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half tank after running out of gas in high schoolā€”and lean back, laughing to myself. I guess Iā€™m more tired than I thought. Or maybe the lemonade was a little harder than normal?

Nah, thatā€™s not Mrs. Barnesā€™s style. Like a lot of my clients, sheā€™s pretty sweet. I didnā€™t think sheā€™d be one of the flirty ones at first, but Iā€™ve gotten my fair share of customers who want to put a little spice in their lives by calling me over to do work around their houses. I didnā€™t expect that, but itā€™s okay.

It still sometimes feel like I stumbled into this line of work by lucky accident. When my best friend, Tony Steeleā€™s, mother had us do some work for her, I was glad to help Tony out. After he left town to take over a new family venture in Hawaii, I was asked by his big brother, Oliver, to join him at Steele Solutions. While Iā€™m more than happy to help Oliver out in town and around the area, Iā€™m no real estate tycoon type. I like working with my hands and my brain at the same time. Rewiring a house, repairing plumbing, all sorts of things like that are more interesting to me than just running numbers on a computer screen.

Not that I donā€™t give Oliver his respect. The man works hard, and heā€™s hardly the kind to sit on his ass. His business, his family, his wifeā€™s cafe . . . the man works hard, and he can use his hands as much as his brain when he wants. But for me, I get as much satisfaction out of fixing a roof as I do cashing the check I get for the job. Oliver just likes to separate the two is all.

ā€œThat way, he doesnā€™t get hit on by his customers,ā€ I chuckle as I put the nozzle away. ā€œBut I gotta remember to thank him and his mom.ā€

Itā€™s true. Janice Steeleā€™s word, and her circle of friends, have made it possible for me to be an independent handyman. Starting with working around her place, then Oliverā€™s properties in town, Iā€™ve grown to the point that Iā€™m booked out sometimes two weeks in advance, unless itā€™s an emergency job like Mrs. Barnesā€™s garden. Most of my customers, other than Oli, whoā€™s more than willing to jump in and swing a hammer with me if he can, are either widowed or have husbands who are getting up there in age, and they arenā€™t quite up to some of the challenges of keeping up a house. Thatā€™s where I come in.

I climb back into my truck, heading for home. Itā€™s not a big place, a fixer-upper that I bought with the ā€˜finderā€™s feeā€™ check that Oli cut me for the Hawaii property heā€™s made huge bank on, but Iā€™ve got it in good shape after a year. Either way, Iā€™ve got the rest of the weekend to chill out, then Monday, itā€™ll be back to work. ā€œAh, itā€™s not all bad,ā€ I tell myself as I head out, plugging my music player into the dash of my truck and letting Roxyā€™s voice accompany me home. ā€œEight hours a day, five days a week, and Iā€™m my own boss. TLC for Oliā€™s properties, repair jobs, and cashing checks. Canā€™t really beat that.ā€

ā€œWell, thereā€™s one way I could beat it,ā€ I think as Roxy switches to one of her love ballads. ā€œBut thatā€™s not for me.ā€Cassie

ā€œAnd boom!ā€ I cheer myself as, with a bump of my hip, I close the filing cabinet drawer, signaling another project complete. ā€œHeadshot!ā€ I hit the button on my computerā€™s media player, and a karaoke version of the old DMX song X Gonā€™ Give It To Ya starts playing, with me singing my own version instead. ā€œCass gonā€™ give it to ya, fuck doinā€™ deals on your own, Cass gonā€™ deliver to ya . . .ā€

I know my little celebration is trite, and I really shouldnā€™t be yelling out Headshot complete with my own choreographed song and dance every time I complete a deal, but Iā€™ve busted my butt on this. Besides, Iā€™m alone on the second floor of the Flaming Dragon building, and nobodyā€™s around to see my silly moves or hear my stupid lyrics. And if Tom Cruise can dance to Ludacris in Tropic Thunder, then by God, Iā€™ll do what I want when no one can see me.

Iā€™m just hitting the final lines when I turn around and find my boss, Martha, standing inside the door, laughing silently at my antics. I freeze, both hands thrown up in finger pistols, and she laughs harder as the music stops. ā€œDonā€™t worry about me. Iā€™m just investigating the sound of howling strangled cats they were talking about down in the coffee shop.ā€

ā€œYou scared the shit out of me!ā€ I hurriedly protest, wiggling and patting my ass. ā€œI might need to do an undie check! You know how dangerous that was?ā€

ā€œOh, yeah, youā€™re the most gangster hundred-and-ten-pound girl in the entire state,ā€ Martha says with a chuckle. Sheā€™s dressed as she always is, in a fashionable blouse and slacks combo that, while nowhere near as formal as the clothing I wore when I worked at Aurora, still broadcasts a sense of professional competence thatā€™s more than backed up by what she does. The company might be called Steele Solutions, but Marthaā€™s as vital to Oliverā€™s success as his own smarts. ā€œWhat in the world are you doing?ā€

ā€œCel-a-brate-ing! The McCormick deal is officially in the books as a win!ā€ I reply, twirling and blowing off my ā€˜gunsā€™ before holstering them in their invisible holsters next to my skirt. I still like to wear my sexy office clothes when I can, and Oliver doesnā€™t mind as long as Iā€™m willing to get dirty and throw on a pair of jeans when I need to. And he knows from his own brotherā€™s word that I can get my hands as dirty as anyone. ā€œI got the last of

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