Chapter 1: The Flooring Quote and a Wink
The sun-bleached deck groans beneath Jeff's weight as he drops to his knees, crowbar in hand, already sweating through his faded work shirt. Rhonda watches from her lawn chair, a glass of iced tea sweating in her grip, and tries to remember the last time she felt that kind of urgency about anything.
Jeff grunts, wedging the crowbar under a warped floorboard. The wood resists, then surrenders with a sharp crack that echoes across the water. He wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a dark smear of dirt across his tan.
"Almost got it," he says, more to himself than to her.
Rhonda hums a response she doesn't mean. Her phone buzzes in her lap, and she glances down at the screen. Derek's name glows back at her, and her stomach does something complicated—part guilt, part anticipation, all of it electric.
Still coming by tomorrow morning. Going to give you a very competitive estimate. ;)
She reads the message twice, then three times, feeling the heat crawl up her neck. It's been fifteen years since Derek. Fifteen years since his hands on her hips in the back of his pickup truck, since the way he'd made her feel like she was the only woman on earth worth chasing. And now here he is, a contractor with a reputation and a wink emoji that makes her thighs clench together beneath the hem of her shorts.
Jeff looks up, squinting against the sun. "Who's that?"
"Just spam," she says, sliding the phone face-down in her lap. "You want another beer?"
He shakes his head, turning back to the floorboards. "Gotta stay sharp. Don't want to hit a nail wrong and put it through my foot."
She watches him work for another long moment. The way his shoulders strain against his shirt, the way his hands are calloused and sure. He's a good man, Jeff. Solid. Dependable. Fifteen years of marriage, and he's never once made her feel like she settled. But there are things he can't give her, and she's stopped asking for them. The new plumbing in the main bath might not have been the only thing that needed a renovation.
The lake house has been in Jeff's family since before he was born, and it shows—the peeling paint, the sagging porch steps, the windows that stick no matter how many times they've been sanded. They'd saved for three years to afford the renovations, and now that the money is finally there, every decision feels weighty. Every choice has consequences.
Jeff wrestles another board loose, and it comes up with a sound like a sigh. He sits back on his heels, breathing hard, and gives her a pleased grin that makes him look ten years younger.
"See? Nothing to it. I told you I could handle this part myself."
"You're doing great, honey." The words come automatically, the same ones she always says when he's trying to impress her. He doesn't notice the distance in her voice. He never does. "I'm going to run into town for supplies. That lumber delivery got messed up, remember?"
He nods, already turning back to the damaged subfloor. "Get some of those stainless steel screws, the ones I showed you. And maybe some of those—" He gestures vaguely. "You know. The brackets."
"Right. Brackets."
She stands, stretching her arms overhead, and feels the pull in her lower back from a night spent tossing and turning. The lake glitters in the late afternoon sun, beautiful and indifferent, and for a moment she lets herself imagine what it would be like to just walk into that water and keep going.
Instead, she climbs into the dusty SUV and rolls down the windows, letting the warm wind whip through her hair. The drive to town takes twenty minutes, past dense clusters of pine and the occasional glimpse of lake between the trees. She pulls into the hardware store parking lot and sits there for a moment, engine running, fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
Derek's message is still burning a hole in her phone.
She could cancel. Could tell him they'd decided to go with someone else, that Jeff wanted to handle it all himself. That would be the sensible thing to do—the loyal thing.
But then she thinks about the way Jeff used to look at her, back when they were first married, like she was something precious. She thinks about the way he doesn't look at her like that anymore, not really. She thinks about the way he apologizes during sex, muttering "sorry" under his breath as if his body itself is something to apologize for. She thinks about the last time they made love—three weeks ago, maybe four—and how she'd closed her eyes and pretended, for just a moment, that he was someone else.
Her hand moves before her brain fully catches up, typing out a quick response.
Can't wait.
She hits send and drops the phone in her purse, heart hammering against her ribs like a caged animal. It's just a business arrangement, she tells herself. Derek's a contractor. He's going to give them a quote. That's all.
Except she knows better.
She knows the way his eyes used to trace her body in that dark bar downtown. Knows the way his voice dropped low and rough when he'd asked her to dance. Knows what he'd whispered in her ear that night, fifteen years ago, when he'd walked her to her car and she'd let him kiss her despite the boyfriend waiting at home.
She'd been young then. Stupid. But she'd never forgotten.
Now she's fifty-nine, and the fire she thought she'd banked years ago is roaring back to life, consuming her from the inside out. It's just sex, she tells herself. Just a way to feel something again. Jeff will never know. No one will ever know.
But even as she thinks it, the fantasy expands—not just Derek, but the thought of being wanted again, truly wanted, by someone who doesn't already know every inch of her body and take it for granted.
She grabs the stainless steel screws, the brackets, and a few other supplies Jeff asked for, tossing them into the cart with practiced efficiency. The teenager at the register gives her a bored look as he rings her up, and she wonders if he can tell just by looking at her that she's about to do something stupid.
She pays in cash, leaves a small tip in the jar by the register, and climbs back into her SUV.
By the time she gets home, the sun is starting to dip toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the deck. Jeff is sitting on the steps, drinking a beer, looking proud of his work. The floorboards are stacked in a neat pile. The subfloor is exposed, and the smell of pine and old wood hangs heavy in the air.
"Got everything?" he asks.
She holds up the plastic bag with the screws and brackets, and he nods approvingly.
"Good. We'll make more progress tomorrow," he says. The words are casual, but she can see something shifting in his eyes—some flicker of doubt, or concern, or both. "That contractor still coming by?"
"He said yes."
"Good. I want to see what he quotes us. If it's reasonable, we can get the kitchen done before summer hits."
Rhonda laughs to herself at that—if only he knew. The kitchen. The bathroom. The little alcove by the lake that Jeffrey and Rhonda will have seen to long before the contractor even packs up his tools.
"Go wash up," she says, heading inside before her face can betray her. "I'll make us some dinner."
She stands at the kitchen window, slicing vegetables on a worn cutting board, and watches Jeff gather his tools in the fading light. He moves with a careful, methodical slowness that used to comfort her and now only makes her feel caged.
Her phone buzzes again on the counter.
Derek: Morning, gorgeous. You still want that estimate, or should I just give you the tour?
She abandons her vegetables, letting the knife rest against the lintel of the window, her thumb skimming the screen with a flicker of heat between her thighs.
Me: I want everything.
She sends it before the guilt can catch up, and for the first time all day, she feels her pulse like a drum.
Jeff's footsteps sound behind her, heavy and unhurried. "Did you get the good pickles?"
"What?"
"For the burgers. The brand I like."
Rhonda presses her thumb hard against the counter, forcing her voice to come out light and normal. "They were out. I got the other kind."
Jeff sighs, and in that small sound she hears everything he's too afraid to say. "Fine," he says, but the word comes out like he's holding onto it, pressing until it flattens against his tongue.
She turns the burner on beneath the pan and lets the sizzle of oil fill the kitchen, slicing onions with a vicious tidiness that lets her pretend she's in control.
Tomorrow, Derek will come. He'll shake Jeff's hand and walk the property with a clipboard and a pocket full of knowing grins. He'll compliment Rhonda's garden and find a reason to linger at the edge of the deck, close enough that she can smell the Old Spice he still wears.
And then, when Jeff goes to town for the lumber they don't actually need, Derek will find her in the kitchen, pressing her against the island, and she'll let him.
She's already tasting that moment—the weight of him, the shape of the secret she's carrying in her chest like something stolen, like something promised.
By the time Jeff comes to bed, wearing his worn cotton pajama pants and an apology in the slope of his shoulders, Rhonda has already decided: she doesn't deserve this bed. Not tonight. Not after.
But she lies awake beside him anyway, listening to his breathing deepen, watching the ceiling fan slice through the dark in slow, rhythmic revolutions.
Tomorrow, she thinks.
Tomorrow, everything changes.
Morning arrives with the kind of brutal clarity that makes last night's decisions feel like someone else's. Rhonda wakes to the sound of a loon calling across the water, its mournful cry cutting through the screen of the open window. Jeff is already up—she can hear him in the bathroom, the familiar sounds of him getting ready, the creak of the old pipes as the shower groansto life.
She lies still for a moment, staring at the water-stained ceiling, and lets herself feel the weight of what's coming. Derek will be here in two hours. Derek, who knows her body like a roadmap he memorized years ago. Derek, who sent that wink emoji like a promise.
The guilt is there, a dull ache behind her ribs, but beneath it—beneath it there's something brighter. Something hungry.
She swings her legs out of bed and pads to the kitchen in bare feet, the cool wood floor a shock against her skin. Coffee. She needs coffee before she can face any of this.
Jeff emerges twenty minutes later, hair still damp, dressed in his good jeans and a clean polo shirt. He's trying, she realizes. He always tries. The thought makes her chest tighten with something between fondness and frustration.
"I'll be in the shed if that contractor shows up early," he says, grabbing a piece of toast from the plate she's set out. "Got to organize the tools."
"You do that."
He pecks her on the cheek, and she catches the scent of his soap, familiar and safe. Safe. That's what Jeff is. Safe and steady and predictable.
She watches him walk out the back door, his shoulders slightly hunched, and she thinks about how he used to walk taller. When did that change? When did she stop noticing the way he carried himself, stop caring about the lines forming at the corners of his eyes?
The coffee tastes bitter on her tongue. She drinks it anyway.
At exactly ten o'clock, she hears the rumble of a truck engine coming down the gravel drive. Her heart kicks into a rhythm she hasn't felt in years—that quick, nervous flutter that makes her feel seventeen again instead of fifty-nine.
Through the kitchen window, she watches Derek climb out of his pickup. He's aged the way men do when they've been treated well by life—a little silver at the temples, a few more lines around his eyes, but still broad-shouldered and confident. He's wearing worn jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that look like they've spent decades doing honest work.
He looks around the property, hands on his hips, and she sees him take in the sagging porch, the peeling paint, the stacks of fresh lumber Jeff has been hauling from the shed. His expression is unreadable.
Jeff emerges from the shed, wiping his hands on a rag. "You must be Derek."
"That's me." They shake hands, and Rhonda watches the moment of assessment pass between them—the way Derek's eyes flick down to Jeff's smaller frame, the way Jeff puffs his chest out slightly, trying to compensate for something he can't see but can feel.
"Thanks for coming out on short notice," Jeff says. "The wife and I, we've been trying to get this place fixed up for years."
"She mentioned." Derek's eyes slide to the kitchen window, where Rhonda is standing, frozen, watching. He gives her a small nod, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Nice property you got here."
Rhonda's hand goes to her hair, smoothing it down, and she realizes she's still in her nightgown. She ducks away from the window, heart hammering, and rushes to the bedroom to change.
Standing in front of the closet, she pulls out a sundress she hasn't worn in years—yellow, with thin straps and a skirt that swishes when she moves. She bought it for a vacation to the coast that never happened. She puts it on, feels the fabric cling to her hips, and catches her reflection in the mirror.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
She takes a moment to apply lipstick—a soft pink, nothing too bold—and runs a brush through her hair. Then she goes outside to meet them.
Derek looks up as she approaches, and his eyes travel over her in a way that's so obvious Jeff should notice. But Jeff is bent over the porch steps, showing Derek something about the rotten wood, completely oblivious.
"Coffee?" she offers.
"I'd love some." Derek's voice is warm, unhurried, and there's something in it that makes her feel like they're already sharing a secret.
She disappears inside and returns with three mugs on a tray, carrying it carefully down the uneven steps. Derek meets her halfway, taking the tray from her hands, his fingers brushing hers in a way that sends sparks up her arm.
"Thanks," he says, and he's not talking about the coffee.
They settle on the deck—Jeff on the railing, Derek in one of the Adirondack chairs, Rhonda perched on the arm of the other chair. Derek pulls out a notepad and a pencil, the kind contractors use, and starts asking Jeff about the scope of work.
Foundation's solid, Jeff says, but the framing could use some love. Kitchen needs a full gut. Bathroom too, if the budget stretches. And the deck—well, Jeff gestures at the floorboards he's been pulling up. You can see the damage for yourself.
Derek nods along, making notes, asking the occasional question. Rhonda watches his hands as he writes, the way the pencil moves across the page with practiced efficiency. She remembers those hands. Remembers what they could do.
"—supposed to be a weekend getaway," Jeff is saying. "But we keep finding more work than we can handle on our own."
"That's usually how it goes." Derek glances up, and his eyes catch hers. "I can take a look around, give you a real number by tomorrow. Sound good?"
"Sounds great." Jeff stands, slapping his knees. "I'm going to run into town, grab some more supplies while you poke around. Rhonda, you mind showing him the kitchen?"
Her throat tightens. "Of course not."
Jeff climbs into the SUV, and she watches him pull out of the driveway, raising his hand in a wave she returns mechanically. The gravel crunches under his tires, and then he's gone, and she's alone with Derek.
He doesn't make her wait.
She turns to face him, and he's already standing, close enough that she can smell him—sawdust and fabric softener, no cologne, just him. She'd know that scent anywhere.
Before she can speak, he's kissing her, one hand pressed against the small of her back, pulling her into him. She makes a sound against his mouth, something between a gasp and a moan, and he swallows it whole.
"God, Rhonda." His voice is rough, at the edge of urgency. "I've been thinking about this for fifteen years."
She should push him away. Should tell him this is a mistake, that she's married, that she's about to cross a line there's no coming back from.
Instead, her hands fist in his shirt. "The kitchen," she whispers. "He didn't lock the kitchen."
Derek's mouth curls into something wolfish. "I'm going to give you an estimate you'll never forget."
They're barely through the door before his hands are on her again, finding her waist beneath the sundress and bunching the fabric upward. The old house creaks around them, a witness that doesn't judge.
He lifts her onto the kitchen island, his hands claiming her thighs, and she lets her head fall back and thinks of nothing at all except the weight of him, the reality of him after all these years.
When it's over, he rests his forehead against hers, both of them breathing hard.
"I missed you," he says.
She laughs, a breathless, dangerous sound. "You missed having somewhere to put it."
That gift of a grin again. "That too."
He helps her down, smooths her sundress, and she catches a glimpse of herself in the window—flushed cheeks, messy hair, the unmistakable glow of having just been well and truly fucked.
"Come on," she says, surprised by how steady her voice sounds. "I'll show you the bathroom."
She knows it's wrong, this entire arrangement. But fifteen years of marrying safety and settling for soft moorings has left her starving for the sensation of being wanted like a woman. She doesn't intend to stop.
In the bathroom, Derek runs his hand along the tile, checking the grout. But his eyes aren't on the walls; they're on her reflection in the mirror, watching the way she leans back against the sink, watching the way the light catches her throat where he just kissed her.
"How are you going to work this?" she asks.
"Every morning. Two hours, maybe three, depending on how much Jeff needs to show me." Derek turns to face her, reaches out, brushes his thumb along the curve of her hip. "He'll be gone by eight, right?"
"Sometimes earlier, if he's got a list."
"Then I'll be here by seven." His voice drops low. "I'll bring my tools. I'll make sure you're taken care of before I do a single honest hour for your husband."
Rhonda shivers. For a moment, she lets herself pretend Jeff doesn't exist, that this is just a man who wants her and a woman who wants him back.
But she knows Jeff will be back in a few hours, and there will be cold beer in the fridge and that particular squeak in the floorboard by the island, and she'll have to remember not to look at Derek like she's tasted him, even though she has.
"Don't act so smug," she says, smoothing the front of her sundress. "This could still fall through."
Derek laughs, warm and unbothered. "It won't. You've wanted this longer than I have."
She narrows her eyes at his back as he turns, running his hand along the doorframe, muttering about framing and load-bearing walls. And she hates that he's right. Hates that he knows her so completely, that they've barely begun and already he's got her counting the hours until tomorrow morning.
As the first of Jeff's tools clatter to the porch deck and the front door bangs open, Rhonda inhales sharply and plasters a smile on her face.
"Honey? You still here with the contractor?" Jeff's voice echoes through the house.
Derek answers before she can, calling out easily, "Wrapping up now. I've got everything I need."
He says it low, just for her, but Jeff hears only the surface meaning.
She catches Derek's eye for one drawn moment, and he mouths, "Tomorrow." Then Jeff appears in the doorway, holding a bag of groceries like an offering, his cheeks big and red from the sun.
"Made a list of what I think we need for the kitchen," Jeff says, already missing the trace of sex in the air, the salt on his wife's skin. "Looks like we're going to need a lot of new cabinets."
Derek claps Jeff on the shoulder with a grin that's far too easy. "I can get you wholesale, my friend. Don't you worry about a thing."
Jeff beams, hand already rising to the back of his neck in that endearing way Rhonda used to love. "I'll get the rest of those boards up," he says. "Rhonda, you want to show Derek the garden before he goes?"
"I'm sure he's busy—"
"I always have time for a beautiful garden," Derek cuts in, and Rhonda feels herself flush all over again as she leads him dutifully outside to the rows of daisies and leggy tomatoes, once more pretending she isn't walking on a knife's edge between pleasure and betrayal.