Free Paris Rose by Dawn Douglas

 
    “What the hell...?”
    Nick Rawlinson gazed from his family room window in disbelief at the house next door. He’d assumed some company specializing in home renovations had purchased the ramshackle old place with the crumbling front steps and the sagging roof. Apparently not. Two men were scuttling back and forth up the front path, burdened with a sage green loveseat, a flat screen television, a sleek black desk. But it wasn’t the sight of the furniture that had Nick rattled, it was the woman in tight blue jeans and high heels, clutching a small dog and giving the men directions.
    She was his ex-wife.
    Disbelief turned slowly to anger. What the hell was she playing at?
    He slammed down his beer and made for the door, wrenching it open and striding across the lawn. She looked up, their gazes collided and Nick faltered. He clenched his fists furiously—the divorce had been final for a year, and still those big gray eyes made him come slightly undone, made him forget who and where he was. Grimacing, he continued his approach.
    “Would you like to tell me what the hell is going on, Lucy?”
    “Isn’t it obvious?”
    “You’ve bought this house?” He gestured at the sad little ranch.
    “I must have, because that’s my furniture being taken inside.”
    “Have you lost your mind?”
    Something like hurt flashed in her eyes, and the little dog snarled at Nick and began to struggle in her arms.
    “Now you’ve frightened Dexter,” she said reproachfully.
    “Screw Dexter!” he spat. “I don’t want to live next door to you.”
    “Well, that’s just tough, isn’t it? I haven’t broken any laws. And if it makes you feel any better, I don’t plan on staying here long.”
    “That’s something, I suppose.”
    She stared at him for a moment, as if she’d run out of words. Nick wanted to turn away but was rooted to the spot, remembering how much he’d once loved her.
    In the end it was Lucy who abruptly turned away. She thanked the moving men, tipped them, and stomped into the house. Still Nick stood there, staring at the way her blonde curls bounced on her shoulders, and at her behind, round and sweet, filling her jeans to perfection. She tossed him a glance, then slammed the door shut.
    ****
    Lucy covered her mouth with one hand, trying to calm herself down. How could it have come to this? Four years ago they’d been the happiest couple on the planet. Now Nick looked at her with sheer hatred.
    She lowered Dexter onto the grubby oatmeal carpet and slowly looked around, wondering if she was making a terrible mistake. She’d told everyone she planned on living in number 78 Meadowlark Drive for no more than a year while she renovated the property, which she’d been able to purchase at practically a giveaway price. A lot of the work she’d do herself—lay wood floors, strip the dingy wallpaper, scrape off the popcorn ceiling—and the rest she’d hire contractors to deal with. It was a great plan. But Lucy wanted much more than a lucrative sale at the end of the year. She wanted her ex-husband back.
    She wrinkled her nose as she toured the house. It stank of mothballs and mildew as if the windows hadn’t been opened in decades. Miss Norwood, a retired librarian, had kept cats, too—lots of cats. Lucy remembered them from when she’d lived next door with Nick, always peering from the windows. All those kitties probably had something to do with the smell, too.
    Apparently the old lady had been perfectly content with a shabby brown kitchen and avocado fridge. As the kitchen cabinets loomed around her, dark and menacing, Lucy felt suddenly overwhelmed with misery. She wasn’t taking on a wonderful challenge—she was making an absurd mistake. Had she been high on something when she’d imagined she could whip this hovel into an airy, desirable residence while at the same time winning back her ex? The chances of her achieving either of those goals were slim to none.
    “What have I done?” she whispered to