Irresistible Bachelors: Books 1-5 by Landish, Lauren (bts books to read TXT) 📕

There’s the sound of sandals flapping, and a soft voice calls from inside. “Come on in, Caleb!”

“I dunno, Mrs.—”

“Don’t worry about the dirt. I insist!” Mrs. Barnes says. She’s a widow. Her husband died two years ago, and this is the third job I’ve done around her place. She just never picked up any do-it-yourself skills beyond the basics. “My husband never worried about it, and I’m mopping the kitchen this evening after dinner anyway!”

Shrugging, I put my bag down just outside the door and step inside. I find Mrs. Barnes on the other side of the kitchen, wearing a tennis skirt outfit. For a woman who’s probably in her sixties, she definitely stays active. Maybe she’s on her way out to play. “Looks like your petunias are safe for the rest of the summer, Mrs. Barnes,” I say after carefully wiping my feet. “That new PVC pipe is going to last you for years.”

“Thank you, Caleb,” she says. I notice that she’s touched up her blonde hair and makeup too as she turns, holding out a big glass of lemonade and a plate of cookies for me. “You looked like you were working like a total draft horse out there. How about a few cookies?”

I smile shyly. I can’t help it. I know what she’s doing, and it’s really beginning to embarrass me. I take the glass and drink. The woman does make a pretty kick-ass glass of lemonade, with real lemon juice that she squeezes by hand and a few other secret tricks that she says she won’t tell me, just that it’s ‘something men wouldn’t understand’. It’s nearly ice cold too, tart and sweet and singing as it rolls down my throat. I have to be careful. It’s so cold that I know if I chug like I want, I’m going to end up with a splitting headache, and I don’t want that. Setting the glass down, I take one of her homemade peanut butter cookies and take a bite. “Thank you, Mrs. Barnes.”

“You’re so very welcome, Caleb,” she says, setting the plate down. “Oh dear, I do hope this wasn’t a good shirt?”

She reaches out, putting a well-manicured hand on my arm, and I see the small tear in my t-shirt. It’s new, probably from when I tied the thing around my head, but I shrug, feeling weird. I don’t want to be rude, and I don’t want to upset a nice lady who’s a good customer, but I’m not interested in her ‘features’. Also, not to put too strange a point on it, you just don’t seduce a man like me with lemonade and peanut butter cookies. It’s the sort of thing she’d give her son if the son of a bitch didn’t live in Bend, Oregon, and work as a regional coordinator for FedEx. He didn’t even come home for his father’s funeral.

Doesn’t make it any less weird, and I chew my cookie quickly, trying to keep things professional. “Mrs. Barnes, if you’d like, I’ll mail you the invoice for the work today—”

“Nonsense, Caleb, you just rest yourself right there and I’ll go get my checkbook. You do take checks, right?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer, but I nod anyway. With most of my customers being from an earlier generation, I’ve gotten used to taking checks more than cash or credit cards. “I really do have to thank Janice for recommending your services. You are quite the Mr. Fix-It.” She emphasizes each word like she has something besides irrigation pipes for me to fix . . .

I chuckle. I don’t mind my nickname. “Thanks.”

While she fills out the check, I eat another cookie, getting the balance just right. Eat too many, and she’s going to insist that I stay longer and have some more because apparently, I need the calories. Eat too few, and I offend her. I swear, I learned more about how to do customer relations in the social hour after church than I ever did in college. When Mrs. Barnes comes back, she glances at the plate of cookies and mostly empty glass of lemonade, giving me another smile and a pat on the chest. “Really, Caleb, you are a godsend. I didn’t know what to do when I suddenly started gaining a new swamp out in the back yard. And coming over on your Saturday? I appreciate it. You must have some young lady that you’re standing up to take care of me.”

I shake my head, smirking. “No, Mrs. Barnes. I was only planning on catching Mindy’s new frappe and listening to some new music. I was able to do the music, and I’ll grab the frappe later.”

“Well, I’ll certainly tell all of my friends about you,” she says. “Mr. Fix-It is going to be in high demand around here.”

I smile, backing away and heading out the door. I don’t want to run, even though the hungry look in her eye tells me I probably should. Giving her a little wave, I grab my tool bag and walk around the side of her house to my work truck, a ten-year-old Silverado that I just got a new paint job for. I hate looking like a ‘handyman’, even if it is my job, and I make sure my truck looks good. When Mrs. Barnes taps on the front window and gives me another wave, I break into what I can only call a power walk, half throwing my tool bag into my cargo box before jumping behind the wheel and backing out as fast as I safely can. “That’s it,” I mutter to myself as I narrowly avoid her mailbox. “I’m backing into everyone’s driveway from here on out.”

I drive away, chuckling to myself as I reach the stop sign and turn right, heading for the gas station. Really, scared of an old lady who was just feeling a little ‘autumn heat’? Getting out, I top off the tank—I never let my truck get below a