One handywoman.
One single dad.
One set of twins.
And the wall isn’t the only thing being drilled…
I learned the hard way that being a handywoman isn’t easy. The questions, the stares—the assumption I’m the proud owner of a cock and balls. Not that it matters. I’ve proven over and over that I’m ready for anything the judgmental asses throw at me.
Except the hot, single dad of twins who just moved to town.
Brantley Cooper gets the shock of his life when I show up on his doorstep to fix up his kids’ new rooms. His son is confused why ‘the pretty lady has a drill,’ and his daughter has a new obsession—me.
On paper, my job is easy. Go in, do their bedrooms, and leave.
In theory, I’m spending eight hours a day with a guarded, sexy as hell guy, and I’m staying for dinner more often than I’m eating it alone, on my couch, with Friends re-runs.
I shouldn’t be staying for dinner. I shouldn’t be helping him out with the twins. I shouldn’t be falling in love with tiny toes and dimpled cheeks.
And I most definitely should not be kissing my client.
Oops…
“I swear, messing with me is your new favorite hobby.”
“It is,” he admitted, eyes sparkling. “You’re so easy to mess with, I don’t even have to try.”
I rolled my eyes. “And to think—I let myself be guilt-tripped into this.”
“More fool you. I warned you about her, and you obviously didn’t listen.”
“That’s so not fair. I did listen, I just don’t have freaky skills to avoid the guilt like you do.”
“I don’t avoid the guilt. I pretend.”
“Would you have pretended if you were me, knowing you’d leave a poor guy to be lonely?”
He raised his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t have been lonely. I’d have watched TV with my pants off.”
“You don’t get to use my plans as an excuse,” I scoffed. “And unless your daughter is a master manipulator, you would have been lonely.”
“She’s four. All four-year-olds are master manipulators. If kids came with manuals, that would be the title of the chapter that talks about age four,” he said.
“There are technically manuals. They’re these wonderful, futuristic things called books.”
“None of which are geared toward a single dad,” he pointed out. “The last time I Googled something, I diagnosed Eli with a rare, deadly disease, learned that there are way too many styles of braid for any human being to master, and also found out how to get the kids out of the door by eight and have time to do my make-up.”
I paused. “I can see how that last one would be of use to you. Your mascara looks wonderful today.”
By day, New York Times and USA Today bestselling New Adult author Emma Hart dons a cape and calls herself Super Mum to two beautiful little monsters. By night, she drops the cape, pours a glass of whatever she fancies—usually wine—and writes books.
Emma is working on Top Secret projects she will share with her followers and fans at every available opportunity. Naturally, all Top Secret projects involve a dashingly hot guy who likes to forget to wear a shirt, a sprinkling (or several) of hold-onto-your-panties hot scenes, and a whole lotta love.
She likes to be busy—unless busy involves doing the dishes, but that seems to be when all the ideas come to life.
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