Page 48 of Filthy Little Midlife Fling

“Audrey,” he pants. “Sweetheart. I’m going to—”

I redouble my efforts, and his grip on my hair tightens. When he spills in my mouth in a hot rush, I feel dizzy. I fall back, hitting the wall, and then I’m scooped up in Remy’s arms and pinned to the wall.

He kisses me hard, like he wants to imprint himself on my lips. His whole body trembles as he holds me, and we stay there, locked together, for a long while. When we pull apart, Remy runs his thumb over my lips, his eyes full of something dark and solemn. “Where did you come from?” he whispers.

My heart thuds. I want to lean into him, to wrap this feeling of intimacy around me like a warm blanket. But we have just over three weeks left to have this fling, and then we agreed it has to end.

I have a business to run. I don’t have the bandwidth for a relationship. I gave everything to my marriage, and it nearly broke me. I know I’m better on my own.

These are deep, undeniable truths. A few earth-shattering orgasms with a new man don’t change them.

So, instead of indulging in the closeness between us, I let a teasing smile grace my lips. “Does that mean I get a discount on my bill?”

Remy huffs a laugh, pulling me into the circle of his arms. “Sweetheart,” he says, voice low, “there is no bill.”

By Friday, I’m walking on a cloud. I head to Georgia Neves’s property, a beautiful strip of land right on the coast. Her home is gorgeous, and I have to take a second to stare at it before I get out of my van.

“Wish I could live here,” Meg, my employee, says with a wistful sigh.

I snort. “Don’t we all.”

We get out of the van and head for the door to ring the bell. I’m slightly startled when the door opens and a gorgeous man is waiting on the other side. He’s wearing old jeans and a white tee. “Mornin’,” he says, and I detect a bit of a twang in his accent.

“Hi. I’m Audrey Scott with Organizing Goddess. I’m here to speak to Georgia about a closet makeover. Is she available?”

“Come in,” he says, then calls out, “Sweet Peach! The closet people are here.”

“Coming!”

The man winks at us, then leads us into the kitchen. A moment later, Georgia appears wearing a deep brown wrap dress and gold accessories. Her smile is sunny as she greets us. She kisses the man on the lips, then waves us deeper into the home.

Every room is tastefully decorated, with gorgeous views of the ocean in the living and dining rooms. Upstairs, we pass a kids’ bedroom, and I must stare for a moment too long, because Georgia says, “For my nephews. They come to visit with my sister and her man every few months.”

“Oh, how nice,” I answer with a smile.

A moment later, we enter the master suite. Georgia crosses the plush rug on the floor and pushes open the door to a huge walk-in closet.

“So,” she says, planting her hands on her hips, “I have no idea where to start.”

A familiar zing of excitement starts to build in my gut. Her closet is packed with stuff, but it’s not very efficiently organized. The hangers are all squished together, and there’s not enough shelf and drawer space. Her accessories are tossed on top of a dresser that’s too deep for the space it’s in, and it means another cupboard can’t open fully.

I only realize I’m smiling when Georgia’s lips curl in response. “I’m guessing you’re willing to take on the challenge?” she asks.

“I can’t wait to get started,” I tell her. I run my hands down one of the vertical dividers in the closet and frown. “This looks new.”

“It is,” she admits. “I had a contractor fit the new closet out just a year ago, but I can’t seem to make it work. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” I tell her. “You just need a system.”

From there, I sketch out my vision. I get Meg to take note of everything we’ll need for the job—shelves, new rods, baskets and containers, drawer organizers—and by the end of our hour together, Georgia is bouncing on her feet with excitement.

“Last thing we need are some measurements.” I pull out my tape measure and then glance at Meg, who’s waiting patiently beside me. “How about you take the measurements, Meg.”

Meg’s eyes widen. “Me?”

Taking measurements for new jobs is something I’ve always done myself, especially in a job like this where we need to fit new elements into an existing space. Measurements need to be precise so that when I send them off to the cabinetmaker to make new shelves, they fit perfectly.

Meg is bright, and she’s worked with me for three years. Guilt squirms through me at the thought of her being relegated to grunt work and note-taking. I should be teaching my employees how to do these things. Instead, I’m piling more work onto my plate because I’ve convinced myself I’m the only one who can do it right.

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