Page 3 of The Maine Attraction

An L. Her words hang in the air between us, and I know she’s adding another knot to her strand of hair.She’s not wrong. This is the biggest losing streak of my life.

I force a laugh to break the awkward silence. “Mom will be furious.”

“Absolutely,” Lindy agrees. “Now, you move back,” she says, perfectly imitating our mom’s high-pitched voice. “After Dad and I have packed up our stuff, sold the house, and moved to South Florida?”

“Stop. You know your Mom impression freaks me out.”

She laughs, but her voice returns to normal. “So, about me helping you find a place to live. What are you looking for?”

“Peace and quiet. Solitude. A cabin deep in the woods or something.”

“Are you sure? You’ve always been, erm, surrounded by people. Can you survive on your own?”

“Can I survive on my own?” I repeat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I didn’t mean anything negative,” she says quickly. “I just don’t want you to be lonely.”

“How can I be lonely with a nosy sister who lives in the same town? And I’ve been thinking about getting a dog.”

She squeals with excitement.

“Ouch,” I say, holding the phone away from my ear. “I’d like to note for the record that you weren’t so excited when it was justmemoving back to Fog Harbor.”

Lindy sings the chorus toWho Let the Dogs Out, barking like a lunatic into the phone.

“I just said I wasthinkingabout getting a dog,” I remind her. “I haven’t decided yet.”

We chat for a few more minutes before saying goodbye. Then I do a U-turn in the middle of the road and head back to town to find the nearest animal shelter.There’s no harm in a bit of window shopping, right? I’ll just take a quick look today.

Chapter 3

Charley

The office secretary leads two potential clients, newlyweds, into my office. I surreptitiously wipe my sweaty palms on my pants before extending my palm for handshakes.

“Welcome to Corbin and Sons,” I say a bit too loudly.Rein it in, girl.“Please, have a seat.” As I step behind my desk, my feet tangle in the rug, and I trip. I catch myself on the back of my office chair.

“Oh!” the woman cries. “Are you okay?”

“Yep,” I say quickly. I slide into the chair, being careful not to slouch. As my fourth-grade teacher used to say,powerful people have good posture, and it’s stuck with me all these years. I have no idea if it’s true, but itsoundslike it should be, right?

The couple exchanges a glance, and my heart plummets to the floor.I’m already losing them.

I detest this part of the job. Thesellingpart. As the owner and operator of Corbin and Sons contracting firm, it’s part of my job to meet with new customers. But the truth is that I’m only inmy comfort zone when I’m doing the work. Manual labor. That’s where I shine. I’m at my most confident with power tools in my hands. When I’m in my element, there’s nothing I can’t do. I can build a house from the ground up. I can renovate a bathroom in no time flat. I can restore an old, historical building, breathing life into long-forgotten places.

But before you can do any of that, you need a contract in place.I take a deep breath, count to five, and paste a smile onto my face. “So, Mr. and Mrs. Bridgewater, you’re interested in remodeling your kitchen, is that right? Based on the specs you provided, I’ve pulled together some suggestions for new cabinets, appliances, tile flooring. The room is also large enough for an island. We could incorporate the stove and range into that.”

I slide a folder across the table so they can look at the plans I’ve drawn up. I’ve included photographs of cabinetry and tile options in the information.

Mrs. Bridgewater’s face lights up as she flips through the papers. “This is perfect,” she gushes.

Her husband frowns. “We were expecting to meet with the owner today, Mr. Corbin.”

I suppress a sigh. “I’m Charley Corbin, the owner of Corbin and Sons Contracting. The company was started by my grandfather, my father, and my uncle. They’ve all retired now. I’m the last Corbin standing, but I was trained by the best.”

Mr. Bridgewater eyes me with apparent skepticism. His gaze flicks down to my boobs before settling back on face. “Are you sure you can handle this job?” The subtext in his question is clear: can awomanhandle it?

Anger rises within me, and I can feel heat rise to my cheeks. “We’ve been the best contracting firm in Fog Habor, Maine for more than fifty years—and have the awards to show for it. No one comes close to meeting our degree of experienceor professionalism. But you’re welcome to take your business elsewhere.”

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