Sex for Beginners Box Set(2)

Being ignored.

The thought slid into her mind unbidden, and instantly she resisted it. She had been an integral part of Jason’s life, had helped him achieve his dreams—their dreams. She had been relevant. Perhaps Jason had fallen out of love with her, but he hadn’t ignored her.

Otherwise, how could she have been happy?

Frowning, Gemma turned away from the window and padded downstairs in search of something cool to drink. The kitchen was dark and hummed with electric white noise as the refrigerator labored to stay cool. The pungent smell of overripe fruit hung in the air. From a wire basket, Gemma picked a pear to munch on, then rummaged in the fridge, past Jason’s Red Bulls, for a bottle of tea.

While she drank and waited for the caffeine to kick in, Gemma mentally sifted through the things that had unraveled, things she needed to tend to. Sue was right about one thing—she had to find a job. She was more fortunate than most divorcées in the sense that in lieu of alimony Jason had paid off the house and her car, and left her with a small savings account. But she didn’t want to squander what money she had, and the house and car wouldn’t run on their own.

Besides, a job would help her to…rebuild. Reclaim. Renew. Her future could be waiting for her in the Help Wanted ads.

She pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, and swept her hair back into a ponytail. Then she unlocked the front door and walked barefoot out onto the covered porch. The light gray painted wood planks were gritty beneath the soles of her feet, the two chairs sitting next to a small table full of leaves and yard debris. Scooping up the rolled newspapers, she turned and tossed them inside. Then she surveyed the weedy, neglected yard that would have to wait until she addressed other items on her mounting to-do list.

How quickly things could go from neat and orderly to utterly out of control.

She walked to the mailbox and, at the curb, turned to take in the house next door. The faded yellow, two-story stucco structure with the red tiled roof and wrought-iron details was one of the last houses in the older, eclectic neighborhood to be rescued. She thought she remembered hearing that the house had been tied up in court, something to do with probate. If properly restored, it would be glorious, she decided, much more interesting than the sturdy but standard home that she and Jason had settled into.

The dark-haired handyman was nowhere to be seen, but his presence was evident. The For Sale sign was gone and two ladders leaned against the front of the house. A pressure washer and other equipment sat near the front door. She smiled, relieved that the house would finally receive the attention it deserved.

Her mailbox, labeled “Jason and Gemma White, 131 Petal Lagoon”—another artifact of the marriage to correct—was stuffed full of high-tech catalogues and news magazines that Jason liked to read. It was taking a while for his forwarding address to trickle down. She loaded her arm with the mail and flipped through it idly as she made her way back to the porch steps. Her hand stopped on a large brown envelope with the county’s return address. Walking inside, she closed the door behind her and dropped the rest of the mail on the kitchen table. With a sense of foreboding, she slid nervous fingers under the flap and pulled out a sheath of papers.

Final Judgment and Decree. Gemma swallowed hard and scanned the four short paragraphs that officially terminated her marriage.

“…it is decreed by the Court that the marriage contract heretofore entered into between the parties to this case, from and after this date, be and is set aside and dissolved as fully and effectually as if no such contract had ever been made or entered into…”

As if the marriage had never existed.

Her eyes watered, blurring the words. This was it then. Proof that the last ten years of her life hadn’t mattered. She’d assumed that she and Jason were years away from the menace of a midlife crisis, yet in less time than it had taken to plan her wedding, her marriage had disintegrated.

What now? she wondered, leaning into the granite counter, uncaring that the hard edge bit into her pelvic bone. TV therapists and girlfriend shows referred to breakups as a clean slate, a new chapter, a chance for a woman to find her authentic self.

But what if her authentic self was being Jason White’s wife?

It was a notion that she didn’t dare say aloud for fear that Oprah herself would appear on her doorstep. She knew that being absorbed into a man’s life was considered passé, but she couldn’t remember the person she’d been before Jason. She didn’t have a point of reference, a place of origin. She recalled only a vague sense of floating aimlessly before she’d moored herself to him.

He had been her first and only lover. He was all that she knew.

The sound of the doorbell pealed through the air, jangling her nerves. She frowned, wondering who could be visiting. Then, remembering what Sue had said about having company, her pulse picked up at the thought that it could be Jason. Had Sue been trying to forewarn her? Perhaps he’d received his copy of the final papers, too, and he’d reconsidered…

Gemma wiped at the wetness on her cheeks as she hurried through the foyer and was smiling when she opened the door.

But at the sight of the man standing on the threshold, her smile faltered.





2




THE SHOULDERS OF THE dark-haired handyman spanned the doorway. His hawkish features and long, work-muscled arms were coated with a layer of gray dust. A tiny gold loop hugged his earlobe, and a black tattoo extended below his right T-shirt sleeve. She put him in his late thirties, and was both taller and bulkier than he’d appeared from a distance. Chiding herself for not checking the peephole before opening the door, Gemma took a half step back. The man’s appearance made her suddenly realize how vulnerable she was here alone.

She had to start thinking like a single woman again.

“May I help you?” she asked, trying to sound firm.

“Sorry for the intrusion, Ms. Jacobs,” he said, his voice low and as smooth as her worn wood floors. Still, her throat contracted in alarm.

“How do you know my name?” Her maiden name…her old name…her new name as mandated by a formal order in the divorce papers.

“It’s on your mail,” he said, extending a white envelope. “I found this blowing around in my yard.”

She took the long envelope, feeling contrite. “Oh…I must have dropped it. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He nodded curtly and made a movement to go, but after her abrupt greeting, she felt compelled to reach out to him. “Did you say your yard?”

“I’ll be living in the house for about a month, until it’s ready for resale.”

So he was planning to turn a quick profit, then be on his way. “It’s a beautiful place,” she offered.

He nodded. “I’ve had my eye on her for a while, but it took some time to close the deal.”

Speaking of eyes, he had nice ones. The color of raw umber thinned with the tiniest amount of golden linseed oil. She hadn’t thought of her paints in years. “I’ve always admired the bones of the house. I’m glad someone thinks it’s worth renovating.”

“Chev Martinez.” This time he extended his bronzed hand.

After a few seconds’ hesitation, she put her hand in his. “Gemma Jacobs.” Her old name—her new name—rolled off her tongue with astonishing ease. Conversely, the physical contact set off distress signals in her brain. His hand was large and callused, but his grip was gentle…the hand of a man who was accustomed to coaxing a response from whatever he touched. Awareness shot up her arm, and she realized with a jolt that he was looking at her with blatant male interest. She withdrew her hand, suddenly conscious of her appearance, sans makeup and wedding ring. She wasn’t sure which made her feel more naked.

“Do you live here alone?”

She knew what he was asking—if she was single…available. According to the papers she’d just received, she was indeed single, but was she available?

The sounds of summer imploded on them. The buzz of the honeybees drawing on the neglected ginger plants, the caw of birds perched in the fan palm trees overhead. “Yes, I live here alone,” she said finally.

Another nod. “If the construction noise disturbs you, let me know.”

“I will.”

“Guess I’d better get back to work.” He half turned and descended her porch steps.

“So…you’re in real estate?”

His smile was unexpected, white teeth against brown skin. “No. I’m a carpenter, but I sometimes flip houses. How about you?”

An expert wife. “Unemployed art historian, which is why I fell in love with your house.”

“Maybe you’d like a tour sometime.” He was backing away, but still looking at her—all of her.

“Maybe,” she said, hedging. Now that he was out of arm’s reach, she was regaining her composure. There was something dangerously magnetic about the man. In a matter of minutes, he’d demonstrated an uncanny knack for extracting the truth from her.

He lifted his hand in a wave and walked away, his long legs eating up the ground. From the safety of her shade-darkened porch, Gemma watched him cross her yard to his, drawn to the way he moved with athletic purpose. His broad back fell away to lean hips encased in dusty jeans with a missing back pocket. He stopped next to a silver pickup truck parked in the broken-tile driveway and from the bed lifted a table saw, stirring the muscles beneath his sweat-stained T-shirt. He carried the unwieldy tool to the front door of his house and disappeared inside.