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Mr. Fix It
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Praise for "Mr. Fix It": This was a very good story, the author portrayed a not so perfect woman among cosmetically perfect ones and still showed how love can look past the surface. Not everyone is perfect but everyone deserves a chance at love,
and Bill wanted Deena. Suzanne was the bitch you knew you would hate, especially with her snide remarks, and scheming ways. She couldn't stand that Bill only had eyes for Deena, especially when he had someone as perfect as her in front of him. Mr. Fix-It is an enjoyable read and if you do pick up a copy I hope that you will enjoy it as much as this reader did.
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About "Mr. Fit It":

Deena can’t help but fantasise about the hot handyman she meets next door. She’s certain that the gorgeous blond has exactly the tool she needs.

Curvy, quirky Deena Stevens never quite fitted in. She feels especially out of place in the company of "The Botox Brigade"—the kept and polished women populating the upscale homes that border her organic farm.

Regardless of their differences, Deena’s neighbours seem to enjoy her company. They sit and chat when they come to buy Deena's free-range eggs and pesticide-free veggies. They even invite her to join their book club—despite the objection of Suzanne, who hosts the club meetings and clearly considers herself the queen of the group.

The book-clubbers peacefully coexist until a house call from sexy handyman, Bill, disrupts the monthly meeting. The women jostle for attention and superficial friendships are tested. Jealousies flare when the hot, handsome blond openly flirts with Deena and ignores the trophy wives. Suzanne has already set her sights on Bill, and when Deena reveals his surprising connection to her past, Suzanne gets territorial.

After their surprise reunion, Bill promises to keep in touch with Deena. Bill shows up at Deena’s door and a night of incomparable passion leaves them both craving more. When Suzanne discovers their tryst she begins crafting a plan to destroy the new love affair and steal the sexy handyman for herself.

Will Mr. Fix-It have what it takes to repair the damage?


ARe Bestseller!

Mr. Fix It is an All Romance eBooks BESTSELLER! Find out just how hot sex can be with a handyman who as all the right tools 


… They stood in Deena’s kitchen, hair still wet from their showers, and sipped strong, rich coffee. She felt hung over, like her skin was on inside out and the nerves were raw and exposed. Her head buzzed from too much wine, too much sex, and not enough sleep. Her mind buzzed with disbelief at the previous night’s events.

Bill was at the stove, bare-chested and barefooted, wearing only his faded jeans. Deena took advantage of his attention to the pancakes and studied him. His damp hair was slicked back and was beginning to curl at the ends. His shoulders were broad and tanned. His back was a well-muscled V. The frayed waistband of his jeans gaped away from his narrow waist as he moved. The back pockets clung to his tight, rounded glutes. Bill’s long, gorgeously formed legs were hidden under worn denim, but Deena could recall every line of every long, taut muscle. He was perfect.

What in the hell is he doing here with me? she asked herself.

As if he’d heard her thoughts, he turned and smiled at her over his shoulder.

Deena returned his smile and, when he’d turned back to flip the pancakes, she dipped to check her reflection in the stainless steel toaster. Even allowing for the inevitable distortion associated with using a small kitchen appliance for a mirror, Deena still was shocked by what she saw. She looked pale and blotchy and her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. Her curly hair was nothing like the sexy up-do it had been when she’d stepped out of the tub the night before. Instead she looked quite a bit like the folks that are interviewed on the news immediately after a tornado has blown through town and taken their house with it.

Deena quietly backed out of the kitchen, then turned and crept down the hall, and into the bathroom. She flicked on the light. She wiped the last bit of steam from the mirror then squinted, bracing for the more accurate reflection. If ‘Toaster Deena’ was disturbing then ‘Bathroom Mirror Deena’ was downright scary.

“Oh, good God!”

Deena slammed the bathroom door shut, yanked open the vanity drawer, and began pulling out cosmetics and dumping them on the countertop. She rarely wore more than a sweep of mascara so she paused a moment, not quite sure where to start. Redness-reducing eye drops won out, with concealer running a close second. Deena began dotting the concealer on the puffy bluish pouches beneath her eyes and the scattered spots where Bill’s stubble had rubbed her face red.

“Dee, breakfast is ready,” Bill called.

Deena’s hands shook as she hurried to blend the concealer and then quickly swept mineral powder makeup over her face and throat.

“Be right there,” she answered.

She dipped a big brush into a jar of blush. She intended to just dust the tiniest bit of tint across her washed-out cheeks to create the illusion of a natural glow. In her haste, she forgot to tap off the excess and wound up with an obvious stripe of unnatural beauty glowing like a neon sign on her cheek.

“Oh, for the love of…”

Deena tried to rub off the excess with the sleeve of her robe, but got overzealous and took the concealer with it.

“Dee! Your pancakes are getting cold!”

Deena looked at her dishevelled reflection in the mirror and threw up her hands.

“Why bother?” she asked Bathroom Mirror Deena.

She swept the cosmetics back in the drawer, grabbed the wet washcloth from the side of the tub and scrubbed her face clean again. She took a deep, bracing breath before heading back to the kitchen. She passed her open bedroom door and noticed that the bedspread had been smoothed and that Bill’s big boots were neatly tucked under the foot of her bed with the socks draped just so across the laces.

When she returned to the kitchen Bill was standing at the head of the farmhouse table looking maddeningly well rested and pulled together.

“Ta da!” he said, motioning to the two plates of perfectly stacked pancakes on the table with the Saturday paper folded neatly between them. At the centre of the table, poking out of last night’s wine bottle, were three tiger lilies from Deena’s side yard.

He was so proud of himself, Deena forgot for a moment that she looked like she’d been on a week-long bender, in a tornado, with no access to hair care products or cosmetics.

“Very impressive,” she said.

He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. “You’re pretty impressive yourself, Sexy.”

Bill tapped his finger on a square of notepaper on the table. “That’s the address of the Victorian I’m working on. You should stop by some time and I’ll show you around.”

He smiled and Deena was once again floored by how gorgeous he was. Still standing, he rolled up a plain pancake and bit off one end, then walked across the kitchen to retrieve the coffee pot. He poured them both a cup and winked at her when she reached for the syrup. She sliced a three-layer wedge from her stack and popped it in her mouth.

“Good?” he asked.

“Perfect. The pancakes are perfect. Last night was perfect,” Deena leaned as if looking behind Bill, pointed her fork at him and said, “And that ass, that ass is perfect.”

Bill twisted at the waist and made an exaggerated pantomime of trying to see his own ass. He turned back to Deena with a cartoonish look of shock on his face.

“My God! You’re right! It’s magnificent!”

Deena laughed and pressed her napkin to her mouth to keep from spitting syrupy pancake bits all over the clean tablecloth. She composed herself enough to swallow and take a sip of coffee. “So, what’s wrong with you?”

Bill scrunched his forehead. “What do you mean?”

Deena dropped her eyes. She dragged her fork through the puddle of syrup on her plate and focused on the temporary parallel ruts the tines left behind. She tried to keep her voice sunny, but couldn’t meet his gaze. “I mean, you can’t be perfect. What’s your deep, dark secret?”

Bill laughed. “Well, I’m certainly not perfect—except, of course, for my ass. What about you, Dee? What’s your secret? Drug runner? Serial killer? Grape taster?”

“Grape taster? What’s a grape taster?”

Bill threw up his hands in exaggerated disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding! A grape taster is a grocery shopper who stands in the produce aisle and tastes the grapes before buying them.”

Deena laughed, “Sounds pretty serious.”

“Yep, stealing’s pretty serious.”

Deena studied his face, waiting for his playful smile to push up one corner of his mouth and send the laugh lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, stopping on one side at the crescent moon scar she’d inflicted so many summers before. The first hint of that smile had just appeared when his cell phone buzzed. He held up one finger and squinted at her.

“I’m not done with you, lady. You’re one of ‘em, aren’t you? I suppose you take swigs of milk out of the cartons in the dairy case, too.”

Bill winked at Deena and she felt a tingle zip up her spine. The sensation caused her to involuntarily shrug her shoulders. Bill smiled, no doubt pleased with himself at causing her to go goofy with a simple wink. He shoved the rest of his pancake roll into his mouth, then dug into his front pocket and pulled out a battered old cell. He flipped open the phone, glanced at the screen, then snapped the phone shut and shoved it back into his pocket.

Bill washed down his pancake with a gulp of coffee, pulled his T-shirt from the back of the kitchen chair and slid it on. His smile had disappeared and he seemed to have forgotten all about grilling Deena on her shady grocery-shopping habits. He turned and walked to the stove, gave the pancake batter a whisk and without turning to face Deena asked, “How about another short stack before I go?”

Deena felt the thrill that had just travelled up her spine gather in a much less pleasant ball in her belly. She stared at Bill’s broad back, willing him to turn around so she could read his face. He, however, seemed intent on whisking the pancake batter until she responded. She concentrated on keeping her voice carefree. “Nope, I’m good. These are fantastic.”

She wanted desperately to know what he’d read on his phone screen, and she wanted even more to know who had sent it. She suddenly felt foolish. She’d never even bothered to ask him if he was seeing someone else. They’d known each other a very long time ago for three weeks at summer camp. Of course he’d had a life in between then and last night, just as she had. The intimacy of their morning-after breakfast now seemed a flimsy façade...


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