Fix Her Up: A Novel
Fix Her Up: Chapter 3

Georgie gave her blueberry compote a final stir and stepped back from the counter, wiping sticky hands down her apron. Bacon warmed in the oven alongside Belgian waffles. She’d stayed up late whipping cream with her new hand mixer and had taken only seven finger swipes out of it since waking up this morning—but who was counting? In an exciting twist, she’d timed everything right for her first time cooking for more than one—painfully single—person.

It was her first time entertaining in her new home, period.

Georgie still couldn’t believe it. She had a house now. Granted, the Castle family business thrived on the art of sniffing out real estate deals, so she’d bought the two-bedroom ranch for a song and it still needed a lot of work. But it was hers. Not bad for a birthday party clown. Speaking of which, she had a dozen phone calls to return as soon as this brunch ended. Port Jefferson had exactly one clown and she was in high demand. It was how she’d managed the down payment on the house. Unfortunately, half the calls were from new customers who wanted a cotton candy machine, pony rides, magicians, princesses.

And she’d have to turn those jobs down.

A familiar hint of panic crept into her throat. Her fledgling clown business, along with some help from her parents, had put her through college, but it no longer seemed as sustainable. She did her best to keep the act fresh and cater to new trends, but kids’ birthday parties were a competitive racket. Parents wanting to outdo each other were beginning to look outside of Port Jeff for their entertainment needs. What was Georgie going to do about that? With a mortgage to pay, the future of her one-woman show had begun weighing more and more heavily on her mind.

Don’t worry about it now. Not when there’s compote to be consumed, parents and siblings to impress, and mimosas to drink. And Travis.

As if she could forget about Travis and his big, beautiful, brooding self.

Would he come?

No. Of course he wouldn’t. He’d barely given her the time of day when she was a kid. What made her think this guy who’d been wined, dined, and invited to the White House would be interested in having brunch with a girl who’d chucked rotting food at his head? Still. It didn’t hurt to imagine him waltzing through the swinging door of her kitchen with that amazing animal grace, that tongue tucked into his lower lip as if he just had to utilize it at all times. Guh.

Pressing her hand to her pounding heart, Georgie checked the clock on the oven. She would replace out if he’d show soon enough. There was only ten minutes to go until everyone started to arrive.

Telling her nerves to hit the road, Georgie took the pitcher of mimosas out of the fridge, arranging it at an artistic angle on the kitchen table. She couldn’t stop herself from taking her cell phone out and snapping a few pictures in portrait mode.

“Okay,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m one of these smug foodie people now.”

Before she could post the picture to Instagram, the phone dinged with an incoming text message. It was from her sister, Bethany.

B: Can’t make it. That asshole community theater director broke up with me during the appetizers last night and I self-medicated with Cuervo. Rain check next week?

Georgie slumped into a kitchen chair, her fingers poised to reply. She typed a message imploring her sister to come, then deleted it and sent a thumbs-up instead. No big deal. Stephen and Kristin were coming, weren’t they? Her brother could eat enough to feed a small village—a way better brunch guest than Bethany, the perpetual dieter.

Fifteen minutes later, the pitcher of mimosas had started to sweat. A check of the waffles in the oven confirmed they were beginning to dry out. She paced the kitchen with her cell in hand for another five minutes before sending a text to Kristin.

G: You guys coming to brunch?

Ten seconds later her phone dinged.

K: What brunch, sweetie?

Georgie’s eyes closed slowly, the phone dropping to her side. The brunch had been so unimportant to her brother, he hadn’t even remembered to tell his wife. God, now if her parents showed up, her father would shuffle the floor like a loose end. Without Stephen around for Brick & Morty shop talk, his restlessness would be obvious, even if he tried to pretend otherwise. Her mother would poke her husband and send him dagger eyes until he relaxed, but did Georgie want to inconvenience them?

Quickly, she fired off a text to her mother.

G: Mom, we’re moving brunch to next weekend. I overslept.

She tacked on a befuddled emoji for good measure.

Her phone buzzed.

M: Are you sure, honey? We’re halfway there. I can help whip something up.

Georgie hesitated.

G: I’m sure. Go split your favorite pancakes at the Waterfront, instead 😉

That was it. All that work and no one was coming.

She pressed the pads of her thumbs into her eye sockets and sighed. She’d been holding out hope that buying the house would force everyone to recognize her as a fellow adult, but maybe such a feat was impossible this late in the game. Her parents loved her, but they’d been exhausted by the time their third child came along. Whereas her siblings were given careful attention and had their paths carved into the family business, Georgie had been left to figure shit out on her own. Since they’d always thought of her as the family clown, she’d embraced it. Whether she loved her job or not, maybe her career choice had guaranteed their seeming lack of esteem.

Her empty kitchen seemed to agree.

Not bothering to swallow the lump in her throat, Georgie moped over to the compote and prepared to knock it into the trash, cheap bowl and all. But then the doorbell rang before she could.

Who . . . ?

No. No way.

It couldn’t be Travis.

Georgie’s gaze darted around the kitchen looking for a place to hide. Letting in the local baseball god to witness her humiliation was so not an option. She paced to the kitchen window and peered through the lace curtain—

He was glowering right at her.

Right, okay. No way to avoid this. His body language could not be making it clearer that he’d prefer to be a million light-years away, so Georgie would merely send him packing, then spend the rest of the afternoon eating bacon and regretting it.

She sucked in gulping breaths all the way to the front door, fingers twisting in her apron. Oh my God. Travis Ford was standing outside her door. Five feet away. Maybe less. She should probably take a moment to savor that, since she’d been dreaming about it since puberty, but she couldn’t stall any longer. With an inward groan, she opened the door and leaned a casual hip on the frame. The picture of complacency. Hopefully. “Hi. So sorry. Brunch is canceled.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder and winced. “Ye olde oven cut out on me last night. I didn’t have your number or I would have texted you. I mean, I wouldn’t abuse the privilege of having your number or something.” Her laugh sounded painfully forced. “But I would have sent a courtesy text.”

His eyes were hidden behind gold-rimmed sunglasses, but she could feel the assessment in them. “If the oven cut out last night, why are you wearing an apron covered in fruit and batter?”

“You can tell that from there, huh?” Playing it cool in the face of having her bluff called, she pursed her lips. No option but to dig deeper. “I haven’t washed it in a while?”

“I can smell what’s happening in there.” He tucked a tongue into his cheek. “No one showed up, did they?”

Oh, this was not the time for that knot to expand in her throat. Not at all. But it formed with a vengeance, pushing out at all sides. Her eyes started to burn—and this was a disaster. Her siblings had flaked out, her parents had barely protested when she canceled . . . and they’d all confirmed what she’d already known. That they didn’t take her seriously. She was going to cry in front of her childhood hero turned mega-crush turned object of her every sexual fantasy. Seriously, Travis was the reason she couldn’t hear “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” without getting horny. Meanwhile if she cried right now, he’d probably lose his boner next time he smelled blueberries. Of course, while all these thoughts raced through her head, she said absolutely nothing, simply stared up at the former Hurricanes shortstop while her eyes ached.

“More food for me,” Travis said finally, stepping over the threshold. “Move it.”

“What?” She couldn’t hide the wistfulness in her tone. “You’re staying?”

“I’ve been eating takeout for a month.” He turned and pointed at her, letting that sink in. “That’s the only reason I’m here. We clear?”

She jogged to keep up with him. “To be fed. Yes.”

“I guess it smells pretty decent, too.”

“I was about to throw it all in the garbage,” she breathed, wiping an eye with her sleeve.

He caught the action as they entered the kitchen and sent her a scowl. “You need a minute or something?”

“Why? Because there’s no crying in . . .”

“Jesus.”

“I’ll help you. It’s baseball.” Georgie walked to the oven and took out the heaping plates of bacon and waffles. “That was called a segue. I’m being a good hostess by seamlessly bringing up topics of mutual interest. You love baseball. I love Tom Hanks. If we meet in the middle, we get A League of Their Own.”

He slid into a chair and stretched his long legs in front of him, like a prince preparing to be entertained. “I just want to eat bacon.”

Georgie heaped a plate full of waffles, whipped cream, compote, and bacon and slid it in front of Travis. “Okay, fine. We won’t talk about how underrated Geena Davis is.”

“Thank God.” He picked up a piece of bacon, pausing with it halfway to his mouth. “Because Lori Petty was the standout.”

“Don’t.” She shook her head slowly. “Not in my kitchen.”

Travis snorted and threw the entire strip of bacon into his mouth, before picking up the fork, cutting off a giant bite of waffle, slopping it through the compote/whipped cream combination, and tucking it into his mouth. “Fuck. That’s good.”

Until he spoke around the giant bite of food, Georgie didn’t realize she was staring at his mouth the way a charmed snake stares at a dangling pocket watch. She backed away from the table and started to cobble together her own plate, pleasure flooding her over his compliment, gruff though it was. “Thanks. Mimosa?”

He seemed to think about it. “Nah, I’m good.”

“No longer looking for the answer in the bottom of a bottle?”

“See, I knew you were in there.”

“What do you mean?”

The strong column of his throat worked as he swallowed a bite. “The girl who threw lo mein at my naked ass is not the same girl who answered the door.”

She fell into her spot at the table, stabbing her waffle in the heart with a fork. “My brother and sister abandoned me and my parents are probably relieved I gave them an out. Excuse me for having a weak moment.”

“I know a thing or two about being abandoned.” As if he’d caught himself off guard by telling her something so personal, Travis rolled one of his shoulders. “You get used to it.”

Georgie’s heart skipped. “I don’t want to. You shouldn’t be used to it, either.” Just like the morning she’d confronted Travis at his apartment, Georgie was struck by the possibility that he wasn’t the flawless, invincible giant her younger self had perceived. He knew about being abandoned? How? He must have been referring to the professional teams who’d furiously traded him before that final cut. “The Hurricanes were idiots to trade you for Beckman. He couldn’t replace the ball swinging three bats.”

His hand paused on its way to grab a napkin, but she thought she caught a spark of interest before he hid it with a shrug. “Nah, he’s decent.”

“Tell that to his batting average.” It took her a few beats to notice Travis’s amusement. “What?”

“Nothing.” He rested his fork. “Not many people bring up the trades to my face.”

“Oh.” Heat tingled at the base of her neck. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t say I minded,” Travis cut in smoothly. “How long have you been in this place?”

“Four months.” Relieved he hadn’t taken offense to her word vomit, Georgie forked a blueberry into her mouth and leaned back, casting a glance around the kitchen. “There’s so much I want to do, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

He made short work of a second piece of bacon. “You are aware your family owns a remodeling business, right?”

Remembering the text from Stephen’s wife, she waved off his comment. “They’re busy.”

When the silence stretched, she looked up to replace Travis watching her. Thoughtfully. Had he ever done that? “What would be your first project, if you could pick anything?”

“The fireplace.” She laughed, a little amazed. “I didn’t even know my first choice until I said it out loud. But definitely the fireplace. It’s this old, faded brick—”

“Show me.”

“But you’re eating . . .” Every remnant of food had vanished from his plate. “Oh.”

Travis pushed back from the table and, without waiting for her, left the kitchen. She found him in the living room, running a big, long-fingered hand over the old mantel of the fireplace. “You looking to do some stone work, cut it with a floating mantel?”

She couldn’t hide her surprise. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” she murmured, brows drawing together. “Why are you asking? You’re not going to do it for me, are you?”

“No, but I can talk to your brother about getting it on the schedule.” A sardonic smile ghosted around his mouth. “I’m on the payroll. For now. And I can bitch at him without getting fired. If he does fire me, I’ll tell everyone he used to get emotional over Designing Women reruns.”

“You’re working at Brick & Morty?” She breathed a laugh. “Why the sudden need to work? Is this because of me coming to your apartment and—”

“Nope. Keep dreaming.”

“It is,” she said, hopefully to herself. “I know it is.”

“It’s not.”

“Agree to disagree. Do you want to see the rest of the house?”

His expression said no, but he gestured at her to lead the way. Sort of flustered and a lot prideful, Georgie took his wrist—oh my, so thick—and tugged him through the living room. “The backyard is through here,” she said, presenting the sliding glass door and backyard beyond with a grand sweep of her arm. “I’m going to get a big, sloppy dog someday and this is where I’ll throw his ball.”

Was it her imagination or did that make him smile a little?

“You might want to adjust your aspirations to a medium or small dog.” He swept her with a look. “A big dog would walk you.”

“Sorry, my mind is set on Beethoven.”

She waited, hoping he would remember watching that movie several times together on her parents’ couch all those years ago, neighborhood kids sprawled on the floor munching popcorn. When recognition meandered through his expression, Georgie’s heart kicked.

“‘Any kind of weirdness and Beethoven is gone,’” he drawled, quoting the movie.

“‘Weirdness? What should I watch for, hon? Wearin’ my clothes around the house?’”

“Classic.” He made an impatient gesture for her to keep moving, but she caught his lips twitching. “Show me the rest. I don’t have all day.”

“Okay.” She had to force herself not to skip down the hallway, but her steps faltered the closer they came to the bedroom. Travis Ford was going to look at her bedroom. See it. Be near it. Were the fantasies she continually had about him going to be visible, like vines hanging from the ceiling? “Um. This is my room.”

“Oh, uh . . .” He gave a tight nod, barely glancing through the doorway. “Great.”

“Moving right along,” she said too quickly, directing his attention to the tiny, closet-sized room across the hall. “This is my magic zone.”

“Magic how?”

“I keep my performance equipment inside.” His narrow-eyed interest tickled her pulse. “Normally I would charge for a show, but since you braved my cooking I owe you at least one magic trick.”

He propped a shoulder on the hallway wall and crossed his arms. “Fire away. But be warned, I’m a skeptic.”

Georgie gasped in mock surprise. “You? A skeptic?” Lips pursed, she opened the door slowly, slowly, as if it held the secrets to the universe. Maintaining eye contact, she slipped into the room and moved behind the door little by little until disappearing from view. “I’m building the drama,” she said, ducking down to retrieve a few items. “Are you intrigued?”

“On the edge of my seat.”

Georgie came back into the hallway and closed the door, holding a blue scarf in her hand. As she expected, Travis eyed the silk with suspicion. She threw it up in the air, let it flutter down, and caught it. “Just your average, ordinary, everyday scarf that I stole from my sister.”

“Okay. What are you going to do with it?”

She tilted her head and frowned. “Do you hear the pitter-patter of rain? I think it’s raining outside.”

Even when Travis was patronizing, he was the sexiest man on the planet. She swore his eyes twinkled as those sensual lips tilted in a smirk. “I don’t hear anything.”

Really? Not even my heart? “Just in case, you should take an umbrella.” With a twist of her wrist and a sleight of hand, a rainbow-colored umbrella bloomed beneath the scarf, sending it fluttering to the ground. Oh, he struggled not to be confused, but failed, quite possibly making her life complete. “I know what you’re thinking. Will I perform at your birthday party? I usually only book children’s events, but I’ll make this one exception.”

He shook his head, studying her for a moment. “You weren’t always like this, were you?”

“Delightful?”

“Sure.” He graced her with a too-brief smile, then pushed off the wall, moving in that long-legged stride back toward the living room. “We’ll call it ‘delightful’ instead of ‘weird.’”

Georgie caught up to him in front of the fireplace, just in time to watch his hand run over the brick.

“You haven’t, uh, heard anything about some competition in town . . .”

“The competition to go on a date with you?”

His head fell back with a groan. “Oh God, it is real.”

“And you’re not thrilled about it?” Georgie mentally reviewed the conversations she’d heard around town all week. In the bakery, at a birthday party, simply walking down Main Street. “I mean, even if you’re not thrilled, you’re at least used to this kind of attention from women, right?”

A shadow passed over his face. “Yeah. Something like that.”

A jealousy fountain tried to bubble up, but she stuck a rock in it. The green monster was useless where Travis Ford was concerned and always would be. Instead, she focused on what his body language was telling her. The stiffness in his shoulders, the bunched jaw. “You’re not thrilled about it.”

He stared straight ahead at the fireplace. “No.”

“Why?”

It took him a moment to answer. “I guess I don’t want to be a novelty anymore. A good time. Something easy, not to be taken seriously.” He ran a rash hand through his dark auburn hair. “It’s no one’s fault but mine. I made myself the punch line of a bad dirty joke, didn’t I?”

“I don’t think of you that way. You could never be a joke,” she whispered, taken aback. “I’m sorry if the mean things I said in your apartment made you feel this way.”

“No. What you did was different. I needed that.” He reached over and tweaked her nose. “There. You finally got me to admit that throwing food and calling me on my shit is why I’m back among the living.”

If he hadn’t just played gotcha with her nose like she was five, Georgie might have kissed him then and there out of pure joy. But he had. So she didn’t. “You’re welcome.” She curled her fingers into the edges of her apron. “Ignoring the competition is only going to up the stakes, you know. Long Island women take betting seriously.”

“Let me worry about that.” As if becoming conscious of time and place, Travis cleared his throat hard and headed for the door. “I’ll talk to Stephen about the fireplace, all right? Thanks for breakfast.”

“Travis?”

He stopped with a hand on the knob, but only gave her a half-turn of attention.

“Thank you for staying.”

The door closed in reply.