmas.
The kitchen is a little further along, but still the magnitude of what I’m asking Griffin to do hits me like a physical blow. I sink onto an upturned bucket and lower my head to my hands.
What was I thinking? This isn’t a movie where everything magically comes together in a montage. This is real life, messy and complicated and full of things that can’t be fixed with enough determination and a great soundtrack.
Daniel believed money could solve every problem, but the fact that he helped himself to most of mine created way more. And maybe money can’t fix everything. Maybe some things are just too broken.
I walk out onto the deck, and the world opens up again. The view is spectacular even on an overcast morning. The ocean stretches to the horizon, waves rolling in with hypnotic rhythm. This is what Grammy dreamed about.
Houses like that aren’t for people like us.
But they are. They’re for women who refuse to stay broken.
I breathe in deeply and lean back against the railing. One second I’m standing upright, the next there’s an awful creak and I’m falling. My arms windmill, and I land hard on my ass in the soft sand below the deck.
For a moment, I just lay there, stunned. I’m not really hurt, and my pride aches almost as much as my ass.
Then I start laughing. Because, of course, the deck would try to kill me. I can’t decide whether the movie of my current life would be slapstick comedy or campy horror. Either way, I wouldn’t pay money to watch it.
“Monika!”
Griffin’s voice cracks like a whip. Before I can even register where he came from, he’s running across the sand toward me. He’s wearing work boots, jeans, and a thick flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows. The version of Paul Bunyan who knows hisway around a power tool. Not sure it’s the fall that has me lightheaded at the moment.
“Jesus Christ, are you hurt?” He drops to his knees, those bourbon eyes scanning me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. His hands reach out like he’s ready to personally check for damage, but he doesn’t touch me.
“Only my pride,” I manage as I sit up. “And maybe my ass. I’ll live.”
His concern does something dangerous to my insides. When’s the last time someone looked at me like that? Someone who wasn’t invested in Monika Graham, the actress, anyway.
“Fuck.” His jaw clenches as he looks up at the broken railing. “I should have checked everything when we paused the project.”
“This isn’t on?—”
“You could have been seriously hurt. Or killed.” He sits back and rubs a trembling hand over his jaw. Trembling over worry for me. “It’s my fault.”
I’ve gotten used to blaming myself for everything that’s gone wrong in my life. My break-up with Ian all those years ago, the missteps as a mother, and in my career. I assume everything is my fault for trusting the wrong people, making the wrong choices, being too naive. Now Griffin is beating himself up over an accident that wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t trusted a lying, cheating asshole, but his willingness to take responsibility causes an unfamiliar warmth to spread through my chest.
I reach out without thinking, my fingers brushing against his wrist. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, and from the way his eyes flare, he feels it too. “You didn’t know I’d be here, and you sure didn’t expect me to lean against a railing that’s clearly seen better days.”
“Don’t.” His voice is rough, but he doesn’t pull back from my touch. “Don’t make excuses. I left a job site in bad shape because I was angry. That’s on me.”
The intensity in his gaze makes my pulse race. He’s looking at me like he’s already decided I’m his responsibility. It should be offensive. I’ve had enough of controlling men to last a lifetime. But this feels different. It feels like I matter to him.
“The deck definitely failed its structural integrity test.” I stand and brush sand off my jeans, hyperaware of how his eyes track the movement of my hands. “Did you think about my offer?”
We lock eyes, and the air between us thickens. I can practically see him weighing pros and cons, but there’s something else between us now that wasn’t there yesterday.
“I’ve got conditions.”
“Name them.”
“Triple rate, like we discussed. Half up front, half when it’s done.”
“Fine.”
