It started with a window that was jammed shut. Pretty simple, right? All I wanted was to open the windows while I tidied the house. I'd been after my no-good husband to do it for months, but he never did. And then he shacked up with his secretary, leaving me with a pile of bills, husband-free for the first time in ten years, and with a house that was falling apart.

The ad popped up on the side of my social media feed—a local contracting agency willing to do pretty much anything. Since I don't really know a screwdriver from a ratchet, I gave them a call.

And let me tell you, the ad was not lying. Jesse O'Neill can do it all . . . and looks amazing doing it.

He fixed my window, so I called him back to fix the sagging, splintery front steps. Which led to him fixing my kitchen sink. And then he recarpeted my stairs. And then fixed the squeak in my bed.

He was supposed to fix my house, not my rusty, sputtering libido. And certainly not my broken heart.

Contains mature themes.