Fixed Infatuation

  Contents

  Copyright

  OTHER WORKS BY STACY

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgements

  Fixed Infatution

  Stacy Borel

  Copyright © 2018

  Cover Design by Hart and Bailey Design Co.

  Interior Design by Kassi Snider of Formatting by KassiJean

  Editing by Emily Lawrence

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only licensed authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction have been used without permission. The use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  OTHER WORKS BY STACY

  To my three children.

  This is for you.

  I hope someday you look at me and see that with enough dedication and hard work, the sky is the limit.

  Molly

  “THE HOUSE IS ABSOLUTELY perfect, Melonie. We have found our winner.”

  Melonie, my realtor, was currently gaping at me. “Really? Even with the cupboards falling off?”

  I paused to glance in the direction of the kitchen. “Yep. Even with the mustard yellow Formica. Now let’s put in an offer.”

  She closed her mouth and her throat bobbed. “If you’re sure, I can head to the office now and write up the paperwork for you to sign this evening if you’d like.”

  I nodded. “Sounds good.”

  Poor woman couldn’t wipe the perplexed look off her face. She started for the front entry, then paused. “I just have to ask.” She cleared her throat. “Why now? Why this one? I mean, it has only one requirement that you had on your list, and well, uh… I just don’t understand.”

  I tried to hide my smile. Unfortunately for Melonie, when I came rolling into town, I don’t think she had any clue what she was in for. I’d spoken with her over the phone for almost a month prior to my arrival and we exchanged information. She knew what I was looking for and based off that list, she compiled homes that were on the market to show me. And while she was right, this home only had the three bedrooms I wanted but nothing else, I couldn’t express the way the home made me feel the moment I’d walked through the door. It was as if someone sprung me back in time during my childhood years and I was standing in my grandparents’ home for the summer time. I could replace ugly countertops and dingy carpets, but I couldn’t replace the sensation of comfort. I’d eventually give the house a facelift, but for now I just knew I wanted it.

  I smiled. “Call it a hunch.”

  I didn’t feel like telling her I used to come to this area every year to be with my family. Family that had long since passed. She didn’t need to know little details about me. Nobody did. Melonie only needed to know my budget and that she was going to get a paycheck when all was said and done.

  “A hunch,” she repeated, raising her perfectly sculpted brow. “Okay, well, I’ll give you a call to let you know when I have the offer ready.”

  “Sounds good.” I shifted my weight to one leg.

  “Erm, well, if you want to take another look around, here’s the key.” She held her hand out, palm up. “Just slip it into the lock box when you leave.”

  I took the silver object and gripped it in my hand. I felt the need to say more to her, especially considering I’d really put her through the ringer. We’d seen no less than forty homes and expanded my search as far as twenty-five miles. I really liked quite a few of the places we’d seen, and I was even ready to settle on one because I no longer cared to live in a motel. Fifty-one days of a squeaky spring mattress, the same clam chowder from Big Fat Smitty’s next to my living quarters, and the marijuana shack down the street, I couldn’t deal any more than she could.

  “Thanks again,” I called to her as she shut the front door.

  Well, this was it. The start of my new life. My eyes spanned the living room. Right now, I wasn’t concerned with the puke green tiles in my master bathroom. I wasn’t bothered in the least by the god-awful wallpaper in the dining room. And I could live with the shed that was falling apart in the backyard, if it would all be mine. I’d make it my own, and I’d treat it with tenderness and love. My favorite part about the whole place was the picture window that faced the stunning view of the bay. Summer was approaching. It was the most amazing time to be in the Washington Peninsula. The constant overcast and rain that plagued this area was cheered up by bright white clouds and sunshine. Granted, it wasn’t exactly warm, but when you miss sun so many months out of the year, you’re willing to take anything the bright yellow thing in the sky is willing to give.

  I’d start small. Remodel one room at a time and live in the rest. Homes weren’t exactly cheap here, but I was a decent writer who made decent money. Plus, I had my mother’s limited inheritance. The house would eat up a good chunk of my savings, but if I tried to do a lot of the work myself, I could save some pennies and not have to mess with a contractor. Everything was on YouTube these days. I’d just seen a woman tell her story of building her own five-bedroom home from the ground up without the least bit of knowledge on construction. If she could do it, so could I. Tutorials would be my friend.

  I closed my eyes and breathed in all the musty air I could. This will be okay. I can do this.

  A door slamming shut brought me out of my reverie and my attention to the neighbor across the street. A man, who appeared to be tallish, with broad shoulders, a filthy gray T-shirt and jeans stood with his back to me as he checked his mailbox. His jeans were as dirty as his shirt. It looked like he’d washed his clothes in a mud pit. Curiously I watched as he sorted through whatever he’d received. My brows came together when I saw him crumple a few stray papers and toss them on the ground haphazardly. I looked around to see if anybody else had seen him do it.

  “Seriously, dude?” I grumbled.

  I squinted against the light as he walked up his driveway and unlocked the side door to his house. Before he stepped inside, he looked directly across the street, saw my car in the driveway, and then at me. My God, he was good-looking. Short, messy brown hair, dark eyes I could only assume were brown from this distance, and high cheek bones. His face had a shadow of a beard, but his profile was perfection. If he was this good-looking absolutely filthy, I bet he was as nice as a shiny new Benz all cleaned up. While part of me was tempted to step away from the window and hide like I’d been caught creeping, I chose to stay and not stray from th
e eyes that were glaring at me.

  I felt like I was creeping but, I wasn’t entirely positive he could see me through the reflection on the glass. Whoever he was, his broody dark look wasn’t straying, and he certainly didn’t seem to give a shit that he could be glaring at a stranger. I could’ve sworn I saw a small tilt of his head while he looked over here, but he suddenly twisted the knob on the door and disappeared into his house. Not even so much as a wave toward me. I guess I couldn’t bitch too much considering I hadn’t regarded him either, but where was his ‘welcome to the neighborhood’ spirit?

  I frowned. I hadn’t taken into consideration whether this neighborhood was in a safe area of Port Townsend. I was familiar with most of it, but I was a stickler for researching crime rates and looking at the sex offender registry. While I was a perfectly capable human being and could protect myself, I didn’t want any peeping Toms or perverts living near me. I moved away from the glass and told myself I needed to go back to my crap motel room and make sure Mr. Rude across the street wasn’t a psycho felon who liked little girls.

  As I walked outside, I paused before opening the door to my car. Glancing over my shoulder, I looked at the papers that were strewn about the ground. I was curious. Too curious. I wasn’t a fan of people throwing trash out and leaving it around to be blown about or left to make the yard ugly. Not that his yard was ugly. In fact, my mystery neighbor’s yard was immaculate. Grass was cut, bright green, edged, and the bushes were clearly trimmed to perfection. He must have a landscaper. But why have such a beautiful yard and destroy it with your trash?

  I looked both ways, ensuring nobody was coming, and crossed the street. As I was bending down, I peered up at the light green house and hoped he wasn’t watching me pick up his mail. The curtains were drawn, with no lights around their edges. I snatched up the crumpled paper as quickly as I could and scampered back across the street and into my car. In the safety of my vehicle, I tried to catch my breath.

  Wow, that was exhilarating.

  I needed to get out more if I felt like picking up garbage off the street was the most excitement I’d seen in a while. I took mental note to try and find something fun to do that didn’t include street cleaning. Looking down at the white wad on my passenger seat, I started to reach over and smooth out the creases in the paper. I just wanted to take a glance. My writer’s brain was coming to life with all sorts of stories about the mystery man and why this envelope was tossed to the curb. But before I got full view of any information, motion behind me caught my eye. The man had opened his curtains and was looking across the street, right at me. Jesus, his stare was intimidating. The paper would have to wait. I had no idea if he’d seen me snatch up his mail and he was planning on coming out here to yell at me, or if he was checking if my car was still sitting in the ‘For Sale’ house driveway.

  Either way, it was time to go.

  The drive back was short and sweet, but it gave me time to think. I wondered if I could ask Melonie to cut the usual thirty to forty-five days the house is under contract so I could possibly move in quicker. Not that I didn’t love the winding roads through the evergreens. I often drove with my windows down just so I could smell pine. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to it. Fresh trees and salty air from the ocean. It was pretty incredible. My mom would say, ‘Molly, this is God’s country.’ But these days, I didn’t believe in God much. I didn’t believe in a whole lot of things except what I made happen on my own.

  As I parked in front of my craptastic motel door, room 105, I almost forgot to grab the little treasure of my curiosity before I climbed out. Unlocking the door, I turned on the lights and tossed my purse on the table by the window. Drawing the curtains closed, I made a quick call to the front desk to see if I had any messages. Apparently my agent, Sandra, had called me half a dozen times. Great. I bet the publishing house was getting anxious and wondering when they were going to see the next book from me. We’d queried a new series a few months ago and they’d put me on a tight deadline. I suppose I should be thanking them that they gave me a two-week extension, due to my mother passing away.

  Thanks a fucking lot!

  I grabbed my phone out of my bag and turned it on. Sandra hated it when I did that, but I didn’t feel like getting a million calls from her while I was trying to focus on real life stuff. Finding a house was priority number one when I moved to Washington. Writing took a backseat and only filled my evenings when I wasn’t too tired, or spaced out watching Sex in the City reruns.

  The line rang one time before the familiar raspy voice sounded on the other end.

  “Woman, I swear you shut your phone off one more time, I’m going to fly there and gut you. You know that makes me completely mental. I can’t be dealing with this stress.”

  I smiled. Her words may sound harsh to most, but I knew she meant them with love. “Sounds like you’ve missed me today.”

  “Is that what this is? I’m going to have to go see my doctor again so he can adjust my blood pressure medicine with what you’re putting me through.”

  “You’re too young to be on blood pressure meds.”

  She scoffed. “Huh, you think so? I’m thirty-eight, I smoke two packs a day, and I eat like a bird. My last lover said he couldn’t pound me like he really wanted to because he was afraid he’d snap me in half. The one before that said I was so focused on my work I started calling him by my clients’ names. You’re not helping matters when you shut off your cell phone.”

  Sighing, I felt bad, I really did. I knew I wasn’t the only person she worked with. And I wasn’t the only one who provided a bit of a challenge either. But we’d become very close friends over the last two years and I loved how hard she worked for me.

  “Okay, okay, no more shutting off the world. Besides, I have good news.”

  I heard the flicker of a lighter and knew she was outside smoking. “Did you find your mansion by the sea?”

  “Sorta.” I cringed a little. “More like a work in progress.”

  “Does that mean my guest quarters aren’t up to par?”

  “That depends on what you find livable.”

  She coughed. “Molly, if there aren’t fresh sheets and working plumbing, I’ll be staying at the closest Holiday Inn.”

  Sheets I could do. The plumbing, I wasn’t so sure about. I probably should’ve checked on that. I got up and reached for a piece of paper and pen to jot down a note to ask Melonie about the house’s pipes. I pulled out the paper that was on top, which ended up being the crumpled broody neighbor’s mail.

  “I’ll make sure it’s taken care of. Just don’t be so judgy, okay?”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the paper. Sitting back down on the bed, I grabbed my laptop.

  “I’m not going to judge. I’m just trying to make sure my basic necessities are covered. Will I at least have cell service?”

  I booted up and tried to keep up the conversation. “Yes, you’ll have cell service. I’ll get the internet company out first thing.”

  She sucked in, then blew out a large puff of smoke. “Well, I’ve already booked my flight. I’ll be there next month. Think you can live without me for a little bit longer?”

  Grinning, I said, “It’ll be a struggle, but I think I’ll make it.”

  I finally got a moment to look at the name on the envelope. The man’s perfect profile popped into my head and I tried to imagine who he was. Was he a fish packer, down by the docks? Or possibly one of those woodsmen who hiked into the forest to chop down trees? Seemed a little caveman, but you never know. Based on his clothing, I wouldn’t peg him as a business man. My brain was at war with itself. One side saying I was being a nosy neighbor, the epitome of the type of person I hated living by, while the other side said I was simply satisfying a curiosity and I meant no harm. All I wanted was a name.

  A name I plan to search for relentlessly on Google.

  And there it was. In bold, New Times Roman font in the middle of the envelope. Mr. Blake Whitmore. A name I’d come
across a handful of times in my life. Blake was a strong name, although common. I said it in my head a few times and decided, the neighbor did in fact look like a Blake.

  Blake Whitmore.

  Seemed normal enough. Now who was he?

  “Hello? Did you lose me?” Sandra’s irritated voice sounded through the phone.

  “Huh? Oh, sorry. I spaced out, I guess.”

  “You guess? What was it this time, another story come to you?”

  I chuckled. “I don’t think so. Well, maybe. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “If the man across the street is a psycho pedophile.”

  There was a pause of silence. “You know, sometimes I’m not so sure about you.”

  “No, seriously.” I tried not to laugh. “There’s a guy I saw today. He lives in the house across the street and he seemed kind of sketchy.”

  “Molly, I’m not sure what your mother taught you about safety and stranger danger, but if you think someone is sketchy, you don’t go moving into a house right next to them.”

  “It’s not that he seemed dangerous, just more”—I tried to find the right adjective—“cranky.”

  Sandra was the type of woman who had a resting bitch face, wrinkles around her mouth from smoking and frown lines on her forehead from stress. Right now I was envisioning her sitting on the patio of a restaurant in downtown Boston while speaking to me and glaring at passersby. Not because they’d done anything to aggravate her, but because that was her face, and she didn’t understand me in the least.

  “Did you even speak to the man?”

  “No, not exactly. He just… looked at me oddly.”

  “Maybe you’re the odd one in this situation, Molly.”

  “That’s a possibility. Anyway, I have a question for you. What do you think of the name Blake Whitmore?”

  “Sounds normal… middle class American.”

  Interesting. “I suppose it does. Maybe even boring, but the man didn’t look boring.”

  “Wait a second.” Sandra paused. “I thought you said you didn’t speak to him.”