Flipping Mad

By Laurie Vincent

Don't get mad - get Flipping Mad!

Worn out and lonely after eight years, Allison McKinley decides to hang up her project manager hat and returns home. While her family and friends are thrilled to have her back, they slowly reveal their many idiosyncrasies. She gets reacquainted with her eternally-optimistic father, her outspoken and strongly-opinionated grandmother, and her mud-slinging girlfriends who are wildly jealous of each other. Everyone takes turns raising the drama up a notch with their outrageous behavior. In the middle of all this chaos, Allison meets Tim Mueller, a hunky handyman who flips houses on the side. That plants the seed of change in her mind. Intrigued, Allison wants house-flipping to be the next chapter in her life, believing she can succeed at it. Allison soon finds herself way in over her head, lacking the technical skills required. Desperate for some real help, she strikes a deal with Tim, who agrees to do the rehab work on her place if she will handle the sale of his flip. Although scoring victories on the project front, Allison hasn’t been as lucky finding romance. When it comes to men, things never go right. While aiming to prove herself as a viable business partner, she fights a losing battle with her attraction to Tim. He has his own share of fumbled relationships. Eventually she learns that he’s much more complicated that she ever dreamed. Flipping Mad is a romantic comedy full of quirky characters and zany situations about starting over, taking chances and finding real love under the craziest circumstances!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laurie Vincent
• Release date: Sep 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005515553

Laurie Vincent

Laurie Vincent is my pen name. I live in the Midwest and love a juicy story with interesting characters, spiced up with sex, some suspense and of course, humor. I have balanced a career in the financial industry with writing (which has always been a fun side-line). Pieces of the people I write about come from those I've known. I am always jotting ideas down in composition notebooks that I eventually transfer to my laptop. I love all kinds of movies -- from the classics to even the trashy (but enjoyable) ones! I appreciate getting feedback from people who have read my stories - I truly believe it makes me a better writer to take their comments to heart. I hope to hear from you soon!

Book preview

FLIPPING MAD

By

Laurie Vincent

© Copyright 2018 by the Author

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are either the product of my imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

CHAPTER 1

Before the gang arrived for my Welcome Home party, I hung out in my old room and tried to drum up the nerve (with a trace of humor) to face them. I thought moving back home after quitting my job and shelving my so-called dream career was the best thing for me to do. Having been a project manager who worked insane hours for years, I was done. I had moved mountains and too often did the heavy lifting. I had nothing left to prove. Being surrounded by familiar faces and receiving emotional support mattered more to me.

Did I make a huge mistake? I wondered. Should I have hit the pause button and considered it more carefully before handing in my resignation?

What was my story going to be when asked by family members and friends why I threw in the towel? No version of the truth sounded logical, and the last thing I wanted was sympathy.

Did I even deserve that? I had been away for so long, distancing myself from their lives for years. Would they even care to have me around again, especially since I felt like a huge failure?

When I graduated from the University of Minnesota in 2010 with a business degree, I was ridiculously ambitious. I wanted a big job at a big company and make the big bucks. I didn’t care what it took, I was ready to dive in and show everybody that I was a winner. The number of hours a day I worked didn’t concern me; I have always been a high-energy person – game on, unstoppable, eager to climb that ladder of success!

Fast forward to 2018, and as I studied myself in the mirror, saw the fatigue, the tiny lines that formed by the corners of my mouth and eyes, concluding: Girl, you have officially crashed and burned.

Perhaps it would have been a better idea to secure a role on The Walking Dead as an extra and exploit my frightful appearance? I could conceivably sell it as very little make-up required.

For the past seven years, I had been on the road, traveling to every major city in the US with seldom stops in my hometown, Minneapolis. I did what I could to check in with family and friends, but continually got sucked into my work. I wanted to be involved with their struggles and triumphs, but that didn’t happen. Trading an occasional text or making a call barely cut it for keeping up. At best, I had dialed it in.

My peeps were a forgiving group, claimed they always understood my workaholic ways, and stood by the sidelines, rooting for me, while I scuttled about like a madwoman, racking up airline and hotel points.

And then I woke up one day and said, I can’t do this anymore. I was sleep-deprived, existing on caffeine and fast food, and living out of a suitcase. I made sacrifices for a company that couldn’t have cared less. For them, only my achievements counted. There was an endless demand to roll out new systems, website enhancements, merge businesses, or improve efficiencies. Sometimes I had to simultaneously manage multiple projects –my ex-boss Nick freely volunteered me whenever the executives stomped their feet. He sweet-talked me into taking on more than what other project managers could capably juggle, boasting that I was his star.

I was fed up and wanted a life.

Nick was in denial over my leaving. He refused to even glance at the letter I wrote, thanking him for his confidence, but my decision to pack it in was final. This means nothing. You’ll be back, Allison, and soon.

My announcement was enthusiastically received by my father. That’s terrific, Pumpkin. Everyone will be excited to have you around again.

Dad is forever cheerful, almost to the nauseating point. Despite that I am now thirty, he still calls me Pumpkin, Sweet Pea, or Cupcake as though I were still in Grammar School. His optimism could be a bit wearing.

I appreciate that, Dad.

Have you figured out where you plan to stay?

Honestly, no. I’m focused on wrapping things up here.

Great. There’s plenty of room here at the house. Your grandmother will be thrilled.

After Mom had passed away, Dad decided to take in Grammie, which seemed brilliant as she was in her eighties and not able to live alone. She is hardly your average grandmother. Though typically sweet and affectionate, she is unafraid to speak her mind and can be a bit much. Sugar-coating her words, not a chance!

Living arrangements weren’t important since my brain was fried. I couldn’t process even a random suggestion. My head was crammed full of project details I needed to hand off to someone else. Anxious to escape from my stressful world, I accepted Dad’s invitation. I desperately needed to unplug.

Returning to one’s roots may seem fabulous when you’re mentally at the end of your rope, yet I felt like I didn’t belong. It wasn’t because of anything someone said or did – I stepped off that plane to open arms and bearing that in mind that this wasn’t another impromptu visit, I was here to stay.

Welcome home, sweetheart! Gram said, giving me an extra hug. This is where you belong! It was meant to be!

I was speechless, yet grateful for the heartfelt affection.

I forced myself to unpack my clothes and put them away in my old dresser. Upon doing so, I was gripped by the reality of my situation. No longer was I Nick Arkadian’s star; my light had faded, my glow gone.

Dad threw me a curve ball two days after my homecoming. At breakfast, he announced that he had rounded up some family members and a couple of my friends for a little bash that very night. It was much too soon – hell, I looked Dead on Arrival when he picked me up at the airport with Grammie – yet he insisted.

It’ll do you good, Pumpkin, and lift your spirits. People have been wondering about you. They care.

Grammie waved her hand in dismissal. They’re coming for the free food and booze.

No way was I ready to socialize, still feeling drained, with zero-clarity. My last assignment had taken its toll on me. I was a wreck. Did you plan this in advance? I asked, stunned.

Of course. I had to give the caterers notice. We’ll have sandwiches, coleslaw, and homemade lemon cake. Many have offered to bring hot dishes and bars. It’ll be a feast!

We ordered two kegs, too, Grammie added. I had a Groupon.

I shook my head. I can’t face anyone just yet. Please, cancel the party.

Don’t sweat it, Sweet Pea. Everyone understands what you’ve been going through. Besides, they missed you.

No amount of pleading on my part dissuaded them. It was a solid go.

My ego might be licking its wounds, but one thing I would never be accused of was sidestepping an obligation. If Dad and Grammie made the effort to reconnect me with people I hadn’t seen or talked to in years, then I damned well would follow through. I might be emotionally fragile, but far from being a wuss.

I heard the truck pull up from the liquor store and the delivery man hauling out the first keg. That was my queue to perform a final check in the mirror, verifying I didn’t appear too scary for our guests.

My blue eyes weren’t too bloodshot (thank God) and my complexion not ashen. Since I am a redhead, there wasn’t squat I could do about my pale skin anyway. I had on minimal makeup: lipstick and a few brushes to my eyelashes. I appeared relaxed, as though I had practically rolled out of bed (an indication that my brain cells were on the mend). My long hair hung freely, not pinned back with a fancy barrette. It was nice wearing casual clothes – my blouses, skirts, and dresses were in storage. No more hassling with nylons and high heels; I embraced t-shirts, jeans, and sneakers. It was mid-May, warm enough for shorts, too. I am petite – five-four to be exact – and managed to stay slim (running from one gate to the other at airports kept me in shape, regardless of the snack machines I relied upon for on-the-go sustenance).

I took a deep breath and murmured to my reflection: Show Time!

Gram was in the kitchen whipping up her famous three-cheese dip. I considered her to be one of the best cooks ever. She never measured any of her ingredients, however, so the flavors varied from dish to dish.

Hi, honey. Did you get in a nap before everyone gets here?

Sort of.

Would you fetch me a can of crushed tomatoes from the cupboard?

I happily obliged. Gram might be eighty-four but was full of pep. She’s short – under five feet – and unable to reach items Dad, who is a foot taller, places on the upper shelves. Unfortunately, there isn’t enough storage space to have every item at her disposal, so she depended on one of us to assist. She has red hair, like mine, without a tinge of gray, though its color is faded, and sometimes uses a cane when her knees get wobbly, but otherwise, she is quite the firecracker.

She dumped the contents of the can I brought to her into the bowl and blended it into the gooey mixture. Your father is outside setting up the tables. They just dropped off the beer.

I should go help him.

That’s a good girl. She took a bottle of Tabasco sauce and did a few squirts.

Is there anything else you might need, Grammie?

She shook her head. Not now. Using a spoon, she skimmed the top, tasted it, and frowned. Several more squirts went in and after another sampling only received an Ugh! It was clearly not to her liking.

I wouldn’t worry about it, I’m sure it’s fine.

Ignoring me, she unscrewed the cap and generously poured the rest into the dip.

My eyes widened.

If that weren’t enough, she had a large jar of hot chili peppers standing by that got dumped into her golden concoction.

My mouth dropped. Grammie, you’re going to scorch people’s taste buds!

Nonsense. I’ve been making it this way for years, honey. She scooped up a bit and tested it, then gave a smile. Perfection!

That was not how I remembered it. Zesty, but flavorful: yes. Our relatives and friends would be in for a nasty little surprise.

Perhaps I ought to post a fire warning on that dip: consumer beware!

Dad was setting up folding chairs by the tables he had arranged on the patio. I went over the stack that still needed to be assembled. He brightened upon seeing me. There’s the prettiest girl in the Twin Cities. How’s it going, Buttercup?

The cutesy talk was wearing thin, but I ignored it. Dad is fifty-eight, light brown hair streaked with gray, has blue eyes, is six feet tall and very fit. He’s a heating and air-conditioning repairman by trade, which keeps him hopping. It’s been about twelve years since we lost Mom, and I often wondered if he would eventually find someone else. I’ve seen him exchange a grin and a wink with an attractive woman or two since I got back, but it went no further. It amazed me that one hadn’t chased him. He was, in my opinion, a great catch.

But Grammie was in the middle, sizing up each contender, and couldn’t refrain from giving feedback, the majority of it negative. It ranged from one being too hoity-toity to a boring goody-two-shoes to a cold fish. She spotted every flaw and took issue with it. None were good enough for Dad. I swear, it was a longshot easing into her good graces.

Dad’s jovial manner nudged me from my slump. I took one of the chairs and unfolded it. I am grateful for all you and Gram went through to throw this party. I know I bitched about not being ready to socialize but appreciate the sentiment.

You’ve been a road warrior far too long, Pumpkin, and we’re delighted to have you with us. Everyone’s been asking about you, so we figured the best way to tackle that was by having them over. The sooner, the better.

I was afraid to ask who he might have invited. A few of our relatives could be blunt; the prospect of getting grilled by one could easily push me over the edge. If it wasn’t the pity I’d receive that would be a complete downer, it was continually getting posed the question: How could you toss such a terrific job out the window? Didn’t it occur to you that you were with a great organization? I hope you aren’t planning to sponge off your poor father forever. He has his own bills.

The others were bound to show an outpouring of love and compassion that could get uncomfortable. I had been MIA during so many important events – birthdays, anniversaries, various celebrations – it was a wonder they gave a damn about me.

Katie and Nicole will be here.

I forgot to let either of them know I moved back. Crap. They were my best friends and confidantes since grammar school, for God’s Sake! I stood up to both their weddings, was Godmother to one of their children, habitually remembered to send gifts for special occasions (online shopping was a lifesaver), and usually made time (though borrowed) to listen to their latest crisis.

Regretfully, I could not recall the last time I had spoken to either of them, whether over the phone or even on Skype. My job screwed that up.

Everything had happened at high-speed; once I threw the kill switch on my career, my brain was scrambled. That dull throbbing, likely the final stage of burnout, still lingered. Hopefully, they wouldn’t get catty about it.

Deep breaths, I patiently reminded myself. I had a long night ahead of me.

The kegs and stacks of plastic cups were ready for our thirsty guests. We also had two coolers, one filled with bottled water, soft drinks and juices, the other some bottles of wine chilling on ice. I made sure there were plenty of napkins, as well as paper plates for the abundance of goodies.

I glanced over the picket fence that lined our yard and saw a dark blond-haired man in a sleeveless t-shirt and running shorts sprinting down the street. Even from afar, I noticed his lean, muscular frame while he pumped his hefty arms and sinewy thighs to maintain a steady pace. He was definitely beefcake material. Because my attention was so splintered, coming across such a pleasant distraction caused me to momentarily forget all else.

Even when I was totally frazzled, I