Page 35 of The Love Destroyers

“I’ll pay him to take it to the dump, too.”

“And who’s going to refinish the space?”

“Me.” Then, considering how much I disliked doing the wallpaper, I add, “Maybe Anthony will help. I can probably convince Rosie to get him on board. She’s an easy mark. Or I can find a construction company, I guess.”

“Why didn’t you get Anthony to knock down the wall in the first place rather than contacting this service?”

I pause before admitting, “He thought it was a bad idea.”

She studies me, her eyebrows inching higher. Her face doesn’t crease as much as it should at seventy, but then again, she goes to anexceptionaldermatologist. I know this because she’s offered to send me there multiple times—as if I might have failed to notice that I’m breaking out on the sides of my face. I’d thought stress breakouts would stop when I finished being a teenager, but add that to the long list of challenges of adulthood. “Ah,” she says at least. “I see. You need to do this before you see thatdreadfulman Jeffrey.”

It’s not a question, but I answer it as if it were one—“Yes.”

I need to go to the Grove Park Inn feeling strong, not like a woman who’s spent two months playing house. This is the only way I can confront my father.

My mother glances past me at the interior of the office, her gaze shrewd. She makes a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Then you can proceed. I’veneverliked this room. He used to watch pornography in here.”

“I definitely didn’t need to know that,” I tell her, rolling my eyes.

“Oh, pish. You’re an adult now. We can have adult conversations.”

I’m tempted to admit I’d rather not, but I already feel like enough of a teenager. No need to descend into bickering.

“Wouldn’t you rather change the room, too?” I ask.

She considers this again before giving a decisive nod. “I’m more than ready to move on from the past.”

Again, I consider asking her about Chuck. I open my mouth to do so, but the buzzer to the gate sounds. My mother gives me a sidelong look. “What if this man you’ve hired is a murderer?”

“I’ll mace him, and then you can hit him over the head with something. Maybe that.” I point to a heavy antique lamp on the desk. It’s kind of nice, actually—with a heavy, burnished metal base and an oversized shade—but it’ll have to go. I’ll never be able to look at it now without thinking of my father masturbating by its ambient light.

She considers this for a moment, her lips pursed, and then nods. “But the lamp is too heavy. It would aggravate my bursitis. I’ll use something else. Should we have a safe word?”

“Kitten.”

She smiles before she can flatten her expression. “Very funny. I’ll go buzz your ‘friend’ in. Does he know where to meet you, or is he expecting an escort?”

I explained, in detail, over the app, so I nod. “He knows where to find me.”

Five minutes later, Mr. Fix It turns the corner of the hallway with a shit-eating grin on his face that suggests he knows exactly how it’s going to affect me to see him.

I groan. “I should have known.Of courseyou’re the guy all of Mom’s friends have been drooling about.”

Seamus O’Malley-slash-James, wearing a leather jacket, worn jeans, and work boots. He has a tool belt and a box in his big hand. I’ve never cared about tool belts one way or another—suits have always done it for me—but now…

My hormones must be in overdrive, because I can’t help but think if sin were given a face and body, it would be his—from his hair, in need of trimming, to his unshaven chin and the toned arms filling his jacket.

His lips, chronically amused and perfectly shaped, aredefinitelysinful.

“Have you changed your mind about the shirt?” he asks with an even broader grin. “You’re giving me that look. I remember it from when you flipped that skirt up for me the other night. You like carrying around my belongings, don’t you?”

“The mace is in my pocket,Mr. Fix It.” I nod toward the dark green wall, which feels larger than it should be. “Now, can you fix it?”

His lips curl into a smile, and he glances past me into the space I’d prefer not to allow my eyes to rest. “Show me,” he says.

So I lead him into the office, my “house shoes” padding against the soft carpet.

When we get further inside, I gesture again to the green wall that connects with the library. “The library is on the other side.”

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