Hooking a Handyman Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

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  a sweet romantic comedy

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  Released titles include:

  Falling for her Foe: A is for Author

  Besting the Undercover Boss: B is for Billionaire

  Catching her Cowboy Crush: C is for Cowboy

  Dreaming of the Next Door Doc: D is for Doctor

  Embracing her Ever After: E is for Engineer

  Falling for a Former Flame: F is for Firefighter

  Gambling on a Gentleman: G is for Gentleman

  Hooking a Handyman: H is for Handyman

  Chapter 1

  Zoey Williamson hoisted the second of her two overstuffed suitcases onto the bed, yanking at the zipper. Stupid thing always got stuck. When the suitcase finally fell open, Zoey sighed. The tiny closet in the tiny guest bedroom at the front of her grandmother’s house was not going to accommodate all these clothes. She looked out the window and down the familiar driveway to the street, where half an hour before, she’d tipped and said goodbye to her Uber driver. When he’d pulled up to the house, nostalgia had overwhelmed Zoey and she’d nearly leaped from the car, but staring at her too-full suitcase, spilling jeans and dresses onto the bed, her exuberance faded. Nana’s house held so many memories, most of them happy. It was the house her mother had grown up in, the house Zoey had visited as a child every Christmas and every July. Coming to visit this time should have felt like a happy homecoming. Instead, it felt like a manifestation of her failure.

  Well. That wasn’t entirely true. Zoey was happy to be visiting—scratch that—living with her grandmother. She’d been the obvious choice to move to L.A. while Nana recovered from her stroke. Her parents were in Illinois where her Dad was still working, and her Mom was busy being grandma to Zoey’s niece and nephew while simultaneously functioning as primary caregiver to Zoey’s other grandparents. Even though Zoey had to upend her life in Chicago and move halfway across the country, it was easier for her than anyone else.

  Still, she could have done without her mother’s parting shot. “Really, Zoey, you don’t have anything tying you down. No family, not even a boyfriend.”

  Mom had at least softened the blow with an encouraging hug and the optimistic suggestion that she might “meet someone” while she was in California. Taking a three-month vacation from the industry you’ve fought to be a part of for years? Who cares? There are new men in California! All sacrifices are worth it!

  “If this is one of your ploys to get me married, it isn’t going to work,” Zoey had told her mother, though even if she’d never admit it out loud, she wouldn’t mind a little bit of casual California dating. Nothing serious, of course. Not unless she found someone who loved frigid, snow-filled winters like she did. Her mom might have been a California girl growing up, but Zoey was a Chicagoan through and through.

  Even work had made it easy on Zoey; the station where she’d anchored the morning news for the past two years had recently gone belly-up, leaving her and all of her co-workers trying to find a new foothold in the competitive Chicago market. But rumors had been circulating for months that the evening news anchor on Channel 4—a bigger and better station—was getting ready to retire and so Zoey had opted to take her time in committing to something new. It was a long shot for Zoey to even dream of the job. She was too young. Too inexperienced. But there was also talk that the dying network news industry needed fresh faces to stay relevant, to connect with younger viewers. What was she if not a fresh face?

  Still, sitting around Chicago doing nothing, waiting for a rumored retirement to happen so she could swoop in and claim the job had proven worse than Zoey had anticipated. In the end, she hadn’t been all that hard to convince to take a little break in Los Angeles. It helped that her grandmother was quite possibly her favorite person on the planet.

  Zoey glanced around the rest of the small room. The dresser in the corner might hold her pajamas and underwear, but her jeans, her shoes…they’d have to stay in the suitcase. Or maybe she could buy some sort of shelving unit to push into the bottom of the closet space? Shelving would definitely help.

  Zoey’s need for organization was important enough to override her ineptitude when it came to anything like home improvement. And IKEA wasn’t that far away. She had a master’s degree; she was smart enough to follow a set of IKEA instructions.

  Zoey crossed the tiny hallway into her grandmother’s living room, where Nana sat in a recliner, her home health aide, Cassandra, sitting beside her. Cassandra had given Zoey quite the education when she’d first arrived, detailing all of the ways in which Zoey would need to watch out for Nana.

  “Ms. Emily,” Cassandra had said, “does not like that she has lost so much of her independence. She will try and do all kinds of things she isn’t ready to do yet. She’ll tell you she’s ready to try walking on her own, when really, she needs to be working on holding a fork. You have to be firm with her.” Cassandra had glanced at Nana then, who had rolled her eyes. “Whatever you do, don’t leave her alone.”

  Not leaving Nana alone had sounded intimidating at first; Zoey had some savings, but she’d assumed she’d have to get a part-time job to help cover her personal expenses for the duration of her stay. How would that ever work out if she couldn’t leave Nana’s side? But after seeing Cassandra’s schedule, it wasn’t nearly so overwhelming. Cassandra would be around every day until five. It was only evenings and weekends that Zoey was the primary caregiver.

  “Hey, Nana?” Zoey crouched in front of Nana’s chair. “I’m going to run down to IKEA and pick up some shelves for my closest. Do you mind?”

  Nana smiled. “Too many shoes?” Her words held a slight slur, and it took her longer to get them all out, but her eyes were bright and sharp, which went a long way to ease the pain Zoey felt in her chest whenever she thought too hard about Nana’s stroke. They were lucky, the doctors had said. She would likely make a full recovery, regaining the abilities she had lost with time and intentional therapy. It could have been so much worse.

  “You know me,” Zoey said. “I shouldn’t be gone long. Less than an hour.”

  “In and out of IKEA in less than an hour?” Cassandra said, raising her eyebrows. “That’s straight crazy talk.”

  Nana smiled, the lines around her eyes deepening into wrinkles. She reached out and squeezed Zoey’s hand. “No need. I thought of your shoes.” Nana’s words were slurred to the point of being garbled, Zoey only just making out what she said. Nana took a deep breath, her jaw set, before trying again. This time, her words came out a little clearer. “Harry will be here tomorrow to put up shelves.”

  “Harry?” Zoey asked. She hated how hard it was for Nana to communicate, though Cassandra had promised it would get better with every passing day.

  “My handyman,” Nana said.

  “Oh.” Nana had a handyman? “Well, I guess that’s great then.”

  Nana raised h
er eyebrows suggestively. “I told you about Harry. Remember? You stick around when he comes.” She glanced at Cassandra and smiled. “He’s very handsome. Perfect for my Zoey. He doesn’t have a fancy job, but he does honest work. That matters.” She squeezed Zoey’s hand one more time then dropped it, relaxing her head back onto her chair and closing her eyes.

  Zoey thought back through the many conversations she’d had with her grandmother in the past few months. They talked almost every Sunday; that was a lot of conversations. She’d often mentioned men of her acquaintance she thought Zoey should date; the divorced son of one friend, the grad student nephew of another. It’s possible she’d also mentioned her handyman, though Zoey didn’t have any specific memories.

  It was possible Nana had just been talking to Mom about Harry the Handyman. Those two had endless conversations about Zoey’s waning marriageability with each passing year. Nana wasn’t as vocal about it to Zoey, but only because she was more tactful, not because she worried any less.

  If talking didn’t require so much effort, Zoey was positive Nana would be reminding her now, detailing a long list of all the admirable qualities the handyman possessed, right down to his annual income and the presence or lack of a 401k. That’s just the way Nana rolled. She never pestered people for the details of their lives, but they frequently volunteered the information on their own. Nana just got people. Understood them. She had this easy way about her that encouraged people to trust her, to let her into their lives in personal ways.

  Which made Zoey suddenly worried. “Nana, did you say something about me to your handyman?”

  Nana cracked open one eyeball, then shut it again, tilting her head to the side as if feigning sleep.

  Cassandra chuckled. “I’d watch out if I were you. She’ll have your first date planned before you can say IKEA.”

  The next morning, Zoey had almost forgotten the handyman was coming to install shelves. Not so much that she hadn’t taken a few extra minutes getting dressed, making sure her dark brown hair was a little more tamed than usual. She wasn’t expecting much; she didn’t know much about what constituted “very handsome” for Nana. The handyman could be balding and pushing forty. But just in case, she had at least wanted to feel good about her appearance. With her hair finally managed, she forgot all about it and tackled the rest of her to-do list.

  Zoey pushed into her bedroom, a bag of toiletries in her hand, and yelped when she saw a man in her closet.

  Her hand flew to her mouth, silencing her, but not before Harry the Handyman—because obviously it was the handyman and not some random stranger in her closet—jumped, knocking his head on one of the shelves he’d recently installed.

  “I’m so sorry,” Zoey said. “I forgot you were coming. I didn’t expect—”

  The man turned around and Zoey’s words froze in her throat. She knew Harry the Handyman’s face. Everyone knew his face. She closed her eyes for one heartbeat, then two, then turned and walked from the room, closing the door carefully behind her.

  No.

  It couldn’t be.

  Forcing a long breath in through her nose, then out through her mouth, Zoey opened her bedroom door one more time. The handyman faced her now, rubbing a blossoming goose egg on his forehead. He smiled when she met his gaze. “Hi?” he said, his voice a question. Why was his Hi a question?

  Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

  Zoey closed the door again, backtracking to the living room where Nana sat watching television. She perked up. “Did you meet Harry?”

  Zoey sat down on the sofa, angling herself to face Nana instead of the TV. “Nana. Why is Harrison Beckford installing shelves in my bedroom?”

  Her brow furrowed. “Who?”

  “Harrison freaking Beckford.”

  “No, Zoey. Harry is installing shelves. Harry. The handyman.”

  “Your handyman is Harrison Beckford?”

  She looked at Cassandra and shrugged. “I suppose he could be. He’s always been Harry to me.”

  “Who is Harrison Beckford?” Cassandra asked.

  How two women could live in the US, in Southern California, and not know who Harrison Beckford was, Zoey had no idea. His home renovation show was based in L.A., and it was all over cable television. The oldest seasons were free on Netflix. Home improvement stores were full of his brand. He had a line of tools, a line of home décor. He was literally everywhere.

  And now he was in Zoey’s closet.

  Shaking her head, Zoey grabbed the remote from the coffee table and flipped to the home and garden channel that aired Right-On Renovations. She’d put money on reruns being on. Sure enough, it was only a matter of seconds before Harrison’s face filled the screen, explaining the steps he was planning to take to rip yellowing subway tile out of someone’s dated kitchen.

  Nana scoffed. “That’s not Harry.”

  Zoey looked to Cassandra for confirmation, but she only shrugged. “It is too Harry,” Zoey said. “It’s totally him. How did you even meet him, Nana?”

  Nana shifted, peering at the television with squinted eyes. “He grew up around the block. He’s been cutting my grass and doing odd jobs since he was fifteen.”

  Zoey froze. “That was Harrison Beckford? The gangly kid with the shaggy hair that always mowed your lawn?”

  Nana smiled. “You remember him.”

  Cassandra laughed softly. “I thought he looked familiar. You just don’t think you’re seeing people from the TV when they walk in the back door all casual-like.”

  Zoey leaned back in her chair. “Have you never asked him about his work? The fact that he’s a nationally known TV star has never come up?”

  “Why would it come up? He’s a handyman. That’s his work,” Nana said.

  “Technically, she’s right.”

  The three women turned to see Harrison standing in the living room entry, a sheepish expression on his face.

  “Harry,” Nana said. “What is all this nonsense about you being on TV? Is it true?”

  Harrison moved across the small room and leaned over Nana, placing a small kiss on her cheek. “I’ve got to pay the bills somehow, Ms. Emily. To be honest, I thought you knew.”

  The man was clearly at ease in Nana’s presence, though of course he would be if he’d been helping her out since high school. He didn’t look that old, but his show had been on the air at least five or six years. He had to be close to thirty.

  He turned and looked at Zoey. “Sorry for startling you earlier.”

  “It’s my fault,” she said. “I knew you were coming over. I mean, I didn’t know you were coming over. Just that someone, some not-famous someone, was coming.” She swallowed. “Sorry. You probably hate it when people make a big deal out of it.” She took another deep breath. She’d needed a lot of those lately. She stood up and smoothed her hands down the legs of her jeans before extending her hand. “I’m Zoey.”

  Harrison’s handshake was firm and warm, and awareness stirred in Zoey’s gut. He really was handsome. “My friends call me Harry.”

  “Harry, then.” Was he holding her hand a beat longer than normal?

  “Come on,” he said, finally releasing her hand. It was definitely a longer than normal handshake. “Your closet is finished. Want to see it?”

  Zoey smiled. “Lead the way.”

  She waited for Harry to leave the living room before glancing over her shoulder at Nana and Cassandra who both watched, matching grins on their faces. “Oh my gosh,” Zoey mouthed silently, before following People magazine’s “hottest home renovator to ever hit television” out of the room.

  Chapter 2

  Harry walked toward the bedroom, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Zoey was following him. Zoey was . . . not what he had expected. Ms. Emily had shown him a photo of her big city news anchor granddaughter—some sort of promotional shot with her news team—and she’d looked professional and . . . stiff? Was that the right word? Or just, helmet-haired and blazered? She’d been attractive in the photo, sure, but
she almost didn’t seem like a real person.

  This woman seemed so casual. So unaffected. She was beautiful, but not in that L.A. try-hard way, with the tall heels and hours’ worth of makeup and teeny tiny dresses. With his semi-celebrity status, he got that a lot. So much trying. So many women that looked like they’d walked right out of a fashion magazine but didn’t have a goal or a dream in their heads aside from looking great. He imagined his stereotyping probably did a disservice to the women he was so quick to categorize; he liked to believe everyone had a little bit of depth to them. But why did it feel like everyone was so afraid of showing it?

  Dating was exhausting. Dating with his schedule in a city like L.A.? Pretty much impossible.

  Harry stopped outside the tiny closet in Ms. Emily’s front bedroom. He’d filled half of the bottom section with shelves that would accommodate shoes, jeans, whatever Zoey decided to stack. On the other half he’d installed a second hanging rack. He opened the doors fully and grabbed his level off the top shelf before backing out of the way.

  “I know it’s tough when you don’t have a lot of space to work with, but hopefully the shelves will help,” he said.

  Zoey studied the closet. “This is perfect. Truly.”

  “Awesome.” Harry turned behind him and gathered up a few more tools that he’d used in the installation and dropped them into his tool bag.

  “I remember you cutting Nana’s grass when I was a kid. I mean, not you, specifically. I just remember a skinny kid with a lot of hair. I’m assuming that was you? Have you really been helping out my grandma since then?” Zoey asked.

  Harry hooked his thumbs over his jean pockets. “My hair was ridiculous in high school so I’m sure you’re remembering me. I didn’t come as much while I was in college, but yeah. Ms. Emily has always been good to me.”

  Zoey raised her eyebrows, a confused look on her face. “Really?”

  Harry shrugged. “High school was—” He paused. He couldn’t really explain without getting too personal. “Let’s just say that when things were tough, Ms. Emily kept me busy. She kept calling me, giving me random odd jobs to do around the house. It was stuff she didn’t actually need. I repainted walls that were already painted, reinforced fences that didn’t need reinforcing. But she knew I needed the work. Ultimately, all the things I did for her helped me decide what I wanted to do career-wise. Helping her out now is the least I can do.”