Honey Do Devin

By Randi Devilkin

Lori's life needs a major renovation. Her husband dumped her for a young yogi, her publisher is unhappy with her writing, and her only family member interested in spending any time with her has been dog-napped.

 

Could her sexy handyman be the right repair? What could possibly go wrong as Lori rebuilds her social life and career, fights to get her dog back, and negotiates with the senior living center to keep her naughty mother?

 

Honey Do Devin: Heartthrob Handyman is a romantic comedy novella for the sophisticated and mature. Sophistication and maturity are optional.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Metamorphosis Manuscripts
• Release date: Oct 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393011668

Book preview

Chapter 1

Trouble with White Pants

Ienvy people who can wear white pants. I particularly begrudge those who wear white pants and the pants remain white at the end of the day. When I wear white pants, I morph into a high-powered stain-magnet.

I sit in things wet and sloppy, get disgusting globules dripped on me, and spill sticky-gooey things all over myself. I’m so adept at collecting spillage that I can sit, get, and spill simultaneously.

Even though I’m not wearing any white today, I’m still a beacon for mishaps. Gray sweatpants and a worn camouflage shirt fit the dreary day and my matching mindset. I hadn’t considered the possibility I might run into anyone familiar when I left the house unfit for public display.

I’m at Starbucks to acquire a taste for the brown brew. I don’t like coffee. Today’s training exercise is the preparation for an imaginary future coffee date, which makes me a thorough planner and an optimist.

I haven’t been on a date in, well, a long time. I don’t know if or when an admirer or even a set-up might come my way, but after spending my formative years as a Girl Scout, I like to be prepared.

The fact that I didn’t personally knock over the coffee or the carafe of milk doesn’t make me feel any better. That honor goes to a teen wearing a bulky backpack. The kid didn’t offer to clean up. He shrugged and said, My bad, before returning to his friends.

Per my customary role, I absorb the spill. I’m the human equivalent of a neodymium monolith magnet. The kid’s subpar manners don’t surprise me. What I do find amazing is that so many high schoolers cut class to consume vast quantities of branded caffeinated drinks. I don’t recall teens of my vintage drinking coffee en masse. Those who did drank cheap stuff from white Styrofoam cups with powdered faux creamer.

I appreciate the way coffee smells. That said, L`Air du Coffee was not the perfume I intended to wear today.

In the surrounding faces in the coffee shop, I spot Devin’s. Why is that handsome man here of all places? If I’d thought I’d run into anyone familiar, I’d have dressed better, although never in white pants.

I should have planned my educational excursion for McDonald’s. The fast-food emporium sells senior coffees for a dollar. If I ran into any of the fancy-schmanchy crowd at Mickey D’s, we’d pretend not to notice one another because we’d never set foot in such a plebeian place.

Someone hands me a tissue. Crying bouts have been common over the last few months. My face gets puffy, which does nothing to improve my allure. That, and I don’t know what to say when I run into people I know. My husband running off with my sweet beagle Dena Dog and moving in with his young yogi is a conversation bomb.

I’m not unhappy to see Devin. In fact, I was delighted to meet him just last week. You never know who’ll show up at your home when you call for service, especially the first time.

Devin had been patient and kind. He arrived on schedule and completed his tasks with a smile. He didn’t leave a mess. With his looks, I wouldn’t have cared if he couldn’t change a lightbulb. I may have disconnected a few things here and there as a reason to call him back later this week.

Why is Devin in my neighborhood Starbucks? I hadn’t thought he’d overcharged for his handyman skills, but if he’s here, drinking overpriced java....

Devin’s not taken his eyes off of me. Is that look on his face amusement or concern? Sweat beads at the nape of my neck. Even though I’m soaked, I wish someone would adjust the thermostat. My pulse is thumping madly. I feel ungainly around that man.

My body’s primitive response to Devin surprises me. I haven’t felt this type of carnal desire for any man, other than my husband, for thirty years.

Thirty years. Who walks out of a marriage after thirty years? So cliché. That’s not to say I haven’t noticed striking men, but I’ve always operated under the theory that one could fuel a healthy appetite anywhere as long as one went home for dinner. Now, three months later, I’m an exhausted mess, walking around numb and distracted, and yet my body finds the energy to react to this handyman.

Ma’am, are you okay? A barista is dabbing at me with napkins.

I snap out of my fog. I’m fine. Please. Enough.

I was afraid you would faint, the barista says. Do you want me to call someone?

Please stop making a fuss. My face is damp from tears. How embarrassing, crying over spilled milk. Actually, spilled coffee and milk. I unzip my handbag to search for another tissue.

Why don’t you go back to your table and have a seat? I’ll bring you another coffee, the barista says.

On the condiment bar, my coffee cup lays empty while the last dregs of milk drip from the overturned carafe. I trudge back to my table to take a seat. A dozen pairs of eyes watch my clumsy retreat.

I steal a peek at Devin. He’s headed toward me. I tear open my paperback and lower my head to appear busy.

May I join you? a sexy baritone voice asks.

No words materialize when I open my mouth. Devin is unreasonably good-looking with his soft brown eyes and thick salt-and-pepper hair.

He stands patiently. It would be rude to ignore him, so I gesture an invitation to sit, then relocate my purse from the tabletop to the floor by my chair.

As he settles into his seat, I feel the heat of his raw energy. He must be close to my age. So many men let themselves go after forty. How is he so damn sexy?

Whatever it is, he says, nodding his head, things always get better. You ought to cut yourself some slack.

I do. I am.

He watches me, waiting for more.

I’m supposed to be completing my column right now, but I decided to treat myself to an extravagant coffee and a book.

I’m a good listener.

This is bad. My handyman is playing therapist to me. Me, the professional.

I don’t mean to get defensive, but I draw myself up ramrod straight. "Thank you, but I’ll figure it out. After all, I’m a degreed psychologist, and a communication and etiquette coach. Certified."

Certified. He’s ineffective in hiding his grin. I want this conversation to end, but he says, I’ve read some of your columns. What’s your current article about?

You have? Knock me over with a newspaper, the man reads. Unfortunately, I haven’t typed two words for this week’s column. I surprise myself by answering, Novel Ways to Communicate.

How’s it going?

Great, I lie. I popped in here for a quick break. I don’t know why I burst into tears just now. I guess I’m hormonal. Why am I still talking? I’m going to finish my coffee and get back home.

Well then, I’ll see you later this week when I come over to finish your repair list. He nods at me encouragingly. You might enjoy your book more if you flip it around.

Excuse me?

Flip your book around. That way you won’t have to read the pages upside-down.

I snap my book closed. How many times can a woman humiliate herself in a single day? Time to get myself home.

Devin stands as the barista reaches over to set my replacement coffee on the table. The expressions on everyone’s faces acknowledge that we all know what’s about to happen, although individually and collectively, there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.

The cup tips over, ostensibly in slow motion. Coffee