Carried Away

Fair is fair and Ben, the traitor, still takes first prize.

“Second-best, Carebear?” a scratchy voice inquires.

Every muscle in my body contracts involuntarily and not in a pleasant way. I can hear it distinctly––he’s on the verge of outright laughter. Slowly, I turn to find Jake standing in the doorway, a smile flirting at the corners of his lips.

I hate myself right now. “Don’t say another word.”

Marching over to the pantry, I retrieve the monkey wrench from the portable tool box and open the doors under the sink. I need to hide my face right now and under the sink seems to be the perfect place.

Laying down on my back, I cram my head under the sink and inspect the pipes. Do I know anything about pipes? Hell no. But apparently neither does the plumber I hired.

“Don’t break anything,” Nan calls out.

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” I return.

“I’m confident you know nothing about plumbing, sweetheart.”

Whatever. From my spot on the ground, I can see Turner’s boots. He hasn’t moved, as I had hoped.

“Go away Turner. You’re killing my focus.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m the second most handsome man you’ve ever seen.”

Ugh. Wonderful. He’s going to milk this for all it’s worth.

A beat later he’s on the ground next to me, attempting to inject his massive upper body into the small space along mine.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t break anything I can’t fix.”

“Nobody asked you. I’ve got it, but thanks.”

“Move out. I can’t breathe under here with you flapping your lips.”

Jerk. My blood pressure hits a dangerous level. The last thing I need right now is to look incompetent in front of this guy, giving him more material to ridicule me with. “I’ll do no such thing.”

“What’s the problem with the sink?” he says ignoring my attempt to maintain control over the situation.

“It’s still sputtering. And I just handed Spalding two fifty to fix it.”

Turner wraps his fingers around the handle of the monkey wrench over mine and an electric current travels up my arm. I hate that phrase, but in this case, an electric current is the only way to describe the feeling.

Then he levels me with an unblinking stare that could arguably make a grown man cry. Not me. Na-ha. Nope. I’ve seen this fraud in action with the kids. Scowl away, pal. I’ve got your number.

“Let go Anderson.”

Let’s keep it real, though. Nan is right. I hand over the wrench because who am I kidding? I know less than nothing about plumbing.

Turner gets his game face on while I watch him scope out the pipes.

“Sputtering you said?”

“Hmm.”

He checks the tightness on the washers while I watch. “Do you know anything about plumbing, or do I have to call Spalding and drag his ass?”

“Where I grew up, you had to know how to do a little bit of everything.”

I did more research on him last night and discovered there’s very little out there about him. “In Chicago, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Why did you have to know a little bit of everything?” I can’t help it, asking questions is a compulsion.

Turner pauses his fiddling with the washers and meets my eyes. “What, you didn’t Google me?” A one-sided smirk shapes his lips. “I thought you were a reporter.”

My blood boils, needling the skin on my neck. “Look, I don’t really care that your delicate feelings were hurt by some big bad journalist in the past. But taking shots at me won’t make that go away. I was asking you because I don’t always believe everything I read.”

The smirk drops and a small part of me feels vindicated. I’m fairly certain he seldom gets called out on his shitty behavior and it’s about time someone did.

“South side,” he says and resumes tinkering with the pipes. “Public housing doesn’t have good plumbing so I learned to fix things.”

“You lived there with your parents?” I prompt. I found almost nothing about his family online, and my mouth is a runaway train right now. When something piques my interest nothing can stop it, and Jake Turner definitely piques my interest.

He doesn’t answer right away. I can practically feel him internally debating how much to tell me. “My mom…until I was fourteen. Then foster care.”

That explains a lot.

“Let’s see if that worked,” he says, scooting out from under the sink.

He stands, offering me a hand up, and when I place mine in his, the feeling returns. It wasn’t a fluke or my imagination. A sense of awareness covers every inch of my skin. And it’s not a cold feeling. Just the opposite it’s warm and soothing, drawing me in. Something strange is happening here.

“You two gonna stand there all day holding hands, or are you going to help me make dinner?”

Nan’s voice is nails on a chalkboard. We break apart and he turns to face her. “Thanks, Martha, but I’ve got plans.”