Mr. Fix-It

Mr. Fix-It

Crystal Hubbard

Genesis Press, Inc.

Indigo Love Spectrum

An imprint of Genesis Press, Inc.

Publishing Company

Genesis Press, Inc.

P.O. Box 101

Columbus, MS 39703

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, not known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission of the publisher, Genesis Press, Inc. For information write Genesis Press, Inc., P.O. Box 101, Columbus, MS 39703.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.

Copyright© 2008 Crystal Hubbard

ISBN-13: 978-1-58571-583-1

ISBN-10: 1-58571-583-2

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition

Visit us at www.genesis-press.com or call at 1-888-Indigo-1-4-0

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Lucas Black, one of Alabama’s best exports, and to Mike Taylor, in whom I found the heart, breath, mind and soul of my hero. And a robust knot…

Acknowledgments

Many thanks go out to the late Dr. Eugene Bell, whose Commonwealth Avenue property led me to fall in love with Boston’s Back Bay, and to Beverly Jenkins, Brenda Jackson, Francis Ray, Rochelle Alers, and Donna Hill—goddesses all. A special thanks goes out to my readers, who constantly encourage me to keep spinning tales.

I also owe an incredible debt of gratitude to Sidney Rickman, who edited so much of my work, and to Doris Innis, who undertook the daunting task of editing Mr. Fix-It. I would not have been able to rebuild without her expertise.

While the cover of this book bears my name, by no means was it a solo endeavor. Deborah Schumaker and Valerie Dodson helped this book get into your hands and I thank them for their love, generosity, compassion, understanding, patience, and professionalism in the midst of some of my darkest days.

Prologue

“What are you eating?”

“Nuh um.”

“It doesn’t sound like ‘nuh um.’ As a matter of fact, it sounds like suh um. Suh um cream-filled. A Hostess product?”

“What are you, their in-house police?”

“You’re self-medicating with food and it’s got to stop, or you won’t fit into your dress tonight. Who’re you mad at?”

“I’m not mad at anyone.”

“Something’s bothering you. I can hear you opening another package of HoHos.”

“I’m hungry. I’m allowed to eat when I’m hungry.”

“How many HoHos have you eaten today?”

“How did you know they’re HoHos?”

“Because I know you. How many?”

“Eleven.”

“Eleven individual HoHos or eleven
packages
of HoHos?”

“Packages.”

“Thirty-three, huh? Who should I call first, Guinness or a cardiologist?”

“Ugh. Now I think I’m sick.”

“What you are is stressed out. Is it the convention?”

“What convention?”

“The East Coast Writing Association Convention.”

“Oh…that. I, uh, forgot all about it.”

“Yeah, right. It’s in seven hours. You’re getting the Torchbearer Award tonight, you’re the keynote speaker at tomorrow’s luncheon, and you expect me to believe that you forgot about it?”

“I have to cancel. I feel hot and I’ve got a weird rash on my forearm. It wouldn’t be right to expose all those conventioneers to my very contagious and possibly fatal skin condition. I think it’s necrotizing fasciitis.”

“Necro what?”

“Flesh-eating bacteria.”

“Necro, please. You’re not contagious, dammit, and you are going to this convention! Do you know what I had to do to get my date to agree to wear a tux tonight? I practically dislocated my jaw. It’s a wonder I can even yell at you right now.”

“Daphne—”

“You have to stop doing this to yourself, Khela. This isn’t the first time you’ve been asked to attend one of these things. Why are you going mental?”

“This one is different.”

“Because of the award?”

“No—Yes…I don’t know!”

“Stop scratching.”

“I’m not scratching!”

“Then you must be marching through cornflakes, because I can hear your raggedy fingernails raking across your ashy forearm.”

“Look, if the only reason you called was to heave abuse at me, I don’t have time for—”

“Khela…you don’t have a date, do you? Is that what’s bothering you?”

“No. To both questions.”

“I thought you were going to ask the concert pianist who lives beneath you.”

“He’s too close.”

“What about the fella you met in New York at Cameo’s holiday party?”

“He’s too far.”

“Ask Todd, the babe from Calareso’s.”

“Emphasis on ‘babe.’ That kid’s all of twenty-two years old.”

“Ask that super super of yours.”

“You want me to take a country-fried Schneider to a black-tie affair…”

“He may be a maintenance man, but he’s no Schneider. That’s one plumber butt I’d
pay
to see.”

“I’m not taking my super.”

“Ask Jay.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Don’t, I’m sorry I suggested him. It was a stupid joke.”

“Yeah, on me. Jay and the parade of Jays that came after him are the reason I am, and forever shall remain, a dried-up old divorcée.”

“Don’t say that, Khela. True love is your stock and trade. Fate won’t deny you one of your own. The only reason you haven’t found it is because you’ve stopped looking for it.”

“Then I’ll never have it because I don’t have the energy for the pursuit or the heart for more disappointment.”

“Oh, you’ll have it, all right.”

“You sound so sure, Daphne.”

“I’m sure that true love will find you now that you aren’t looking for it. That’s how it always works. Come on, who else can you invite to the convention? I know…ask Rocco.”

“My boxing coach?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“He’s too grunty. And he would spend the whole night asking people to punch him in the stomach so he can show off his abs.”

“Well, I’m all out of suggestions, except for one. Who says you need a date, anyway? Go stag.”

“Right…who needs a date…”

Chapter 1

“She fastened her fondest hopes and most heartfelt desires upon the kindness of a familiar stranger…”

—from
Practically Perfect
by Khela Halliday

“I need a date.” Khela smashed home the bone-white receiver of her classic rotary phone. Pacing a tight circle in her bright white kitchen, she chewed her right thumbnail. “I need a date and the pickin’ is slim, especially this close to the convention.”

One of Daphne’s suggestions bounced around in Khela’s head like a hyperactive child.

“It wouldn’t hurt to ask him,” she reasoned aloud. “He’s definitely got the right look.” And by “right,” Khela meant hot. “Super” was as much a description as it was a job title when it came to her friendly neighborhood handyman. He was tall, solid and sculpted without being bulky with muscle. His hair, the color of sun-burnished wheat, always looked rakishly perfect, and every time his mischievous, brandy eyes danced her way, her leg bones turned to jelly. He was well-spoken, his pronounced Southern accent setting his speech apart from every other man she knew in Boston. He was well-mannered, but perhaps most important, he smelled good.

The day she moved into the building, she had caught a lungful of him. The combination of his own manly scent, his sandalwood aftershave and the pine banister polish he’d been working with had hit her like a shot of medical-grade narcotics. The initial sensory high she had enjoyed upon their first meeting had never completely waned, and she had never planned to act on it.

“We’re friends,” she told herself, further seeking to rationalize her decision. “Well, we’re friendly, at least. I mean, what’s the real harm? It’s a one-time deal and the worst he can do is say no.”

She returned to a small table in a corner of the kitchen and picked up the phone. Using her index finger, she searched the list of important phone numbers taped to the tabletop and located his number. Without realizing she was doing so, she held her breath as she dialed the string of digits. Pressing the receiver to her ear with her shoulder, she counted off the rings and clawed at a new crop of hives along her inner forearm.
One…two…three…

“Hello?” answered a distinctly male, distinctly familiar voice.

“I need you,” Khela blurted. She slapped her forehead. “I mean, I need you to fix something for me, Mr. Carter.”

“Okay,” he exhaled. “Let’s see…I have a tile problem in C at one. I can come to your place after that. Will you be in?”

She closed her eyes and clutched the phone to her ear with both hands. He had said nothing provocative, nothing remotely interesting, yet, shaped by his Deep South drawl and spoken directly into her ear, his words gave Khela pleasant goosebumps.

“I’ll be here until about six.” She gnawed the inside corner of her lower lip. “Could you come around five, or do you have plans for this evening?”

“My tenants are my first priority, Miss Halliday. What’s the nature of your problem?”

I need to get my pipes pumped
, she thought, recalling what Daphne had said to him the last time she had summoned the super to Khela’s unit.

“Miss Halliday?” he prompted.

She snapped back to attention. “Yes. Um…just bring your tool.”

“Pardon me?” he replied, working around a cough or a chuckle. Khela couldn’t tell which.

“Tools!” she quickly amended. “Your hammer. And your drill. All of your tools, not just…I’ll show you what’s broken when you get here.”

A beat of silence, then “You’re a very strange woman, Miss Halliday.”

She sighed heavily. “You have no idea, Mr. Carter.”

“If that’s all, Miss Halliday…”

She dredged up the courage to spit out her last request. “Actually, there’s one more thing I’d like you to bring with you. If you could.”

“Yes?”

She squeezed her eyes tight. “A tux.”

* * *

Curiosity got the better of him, which was why he now stood at the door to unit A with his toolbox in one hand and a tuxedo in a plastic drycleaner’s bag in the other. For three years, Khela Halliday had resided in the penthouse unit of the Commonwealth Avenue brownstone, and for the past few months, the unit, it would seem, was falling apart around her.

Her maintenance calls had become more frequent, as often as once a week since he repaired a dripping faucet on Valentine’s Day, and only during visits from her friend Daphne. Of the two, Daphne was the most sociable, always opting to stay and talk to him while he fixed the ice dispenser or changed a light bulb while Khela retreated to the solitude of her loft.

Daphne’s abundant strawberry spirals and playful, feline-green eyes certainly were appealing, but his preference for Khela’s sultry, coffee-dark eyes and thick, cinnamon brown hair meant that his interest in Daphne would develop no further than a friendly flirtation.

Khela was the one who had made him stutter on their first meeting—the day she moved into the building.

He’d been in the foyer polishing the brass banisters. Because of their intricate design, it had been a tedious, meticulous task. The brownstone was built in 1889, but the brass banisters, glass chandelier, gilded mirrors and mahogany entry doors had been added as part of a Beaux Arts-inspired renovation in 1919. He took great pride in the appearance of his building and enjoyed taking care of it, but his love for the property paled somewhat the instant Khela Halliday walked into the enormous foyer carrying a Perrier-Jouët box packed with printer cartridges, sloppily stuffed manila folders, a miniature Easter Island head and a dusty lamp with a ceramic base made of unevenly stacked books.

Her shoulder-length hair pulled into two uneven ponytails and her face screwed into a determined grimace, Khela had lugged the box toward one of the brass-front elevators, a 1994 upgrade. “Let me get that for you,” he’d offered, intercepting her halfway.

She’d gladly turned over her burden, and he’d easily hefted it onto one shoulder. Blowing an errant lock of hair from her face, she’d stood facing him, her hands lightly resting on her hips, and he’d had his first full look at her.

She was shorter than he, her head even with his shoulder. The rosy undertones of her burnished-peach complexion and her low-slung blue jeans gave her a youthfulness that made it impossible to tell if she was sixteen or twenty-six. Her dark, shining eyes had swept over him, and he’d fought the urge to check out his reflection in the glass door to make sure there were no sweat stains on his T-shirt or rips in his jeans. When she’d taken the corner of her full lower lip into her mouth, he’d caught himself staring and wondering how soft her mouth would be against his.

“Y-You’re the new penthouse tenant, right?” he’d managed.

“Khela Halliday,” she’d answered in a low, slightly raspy voice that did to his ears what her face had done to his eyes. Then she’d offered her hand. “Unit A, as of today. Good to meet you.”

He’d shaken her hand, and in retrospect, he realized he probably had held it for too long. “I’m Carter Radcliffe. This is one of my buildings.”

Her eyes had darted from the tool belt at his waist to his abandoned brass polish before she said, “So you’re the man to call when my pipes get clogged?”

“Not exactly,” he’d started, but before he could finish, sound and fury in the shape of a petite, firebrand redhead had stormed into the lobby.

“Khela!” Daphne had practically hollered, “you need to get out there and bust some chops. I need your television unpacked and plugged in by the time
Days
comes on. You promised that I could watch
Days
if I helped you move. Today’s the day we’re going to find out if Hope is really Hope or if she’s an impostor hired by Stefano. I can’t miss it!”

“Uh, would you mind just setting that box in the elevator, Mr. Carter?” Khela had asked. “I really do have to get back to the moving van before my friend Daphne chases off my heavy lifters.” And with that, she had finished moving in and moved on.

In the years following, he’d never disabused her of the notion that he was the man to call when she needed help, even though the management service that ran the building had a maintenance team to handle repairs. And he had not bothered to correct her and Daphne’s use of his first name as a surname. Since last Thanksgiving, they had begun to move past the cordial but dispassionate hi-and-bye exchange whenever they crossed paths and had actually engaged in meaningful conversation.

There was the cold November morning when she’d bumped into him standing in line for coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts, and she’d asked him how the Patriots had fared against the Bills. Then there was the time in January when she had trouble hailing a cab, and he’d gotten one for her, but not before she’d told him that she’d spent her New Year’s Eve reading a romance anthology about four couples that meet at a New Year’s Eve ball. He couldn’t remember a thing about the plots of the stories she had summarized, but he vividly recalled her regret at not having had a date for the night.

And now, three months later, as he waited for her to answer her door, he found himself eager to find out why she so urgently needed his tool.

Oh, yeah…and his tux.

* * *

Khela was one of the building’s most intriguing tenants. He knew that she worked from home and that she wrote books, but he had never bothered to check one out. He assumed that she was successful. Once a 10,000-square-foot single family home, the five-story, limestone brownstone had been converted into four condominiums. At 3,400 square feet, Khela’s was the largest.

The lower floor of her penthouse was wholly residential, with living, dining and sitting rooms, two bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, the kitchen and a private terrace overlooking Storrow Drive, the Esplanade and the Charles River. The one place that had always been off limits to him was the loft overlooking the living room, and it was there that, during his maintenance visits, she retreated. Beyond Daphne’s amusing chatter, he would listen to the faint click of rapid-fire notes from a computer keyboard in the loft, where Khela wrote whatever it was that enabled her to afford the pricey penthouse and fill it with top-of-the-line furnishings, not to mention an original Basquiat.

When she opened the door and ushered him into the living room, he glanced up at the loft, hoping to see more than the black tubular legs of a desk and the long white blades of a ceiling fan.

“This looks really good,” Khela said, examining the tux through its plastic. “I’m impressed.”

“You sound surprised.” Carter draped the tux over the back of the butternut leather sofa.

Khela began unwrapping the tux. “I’m surprised that you were able to get one at such short notice.”

“Hey, I go the extra mile to please my favorite tenant.”

Her head swiveled to face him, the effect of his innocent words causing her cheeks to blaze. His cocky half smile and twinkling eyes gave her reason to suspect that nothing he said or did was entirely innocent.

His green T-shirt, with its white BOBCATS lettering, stretched across his broad chest and complemented his eyes; his faded, relaxed jeans fit him in all the right places. Khela spent a long moment studying the long muscles and corded veins standing out in the arm ending with his heavy toolbox. Before she got carried away imagining what it would feel like to trace his bicep with her tongue, she shifted her gaze back to his face.

“Whoever gave you this tux has excellent taste.” She ran her fingertips over the finely woven wool. “I’ve seen designer tuxes that aren’t this nice.”

“It’s Calvin Klein.”

“Who did you get it from? The concert pianist in unit C?”

“Got it at a yard sale.” He wryly smiled as he moved a step or two past her, farther into the living room. “So tell me what’s broken and how I’m supposed to use a tux to repair it.”

The picture of girlish innocence, she tucked a fingernail between her teeth and started for the darkened kitchen. Carter followed her, enjoying the view every step of the way.

Khela was cuter than hell in a sleeveless white tank, denim shorts and white Keds with white anklet pom-pom socks. Carter’s thick eyebrows shot upward. He hadn’t seen anklet pom-pom socks since he used to watch the girls’ tennis team practice in high school. It was nice to see that they still made them, and that pretty girls with sexy legs still wore them.

Not that Khela Halliday was a girl. Falling into step behind her, he had no trouble seeing that she was most definitely a woman, confirmed by her supple curves and gentle swells in all the right places.

“You’re staring at me,” she said, not turning around.

“You’re scratching,” he observed, setting his toolbox on the spotless counter of the center prep isle.

She clenched both hands into fists, forcing herself to quit raking her nails along her inner forearms. “I have a condition,” she said uneasily, inwardly cursing herself. “Half the time, I don’t even know that I’m scratching.”

He took her right arm and examined it, lightly stroking his fingers along the red weals her scratching had produced. Khela’s skin responded, adding a fresh crop of goosebumps to the angry stripes joining her wrist to the crook of her elbow. “What is it?” he asked.

“The Ebola virus,” she deadpanned. “I’ll be dead by morning.”

He snatched his hand away before logic kicked in. She’d be a bag of skin filled with liquefying organs if she had the Ebola virus. She would not be standing before him as flushed and pretty as a figure in an Impressionist painting. “Is something bothering you?”

“Why do you ask?”

“A lot of people get hives when they’re stressed out,” he explained.

“How ’bout you get to fixing my busted hotbox and leave my ugly welts to a dermatologist?” She pointed to the light fixture centered in her ceiling fan. “The lights went out for no reason.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his expression and tone frosty as he went to the light switch and flipped it.

Khela took a deep breath to settle her nerves. She hadn’t meant to snap at him, and she wished she could take her obnoxious remark back. He had come, so far so good, and he had a great tux, double good. Now all she had to do was ask him. “Mr. Carter?”

He raised an eyebrow as he went to the utility closet built into the wall next to the stove. “Yes, ma’am?”