by Emma Roman
“I’m not completely inept.”
“Just making sure you’re prepared. You wanted my help, so I’m giving it.”
8
Laurel closed the cabinet door beneath her kitchen sink and sighed. Who knew cutting shelf paper was so damned difficult. She rocked backward on her heels until her ass made contact with the cold tile floor. Then stretched her arms and settled back against the center island of cabinets. She’d spent the last three hours cutting and trimming and now it was done. But for what? She had nothing to put in the cabinets save the one frying pan she’d bought to cook her breakfast omelet in. A box of plastic silverware sat on one corner along with a package of red solo cups and a roll of paper towels.
She owned nothing.
Lance had kept everything. Everything they’d ever bought. Every last piece of jewelry—except her wedding ring, which she’d gotten a broker friend to sell for her after the divorce. A small victory against Lance and a large win for her limited checkbook. He’d kept every wedding gift. Every memory, good or bad. Laurel had taken what few mementoes she had moved in with, mostly old things from her childhood, a blanket, a few stuffed animals and a photo album from her childhood. And Laurel had taken her wardrobe.
Her clothing had been in the papers, non-negotiable. Each piece was custom tailored to her body, plus she would’ve chopped it all into little pieces before ever leaving it for his whore of a secretary to wear.
A chirp above her head pulled her out of her short jaunt down memory lane. She reached up and felt around on the counter until her fingers curled around the edge of her cell phone. Swiping the screen, she answered the call. “Hi, Felicity. Everything good?”
“Absolutely. The guy sounds like a dream come true. I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon, well ahead of the date. I want a chance to poke around the town. You made it sound so quaint.” Felicity’s bright and shiny enthusiasm clawed at Laurel’s gut like a vulture disemboweling a dead animal.
Good God, where did that feeling come from? Why was she sick over Mick and Felicity together? They would be a good match for each other. A great match even. Writers liked to stick together, and Felicity had even put on her questionnaire that moving and living in a small town was on her wish list. Hell, she was coming early just to look around.
“I’m so glad you’re excited. He’s looking forward to meeting you.” The words and tone sounded well-wishing, but she was so far from positive thoughts she might as well have been hexing them subconsciously.
“I have to admit, the picture you sent surprised me. Typically I go for a little more suit and tie, but Mick intrigues me.”
Laurel swallowed her sigh of agreement. “I think you’ll find you two have a lot in common.”
What was there not to like about Mick Ramsey? Tall, broad-shouldered, strong, protective, kind…everything a woman could ask for, right? She even liked his beard and the flannel shirt.
“You do think he owns more than flannel though?”
A tiny snort of laughter escaped without permission. “I do,” Laurel assured her client. “Give it a chance, Felicity. You promised me you’d keep an open mind.”
“I will. I am. I was just thinking out loud.” Felicity answered, her tone more hesitant than Laurel would’ve preferred, but positive and still on track. Felicity was trying and it was good for her to stretch beyond her comfort zones.
There was more to a man than the clothes he chose to wear.
Although, a few days ago, Laurel would’ve said the same thing. She purposefully looked for a man in a suit. A man who wanted to make something out of his life. A man who cared about his appearance to the rest of the world.
Look where that had gotten her. And who said a man in flannel didn’t care about his appearance? What kind of vain shallow person had she turned into? If her mother and father could see her, they would’ve been ashamed.
Hell, she was ashamed.
She’d wasted nearly five years of her life on a man, who had never really cared about her. He’d considered her nothing more than an accessory. Arm candy. Someone who would help him achieve a goal. And she had. She’d single-handedly built him a match-making empire. Sure he’d had the connections to get her started, but she’d been the one with the knack for the actual matching. Without her, his business would flop in less than a year’s time. Knowing Lance the way she did now, he’d probably try to blame that on her somehow too.
Laurel wiped the back of her grimy hand across her damp forehead and immediately felt disgusted. So much dust and dirt. A shower was definitely in order. Then dinner.
She hopped up from the floor and trudged through the house. The new furniture at least gave the allusion that someone lived here, but nothing was personal. At least not yet. No pictures. No touches of her. She wasn’t even sure what she wanted her place to look like.
Lance had made all the decor choices for their house in Dallas. At first she’d thought it was sweet…that he’d cared so much. But later she come to the realization that he just wanted it to be nicer than what his so-called friends had. Everything was a competition. An unspoken game of who could afford the most or the best.
She flipped on the water in the master bathroom shower and shimmied out of her sweaty clothes before stepping into the old bathtub/shower combo. The surrounding tile looked like it was from the ‘40s and the tub was barely large enough for her to sit in. Definitely on the list for remodeling. At least whoever had lived here before had updated the kitchen and brought it into the twenty-first century—beautiful hardwood, creamy granite counters, and a gorgeous glass tile backsplash. Unfortunately the kitchen had been the only room touched by modern convenience. Still, the house had so much charm and not so close to her neighbors that they could see and hear her every move. A little privacy had been exactly what she wanted. And having a few projects on the ToDo list was a small price to pay for silence and solitude.
Laurel pushed the lever to the right and the handle came right off in her hand. A sick feeling crept down her throat and lodged firmly in the pit of her stomach.
“Shit.”
She fumbled in the spray from the shower head, trying to jimmy the handle back into place long enough to turn the water off. Again and again, she tried to force the broken piece of metal into its respective slot, but it wouldn’t cooperate.
“Just let me turn the water off, please. I’ll call a plumber, but just let me turn you off,” she said, begging the plumbing as if it could hear and respond. It couldn’t. She knew that. “Come on.” Laurel struck the hole where the lever had come loose and a new spray of water started from that spot. “No. No. No.”
Water wasn’t supposed to come from that hole. She stood up suddenly, clobbering the back of her head with the shower head above. The thing came crashing down around her, bouncing around on its short hose like it was playing a game of keep away.
She grabbed for it and missed. Her foot slipped and she grabbed the only thing she could—the old shower curtain. It barely slowed her descent to the porcelain below and the entire thing came down, including her. The curtain, the bar, and pieces of sheetrock littered her bathroom floor. She rubbed the back of her head where the curtain rod had connected with a hard thunk and fought back the urge to release a sob. Her backside wasn’t feeling so hot either.
Laurel stood carefully and tried to hook the fixture back into place, only to find that the connector had broken off completely. Not only could she not turn the water off, she couldn’t attach the nozzle to the wall any longer. And unless she stood and held it, the damn thing would spray water all over the bathroom.
She grabbed the two bath towels off the bar on the wall, wrapped one around the shower head and then draped the other over the temperature handles, partially blocking the water spewing from the wall. She grabbed the counter and stepped out onto the soaked bathmat in the center of the floor and took one slow step after another. The old tiles were wet and her toes slid with each and every movement until she reached the safety of the carpeted ha
llway.
Rounding the corner, she hurried into her room and pulled on a pair of running shorts and a camisole. Then swiped open her cell phone and searched the maps app for a plumber. Nothing was listed as open. It was nearly nine o’clock in a small town and apparently they all went home and went to bed instead of remaining open for customers who actually might need help.
The only person she knew in town was… Mick. Maybe he would at least know how to turn the water off. She knew there was a way, but didn’t have a clue where to start looking. Water dripped from her hair onto the phone screen and she wiped the screen on her sheets before switching to her contacts app and tapping Mick’s name.
Two rings and then his rich smooth bass voice sang into her ear. “Everything, okay, Laurel?”
“I’m really sorry to bother you so late, but I…The water in the bathroom won’t turn off. The handle broke off the wall and now water is spewing everywhere—” A sob escaped without permission. “I can’t find a plumber open to call and—”
“I’ll be right there.” The line went dead and Laurel released another sob. This time of relief. Someone was coming to help. Mick was coming to help. It was going to be okay. He would know how to turn off the water. Then she could call for a plumber in the morning. Breathe, Laurel. She concentrated to control her racing heart and shallow heaves for air.
Her teeth chattered, rattling against each other like wind chimes in a bad storm. She wrapped herself in her big fluffy pink robe and slipped her feet into some matching warm fuzzy slippers before heading downstairs to unlock the front door and turn on the porch light.
Before she got there a heavy thunk thunk thunk shook the front door. “Laurel?”
Her eyes widened and she frowned. “Mick,” she said, pulling open the door. “Where were you? How did you get here so fast?”
Mick gazed down at a sopping wet Laurel wrapped in the most adorable pink robe he’d ever seen. Complete with pink fuzzy slippers. Her eyes were a little reddened around the edges. She’d been crying.
When he’d heard that cry slip out on the phone call his entire body had tightened around his heart until he felt like he might snap in half. Coming to her aid, hadn’t been a choice. It’d been a viseral need. A need to see her. A need to touch her. A need to know she was safe and not upset for any longer than necessary.
God, she was beautiful. Her long black hair smoothed back against her head, like she’d just gotten out of the shower and run to the door. Water ran in rivulets down her cheeks, along her collarbone, and disappeared into the hint of cleavage showing between the collar of her robe.
So many feelings clamored for attention in his mind. The first being how the hell he’d fallen so hard and so fast for this woman.
“Mick?”
He dragged his gaze away from her breasts and tried to focus on what she needed. His help. Not is hungry gaze trying to devour her from head to foot. How was he going to pull off a date with some chick tomorrow night when all he could think about was pulling that fuzzy robe off Laurel so he could explore every inch of her and see if the rest of her body was as wet has her hair.
“Sorry, yes. I live down the street actually. So it was a quick drive.” He sucked in a quick recovery breath and tried to force his face into a wide innocuous smile. “Here to help. I’ve averted more than my fair share of plumbing disasters.”
“Thank you.” She turned and headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. “It broke off. And everything I did just made it worse.”
He followed behind her, his eyes wandering to her rounded ass hidden beneath the fabric of the robe. Shaking his head, he tried to focus on something else. She wasn’t interested in him or she wouldn’t be setting him up with someone else. She was a professional matchmaker, if she didn’t know about attraction and chemistry between two people, then how had she created such a great business back in Dallas?
Surely she wouldn’t deny herself a chance, just to avoid him…or would she? She’d said her divorce was recent. Maybe it was too soon? His timing usually was the worst on the planet when it came to women.
He followed her through the master bedroom, past the bed he’d helped put together. Other than the bed, the room was still bare. It didn’t even feel lived in.
“I wrapped a towel around the shower head, but that didn’t help the spray from the wall.”
“Isn’t the curtain keeping it inside—” He stopped just inside the door of the master bathroom slash pond. Puddles were starting to join together into one large mass in the center. The shower head was spraying a now very wet section of sheetrock and more water was spewing from the wall where her temperature lever had come loose. The shower curtain, along with the bar had been wrenched from its fasteners and lay askew, halfway in the bathtub and half in the floor.
“Shit!” She barreled forward, her footsteps splattering water in every direction. She climbed over the shower curtain and reached for a sopping brown towel in the basin of the tub. Then wrapped it around the shower head hanging from its hose connection. At least that maneuver redirected the flow of water down the tub drain instead of the outside wall and onto the floor.
“Whoa! I’ll be right back. Gotta shut off your line.” Mick turned on the ball of his foot and took off. He was halfway down the stairs and through her front door a few seconds later. The water main should be up near the mailbox. Pausing at his truck, he used the flashlight on his cell to find the right wrench from the toolbox in the bed and then continued his beeline for the road.
His feet crunched in the gravel and he sucked in an extra lungful of cold night air. Damn, this place had a long driveway. At the top of the rise he spied the mailbox and the marker for the water main. He knelt beside it and yanked away the plastic black cover. Within a few seconds he had the water off and was starting down the long drive back toward the house.
Mick dropped the wrench off at his truck and hurried through Laurel’s front door. “It should be off,” he shouted, angling his head toward the stairwell.
“It is.” The reply trailed down toward him. Her voice was so dejected and beaten. Poor woman. It looked like she’d had a rough evening so far.
He took the stairs two at a time, launching himself up to the second story. Then walked toward her master bedroom.
She was on her knees wiping up the floor. The only thing between her round ass and his gaze was a thin layer of pink fabric. Damn, man. He shook the thought from his head, but ignoring the tightening in his groin was going to be more trouble.
“Can I help?” He leaned against the doorjamb behind her and surveyed the mess. The floor was covered in a solid puddle. The wall where the shower head and pipe leak had sprayed was ruined and would have to be replaced. There were two holes where the ends of her shower curtain had been installed. Sheet rock had been unceremoniously ripped from those places. And the shower curtain itself looked to have been halfway ripped from its rings. “Did you fall?” The sudden realization put a healthy dose of trepidation into his normally deep-toned voice.
She reared up on her knees and sighed. “Yes.” Her hand went to her ass and rubbed absentmindedly. “Can you grab me another towel? I put a big stack of them on the floor just outside the bathroom.”
“Are you okay?”
“Bruised, but fine.” She wadded up the sopping towel she’d finished with and heaved, sending the towel sailing across the bathroom toward the tub. It hit the tiled wall with an angry smack before descending into the basin.
He bent to grab a towel and then leaned into the bathroom, handing it off. “You’ve only got two left.” He surveyed the remaining towels and then the lake masquerading as her bathroom floor. “Any more somewhere else?”
She peered over her shoulder and shook her head. Her blue eyes were reddened from tears that had been wiped away. “I’d only bought a few to get by with right now.”
“Hey.” He crouched behind her and reached out, laying a hand on her back. “It’s just water. I promise. It will be okay. I’ll help yo
u get it fixed.”
A shiver vibrated through her body and Mick’s hand. He flexed his fingers, sliding them up to her shoulder.
“I just wanted to take a nice warm shower.” Her teeth chattered through the sentence and he noticed a grayish tint to her lips that hadn’t been there before. “I can’t do anything right. I can’t do anything without help.”
“Hey, it’s okay.” The words caught in his throat.
“It’s not okay. I’m a failure.” She tried to moved forward, away from his touch.
Mick decided letting her go to wallow wasn’t really on the agenda. “You’re not a failure. Stop putting yourself down.” He grabbed the belt on her robe and tugged gently, pulling her out of the bathroom. She resisted no more than a few seconds before she backed toward him, each movement creating a squelching sound. “Is your robe wet?”
His hand slid around her hip as she rotated, quickly coming in contact with freezing wet fabric that made his warm skin burn in shock. It was cold on the floor and half her robe was soaked from being on her knees in the bathroom lake.
“J-j-just a little.”
“Laurel.” He hissed as the wet, ice cold fabric soaked through a spot on his jeans. One of the shoulders had fallen open, revealing a dark blue strap beneath it. Thank God she’s not naked like I imagined at first. Although, depending on how she responded, she might end up that way regardless. He pulled the tie around her waist loose, looped an arm around her hips and pulled the heavy wet robe free from her shivering body. “You’re gonna catch your death wrapped in a wet robe in this drafty house.”
He stood, bringing her up with him. He was holding her against his body, rubbing up and down her back vigorously, hoping the friction would help warm her body. Mick tossed her half-soaked robe onto the bathroom floor. It might as well soak up more of the water now.
