For this reason, when Angela awoke the next morning, she expected to repeat the same day as she had always repeated it for the past five years. But not this morning. This morning was different because Angela discovered that her dishwasher was broken. Not exactly broken; but not exactly working properly either. During the night, the dial had stalled on RINSE/HOLD, and never accelerated through a full wash cycle. Instead of spotless dishes, pleasantly warm to the touch, her plates were dirty and moist. And although she had sponged them clean before loading them into the dishwasher, her silverware still had a thin film of teriyaki sauce on their tips, and her glasses were still cloudy with a filmy residue—a mixture of soap and milk. It was a shattering discovery, one that Angela pushed out of her mind throughout her entire work day until she arrived home and realized she had left the dirty dishes in her sink—to deal with later.
Angela no longer fell asleep to the relaxing whirl of her dishwasher; instead, she lay awake, tossing and turning, wondering how she was going to make the time to deal with an appliance repairman. On the third night, when the squalor in her kitchen had peaked, Angela awoke from the nightmare of losing her teeth because everything she ate turned soggy after touching her dirty plates. Suddenly, she pulled herself out of bed and rummaged in the dark through the messy drawers of her apartment. She found what she was looking for—the manual for her dishwasher. There was a toll-free repair number on its back flap, and in her desperation, Angela dialed. To her surprise, she was connected to a service representative in India, or Malaysia, or Bangladesh, or one of those wonderful Asian countries that was sprightly awake at 2:30 in the morning. They told Angela that her dishwasher was still under extended warranty, which meant a new appliance would be delivered to her apartment first thing in the morning. Angela could hardly believe her luck. Was she still dreaming? If so, she never wanted to wake up again. Angela stumbled through the dark and crawled back into her bed with a newfound love for her broken dishwasher. But she loved herself even more for buying the extended warranty.
* * * *
The next morning, Angela jolted awake to the sound of her door buzzer. She had finally fallen asleep around three o’clock in the morning, and consequently, slept through her alarm. She had forgotten all about her life, her job, and her scheduled delivery. Now, dazed and half-naked, Angela stumbled out of bed to answer her intercom.
“Yes?”
“Dishwasher—” the voice called back.
Angela buzzed open the front door, then barely had a chance to brush her teeth, brush through her hair, and zip up her red velvet pants before she heard the knock at her door.
“It’s open—” she called, slipping on her glasses and slapping on her powder-fresh deodorant. There was no time for a bra or blouse, so Angela’s delivery man would just have to deal with her braless, button-down pajama top.
Angela watched as the delivery man bullied through her doorway with her new dishwasher.
“Hallo,” the deliveryman called into the air with his cocky, British accent. “Santa Claus, here. Have you been naughty or nice?”
“Nice—” Angela answered slowly.
Angela knew that British accent and randy sense of humor. It had buried itself as a wistful, nostalgic memory, locked away for the past five years. But now, its familiarity was back and it had taken the surreal form of her dishwasher deliveryman.
“Making my way straight to the kitchen—” he confirmed, towing her new dishwasher on an upright dolly through her apartment, carefully navigating between piles of unwashed clothes and towers of last year’s fashion magazines. He lowered her new dishwasher on his dolly and knelt down in front of her broken one. His arm fished under her sink cabinet to shut off the water supply, and she was certain she recognized the ornamental dragon tattoo that snaked down his neck and around his bicep.
“I gotta tie-off this old one before installing the new—” He glanced up at her, his piercing blue eyes flashing like prisms in recognition. “Bloody hell—Sassy, it’s you.”
And it was him—Shane Cotter. His crystal eyes and spiked tufts of bleached hair were the same, but his demeanor was different—less juvenile punkrock—more mature defiance. He wore a navy blue vintage button-up shirt, faded jeans with ripped-knees, and black steel-tipped cowboy boots.
Angela was immediately disarmed by his use of her nickname: Sassy. She hadn’t felt sassy in years.
“My God, Shane….What are you doing…here?” Angela asked, trying to think of something witty to say. “Delivering dishwashers?”
“Bollocks, no—” Shane twisted towards the new dishwasher, suddenly remembering why he was standing in Angela’s kitchen. “Well, yes, but also no. Clear as mud, right? This is just a favor for a best mate of mine. His bloody back went out on him over the weekend and he’s got a wife and a kid and another one on the way, and he’s got no paid sick days. Can’t afford not to show up, so I told him I’d pop in and give him a hand for a few days.”
God, of course, he would, Angela thought. That was so Shane.
Shane jumped to his feet and moved closer, scanning her funky glasses with an incredulous smirk.
“Oh, these?” Angela said, pulling off her glasses. “They’re fake. I wear them to be cool, or something.”
“Very… studious.” Shane was almost making fun of her. Almost.
Angela shrugged him off. “Anyway, I work in the fashion industry now.”
“Fashion?”
“Yeah, kinda different than singing in a band, I know.”
“Yeah, different indeed—” he agreed, but his mind was elsewhere she could tell. Shane was sizing her up, noting the changes in her face, hair, and figure, and he was doing it with brash confidence. Angela crossed her arms over her braless, button-down pajama top. Sassy would have never been this self-conscious, she thought. Nor would she have been caught dead wearing flannel pajamas.
“So you don’t sing anymore?” Shane acknowledged. “What a pity, you had a killer voice.”
Angela blushed. No one in Angela’s current life knew she could carry a tune, much less sing well enough to front a professional band. That’s how Angela first met Shane, when they both were just out of college. Angela was the lead singer. Shane was the drummer. Shane convinced her to sing with them after their original lead singer, Victoria—and Shane’s girlfriend—cheated on him with the bar’s bouncer and quit the band. From the very first moment that Angela met Shane, she was in love with him. His aquamarine eyes, British accent, and flare of irreverence made it almost inevitable.
“Anyway, that’s how I make a living nowadays. I’m a fashion editor. A little different than belting my heart out every night in a crowded bar—” Angela let out a nervous laugh. She wondered if Shane noticed that her hands were shaking.
Shane folded his arms and leaned against her kitchen counter, like he lived there. “Betcha still have to worry about looking fabulous every damn day,” Shane flashed his cocky grin. “Funky glasses and all—
“Well, you were the only one who appreciated the fish-net stockings and fire red lipstick.”
“Yes,” he eyed her, his pierced eyebrow arcing up with mischief. “I appreciated it very much.” It was the same way he used to look at her after their stage performances. The whole group would stand on the stage together, waving goodbye to the crowd, and Shane would glance over at Angela, telling her with his eyes that he was proud to have her in his band.
“So anyway, what about you? What are you doing nowadays, besides delivering my dishwasher?”
Stupid, stupid, stupid…she dug her nails deep into her palms. Plus, Angela knew exactly what Shane was doing nowadays. She had googled his name just last week while up late one night when she couldn’t sleep. He owned two music clubs in town.
It had been five years since the band called it quits. Five years of going their separate ways, slowly drifting apart, until the only communication became silence. Now, Shane Cotter was back in her life, standing in her kitchen, delivery her new dishwasher.
“Really?” Angela tried to act surprised, as if she didn’t already know that one was named COURTMARSHALLED and the other LAWLESS.
“Yeah, yeah… they’ve both been doing smashingly well. Who would’ve thought I’d be a bloody good businessman, running my own pubs someday, right? But I just couldn’t give up the punk and pints entirely… Both are quite near,” Shane suddenly said. “LAWLESS is just a bit farther north. But COURTMARSHALLED is the one that’s got all the live, high-octane thrash music. You should pop in sometime and say hallo…”
Shane let the invitation linger, like it was a real invitation, and not just a remark for the sake of polite, casual conversation.
Angela looked down at the floor, feeling her cheeks flush. Even before his invitation, she had thought about stopping by—just to say “hi.” But five years was a long, long time. He probably had a girlfriend, maybe even a wife, and Angela wasn’t ready to face that fact, especially not while she was still single and alone.
“Two successful music clubs. Wow. That’s great. Does this mean fast and furious Shane Cotter is ready to settle down?”
“Nah. In fact, I’ve finally made a clean break from Victoria.”
“Victoria?” Angela heard the surprise in her own voice. Shane heard it too. She knew Shane had been on-again, off-again with Victoria. But she had no idea that he was still holding out for her—five years later.
“Yeah, long sappy story,” Shane said with a dismissive wave. “Ends with my heart getting bloody smashed with a jackhammer. But it’s over now. Good riddance.”
“Well, I’m not sorry to hear it…”
“Yeah?” Shane peered at her, his eyebrow piercing rising and lowering. “Why’s that?”
“Because you deserve better.”
Angela realized that she had actually said it aloud when Shane’s marble blue eyes fixed on her and lingered there longer than usual. Then, she remembered the countless times that Victoria tried to reclaim her position as the lead singer of their band. And although Shane never allowed her to come back, he also never stopped being in love with her, and it was part of the reason why Angela kept her own feelings for Shane to herself.
“You know, I’m going to be starting up a third club. Opening it up this fall, in fact. But I still haven’t settled on a name. It’s quite funny, really, because I’ve actually been thinking about calling it Angie’s.”
Angela’s cheeks flashed red.
“Well, you know, because my mum’s name is Angelica.”
“Oh, right, right—” Angela twisted the end of her pajama shirt around finger, squeezing all the blood to its tip in painful punishment. After his mother, of course.
“But you know… names are funny little things. Once you meet someone with a name, you associate all the good and bad things about that person with that particular name. And I’ve always liked the name, ‘Angie.’ Always.”
Shane seized his eyes on her in a way that made Angela remember they had been good friends at one point in time, not just bandmates.
“Well, it’s much better than Victoria,” she quipped.
“Yeah, right. Much better,” Shane winked. “Ah, bloody hell.” He crossed his arms and stared at Angela. His smile sparkled at her. “It really is great to see you again, Sassy. I mean that. It’s been too long. Too, too long…”
Angela gazed at him. Shane was still so handsome. His high cheekbones and Saxon nose were cut like stone and the deep scar over his left-eyebrow—from a broken beer bottle during a bar brawl—still highlighted the intensity of his stare and the confidence in his stance. And yet, he seemed so different. He was so much calmer, more mature, more seasoned—like he didn’t need to prove anything to anybody because he was the man that she had always expected he would become.
“And now, you’re here to install my dishwasher while I get ready for work,” she finally said, glancing at the clock and forcing them both back into the reality of the moment, breaking the suffocating silence. “Are you sure you know how to install one of these things?”
“Not really, but got the ol’ instructions right here.” Shane pulled out the manual from his back pocket.
“That’s not encouraging.”
“Of course not,” Shane said, flinging the manual across the room. “But you should trust me anyway.”
He crossed his arms and leaned back against her kitchen counter, like he had no intention of doing anything other than watching her get dressed.
“I’m leaving now and getting ready for work. Shout if you need something.”
“Like a fire extinguisher?”
Angela narrowed her eyes. “Like a tourniquet.”
Shane winked. “Nice to have you back, Sassy. I’ve missed you.”
Angela forced herself to walk out of the kitchen, even though their playful banter always left her wanting more. He was so different now, more focused, more centered, more willing to appreciate the woman she had become.
Safely inside her bedroom, Angela reflected on who that woman was… It was someone who had always chosen the safest path in life—until now. She quickly stripped off her clothes and threw open her closet, intent on changing her entire outfit. Something sexy, but not too sexy. Something with cleavage, and yet, nothing too desperate. She picked out her tightest jean skirt and white silk blouse with mandarin collar. Both casual and sophisticated, and completely boring. The man who Angela had cried over for five—silent—years was now standing in her kitchen. And—he was single.
Screw it. Angela was going to make an impression, damn it. She threw aside the skirt and white blouse, and instead, settled on her sapphire summer dress with a flattering, V-shaped neckline that crisscrossed over her breasts and wrapped around her torso, squeezing her entire upper body together into a tight package while allowing her lower waist to hide under a flow of blue nylon waves. Suddenly, she heard the rusty screech of her old dishwasher as its front door flipped open with a CRAAASH.
“Are you okay in there?” she called into the hallway, but she only heard grunts and muffled curses. “You know… I forgot to tell you that the door springs on my old dishwasher aren’t the best—”
“Yeah, my foot just figured that out.”
“Oh, sorry,” Angela frowned at herself in the mirror.
“Nah. No worries. That’s why I’ve got three.”
Angela dropped down her gold hoop earrings and smiled. That was so Shane.
“But—” he finally called back. “Are you absolutely sure that the water is supposed to flow inside the dishwasher?”
Angela rolled her eyes. She wasn’t falling for it this time. “Ha-ha,” she called, and heard Shane snickering with juvenile delight.
Angela glanced at herself in the mirror and inhaled. This time was going to be different. She exited her bedroom and entered the kitchen. Shane was standing in front of her kitchen sink, arms drenched up to his elbow in soapy water; he was doing battle with all Angela’s dirty dishes that he had unloaded from her old dishwasher. He was sponging them off, thrusting them under the fierce spray of the running faucet, and reloading them into her newly installed dishwasher. She fell in love with him all over again.
Shane felt her presence and glanced over at her. Angela stared at Shane. Shane stared at Angela. For a moment, they both forgot about themselves and only remembered the other. Angela took in the image of Shane taking care of her dishes, and Shane couldn’t take his eyes off that dress.
“Board meeting today,” Angela explained with a nervous lie. “I have to dress up more than usual.”
“That’s some Board Meeting—” he muttered and immediately shut off the water.
Angela smoothed down her dress, wondering if she had overdone it.
“Wow, you do really know how to install dishwashers,” Angela joked, trying to find a way to reclaim t
heir jovial connection. But something was different. Shane was different. He was gazing at her with nostalgia, or maybe yearning… whatever it was, Angela realized that there was a connection—real and visceral—between them, not simply something she had imagined for five long years.
“Come here,” he suddenly said.
Angela’s heart stopped. She stood still, paralyzed by his gun-fighter blue gaze.
He dried his soapy hands on her kitchen towel, then held out one hand to her. “I don’t want to forget to show you this…” His voice was bold and his eyes were testing her.
Angela moved slowly towards him, placing her fingers into his own. They were rough and raw from years of playing the drums, and they secured themselves around her wrist, telling her they were not going to let her go. Not this time. Not now.
“There’s a pre-set feature that you’ll like,” he said, drawing her in front of him. Angela stared down at the machine. She felt the full force of his body against her back and it made her tremble. Angela felt the baby hairs rise on the nape of her neck.
“I’m afraid that I’m late for work.”
Angela let the excuse hang out there, but they both realized that she didn’t truly mean it.
“You can call in sick.”
“You make it sound so easy,” she laughed. Shane made everything seem so easy, even the way that his nose casually whispered over her shoulder, taking in her scent.
“You still wear the same perfume.” His chin grazed her gold hoop earring.
Angela flushed red. “I’m surprised you remember...”
“I’m surprised you’d think I would forget.”
Angela closed her eyes. She had no idea what to say next or how the script was supposed to go, but she knew that Shane had never been this close to her before—close enough to smell his aftershave, close enough to feel the scrape of his sandpaper stubble against her neck—and she suddenly felt like it was all too much to bear.
Blue-Collar Boys - Repairs & Maintenance (Book 2: Steamy Erotic Romance Stories) Page 3
