The Player Next Door

Panicked, I crouch and open the cupboard doors.

And get hit in the face with a burst of cold water.

I let out a shriek as I’m doused. Turning my face to avoid the brunt of the blast, I fumble blindly beneath the old cabinet, frantic to find the shut off valve before my entire kitchen floods. Ten seconds later, I finally locate it.

“Shit!” I curse, spotting the culprit—a rusty, rotted pipe. It must have snapped when I shoved in the bucket. Now I don’t have a functioning kitchen sink. I can’t live without a kitchen sink.

I’ll have to phone a plumber today, I accept with bitter resignation.

Grabbing my new set of tea towels—a housewarming gift from Justine—I sop up as much water as I can and then, loading my arms with the soaked, dripping rags, I carry them out back. I throw them at the ground by the clothesline, my frustration swelling.

This is not how I was supposed to start today.

“Is everything all right?” a deep male voice calls out, startling me.

Shane is perched on a picnic table in his backyard, his long, jean-clad legs splayed in front of him, intently focused on something round and metal in his hand. Several other pieces sit on the table beside him, set on oily rags.

Great. Just who I don’t want to deal with right now, even if my heart is suddenly hammering in my chest. A visual of Shane, completely naked, sears my memory, and my face flushes. This is exactly why I should not have spied.

I struggle for composure, and when I can’t manage that, I shift my focus back to the dish towels, strangling out the sink water before stretching them on the clothesline.

Twenty seconds later, footfalls approach on the soft grass. “Scar? Is everything okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I answer in a forced bored tone.

“Well … because I heard you scream, and you look like you took a shower in your clothes.” There’s humor in his voice.

“A pipe under my sink broke,” I finally admit. Crap. My gaze drops to the white tank top that I slept in, noting how the cotton clings in a very sleazy wet-T-shirt-contest way, highlighting the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. My cheeks flame with embarrassment as I struggle to hide my assets from his view, all while continuing with my task. He touched my breasts that summer, countless times. Slid his hand up my shirt and pushed aside the lace, teasing my flesh with the deft skill of a boy who had done it many times before. I let his mouth on them a few times before I stopped him, afraid it’d go too far if I didn’t. Does he remember?

“Can I take a look?”

“What?” I croak.

“At your kitchen pipe,” he says slowly, frowning. “Can I look at what happened?”

Oh. Right. “Are you a plumber?”

“No, but—”

“Do you know anything about plumbing?”

He smirks. “More than you do, I’m guessing.”

I grit my teeth and count to ten in my head, checking my temper. The bitch tone I use when I’m shutting down flirtatious guys at bars is emerging. While Shane deserves whatever attitude he gets from me, I don’t want to be the scorned woman flashing her bitterness thirteen years after a high school summer fling. That’s pathetic. “I think I should have an actual plumber fix this.”

He pauses. “Okay. I can give you the name of a good one in town.”

“That … would be helpful.” Shane always was a nice guy. Until he wasn’t.

From the corner of my eye, I catch him folding those cut arms over his chest. “It’ll cost you a hundred bucks just to get him through your door and then another few hundred—at least—to replace what I’m guessing are corroded pipes. Plus parts. So, I’m thinking it’ll end up being anywhere from five hundred to a thousand, by the time he walks out your door.”

“You can’t be serious.” I groan in dismay, forgetting about wet rags and revealing shirts for the moment as my palms push through my damp hair. I can’t afford that right now. I also can’t afford to go without a kitchen sink until my first paycheck.

“For an actual plumber, yeah, I am.” Shane shrugs. “Or you could ask your neighbor who’s done a bunch of reno jobs to see if he can fix it. No charge.”

Scorned heart or not, I’d be an idiot to deny letting Shane try.

“Fine,” I mutter begrudgingly, stealing a glance at his handsome face. He hasn’t shaved yet today and his chiseled jaw is coated in a sexy stubble. His hair is also in disarray, like he just rolled out of bed, threw on some clothes, and came outside. It’s annoyingly adorable, and I feel the urge to comb my fingers through it.

His golden gaze drifts over my features. There’s a long, uncomfortable pause and then he says, “I’ve got time now.”