Extreme Love Makeover
“What a stupid hunk of junk!” I slapped my palm against the leather-wrapped wheel and jammed the stick in park when my truck refused to move another inch. “Oooh, I ought to trade you in for a foreign model. Built tough my--”
I looked west, taking note of the black clouds rolling in off Lake Ontario. There wasn’t much time before the impending storm hit. A rumble of thunder echoed in the evening summer sky as I launched myself out of my not-so-trusty pickup, toolkit in hand. What I really wanted was a sledgehammer. Under normal circumstances, my truck and I had an “understanding.” But these weren’t normal circumstances, and I wasn’t in the mood to play let’s-find-the-part-that-didn’t-work.
As if sensing my current state of mind, Mother Nature decided to test me further. With a loud boom, the sky overhead opened up turning fat droplets of water into a downpour worthy of an ark. Through hot, sticky air and sheets of rain, I kicked the nearest tire with all my might.
“Damn!” Biting back a couple choice words, I limped to take a look under the hood. “This is unbelievable,” I breathed in frustration at the puzzle of mechanical guts staring up at me. My sopping-wet hair hung over my eyes. I swiped at the strands to clear my view, shooting droplets of water back into the air.
This had been the week from hell and I was running on sheer exhaustion. My own fault, I know. But as project manager and owner of Helping Homes, I had to be here in the heart of Cape Vincent. This was my reputation and truth be known, I kind of liked pushing myself this way. Although I hadn’t planned on “Freddie” (the name I christened my evil truck years ago) acting up, I should have known something would go wrong.
My head was anywhere but here, and I was beginning to think I’d left it back in the hospital room with my foreman. Jim had gotten seriously hurt when scaffolding collapsed right before lunch. After spending the afternoon in the hospital, all I wanted was a hot shower, a quick meal, and a glass of wine before curling under the covers with my tattered copy of Gone with the Wind. I liked to think of myself as a modern-day Scarlet O’Hara, strong, independent and willing to do whatever it took to achieve what I desired, except a newer truck.
I developed Helping Homes as a way to give back to the community and help people who didn’t have the means to help themselves. The projects my company took on tore at our heartstrings, making the results more meaningful every time. My family might not approve of my career choice, but after I’d failed at everything else, I believed this was what I was meant to do.
My company had travelled all over the northeast. I was both humbled and honored to be called back to the sweet, small town of Cape Vincent. This place had been my summer home growing up and I’d loved everything about it. When I was younger, I’d always thought I’d settle here. Funny how life throws curve balls when you least expect them.
“Excuse me, do you need some help?”
I froze. That voice could only belong to one person. The person who’d teased me relentlessly every summer for three years and proposed in every letter in between. The same person who’d haunted my dreams every day since I’d left.
I could never forget Mitchell Case.
“Mitch?” The words muffled within the patter of rain as I twisted from under the hood and stared at the drop-dead-gorgeous sight in front of me. I had to lean against old Freddie for support.
The guy was even more exquisite than I remembered. His dark hair appeared longer than the image I’d committed to memory and there seemed to be a hint of shadow across his jaw line. Who else but Mitch could look this good with aqua scrubs plastered to their skin?
“Yes?” His eyes narrowed through the driving rain as if he wasn’t quite sure who I was.
Then again, twelve years ago I didn’t look like a drowned rat, and my hair had been
“What a stupid hunk of junk!” I slapped my palm against the leather-wrapped wheel and jammed the stick in park when my truck refused to move another inch. “Oooh, I ought to trade you in for a foreign model. Built tough my--”
I looked west, taking note of the black clouds rolling in off Lake Ontario. There wasn’t much time before the impending storm hit. A rumble of thunder echoed in the evening summer sky as I launched myself out of my not-so-trusty pickup, toolkit in hand. What I really wanted was a sledgehammer. Under normal circumstances, my truck and I had an “understanding.” But these weren’t normal circumstances, and I wasn’t in the mood to play let’s-find-the-part-that-didn’t-work.
As if sensing my current state of mind, Mother Nature decided to test me further. With a loud boom, the sky overhead opened up turning fat droplets of water into a downpour worthy of an ark. Through hot, sticky air and sheets of rain, I kicked the nearest tire with all my might.
“Damn!” Biting back a couple choice words, I limped to take a look under the hood. “This is unbelievable,” I breathed in frustration at the puzzle of mechanical guts staring up at me. My sopping-wet hair hung over my eyes. I swiped at the strands to clear my view, shooting droplets of water back into the air.
This had been the week from hell and I was running on sheer exhaustion. My own fault, I know. But as project manager and owner of Helping Homes, I had to be here in the heart of Cape Vincent. This was my reputation and truth be known, I kind of liked pushing myself this way. Although I hadn’t planned on “Freddie” (the name I christened my evil truck years ago) acting up, I should have known something would go wrong.
My head was anywhere but here, and I was beginning to think I’d left it back in the hospital room with my foreman. Jim had gotten seriously hurt when scaffolding collapsed right before lunch. After spending the afternoon in the hospital, all I wanted was a hot shower, a quick meal, and a glass of wine before curling under the covers with my tattered copy of Gone with the Wind. I liked to think of myself as a modern-day Scarlet O’Hara, strong, independent and willing to do whatever it took to achieve what I desired, except a newer truck.
I developed Helping Homes as a way to give back to the community and help people who didn’t have the means to help themselves. The projects my company took on tore at our heartstrings, making the results more meaningful every time. My family might not approve of my career choice, but after I’d failed at everything else, I believed this was what I was meant to do.
My company had travelled all over the northeast. I was both humbled and honored to be called back to the sweet, small town of Cape Vincent. This place had been my summer home growing up and I’d loved everything about it. When I was younger, I’d always thought I’d settle here. Funny how life throws curve balls when you least expect them.
“Excuse me, do you need some help?”
I froze. That voice could only belong to one person. The person who’d teased me relentlessly every summer for three years and proposed in every letter in between. The same person who’d haunted my dreams every day since I’d left.
I could never forget Mitchell Case.
“Mitch?” The words muffled within the patter of rain as I twisted from under the hood and stared at the drop-dead-gorgeous sight in front of me. I had to lean against old Freddie for support.
The guy was even more exquisite than I remembered. His dark hair appeared longer than the image I’d committed to memory and there seemed to be a hint of shadow across his jaw line. Who else but Mitch could look this good with aqua scrubs plastered to their skin?
“Yes?” His eyes narrowed through the driving rain as if he wasn’t quite sure who I was.
Then again, twelve years ago I didn’t look like a drowned rat, and my hair had been
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