I'm Ivy Clarke. Bartender, best friend, and disbeliever in love.And now I'm in over my head, trying to flip a house all by myself.Thanks, HGTV.I'm not too proud to admit I need some help. Too bad the only one who can help me is the same man I want to throw out this house's second-story window.Jackson Gamble and I can't be in the same room together for more than a minute without devolving into a sparring match.Except for that one time…But enough about that. Jackson's looking for forever, and I don't believe in love, remember?Get in. Renovate. Get out. Keep my heart firmly in tact.Because it's much easier to fix up a house than a broken heart.Full of humor and dripping with delicious tension, Nailed It proves that every heart can be ready for a little rehabilitation, if only you're willing to open it up.
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Jackson wandered around the corner—apparently, he couldn’t wait fifteen minutes to argue more with me. Seriously, the guy could start an argument in an empty house. He lifted the mini-notebook that was forever tucked into his back pocket. “Thought you might need the measurements.”
Damn. He came for a nice reason, which made me the jerk. I told myself to force out the words I knew I should say—words that didn’t come easy, yet I’d used them quite often on him lately. “Thank you.” I extended my hand. “Tape measure, please.”
He placed it in my hand, his fingers brushing my palm, and then I was back to thinking about them on my thigh.
I bent to measure the vanity.
“That one?” he asked, all incredulous-like.
I fired a few eye daggers over my shoulder, and Jackson clamped his mouth shut. For two seconds.
“I mean, looks like a great vanity. The measurements are usually on the box. And by usually I mean always.”
I tucked the edge of the yellow tape on one corner and ran it across the length of the top. “I prefer the hands-on method.”
“Oh, I know.” He swiped his hand across the stripe of skin between my shirt and the back of my pants, and I fought to act unaffected. With him it was all heat, the angry I’m-gonna-lose-my-temper kind one second, and then the I’m-so-turned-on-I’m-going-to-jump-you-in-public kind the next.
“It’s just that…” He settled his hand on the small of my back. “I’m sure that’s going to be too big. Even if it technically fits, it’ll look cramped in that tiny downstairs bathroom. If I were allowed to give my opinion, I’d say you should stick with a pedestal sink.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re allowed to give your opinions.”
“Am I?”
I straightened and spun to face him, the whir of the tape measure retracting ending with a loud pop. “It would make it easier if they were the same as mine, but I realize that’s beyond unrealistic when it comes to you and me.”
He hadn’t moved his hand away when I’d turned around, and now it was on my hip, radiating heat. “And tell me…?” The swipe of his thumb just under the hem of my shirt sent my hormones into overdrive. “How bored do you get with all the guys who agree with you?”
I opened my mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it. “Depends.” Great come back, Ivy.
Bored was one thing I’d never been with Jackson around. I just wasn’t sure semi-irritated-and-constantly-turned-on was the gold standard.
Cindi Madsen is a USA Today bestselling author of contemporary romance and young adult novels. She sits at her computer every chance she gets, plotting, revising, and falling in love with her characters. Sometimes it makes her a crazy person. Without it, she’d be even crazier. She has way too many shoes, but can always find a reason to buy a pretty new pair, especially if they’re sparkly, colorful, or super tall. She loves music and dancing and wishes summer lasted all year long. She lives in Colorado (where summer is most definitely NOT all year long) with her husband and three children.
You can visit Cindi at: www.cindimadsen.com, where you can sign up for her newsletter to get all the up-to-date information on her books.
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