The Player Next Door

His triceps strain as he uses the wrench on something, before testing something else with his fingers. His abs flex beautifully as he pulls himself up to a sitting position and then gets to his feet. “I think we’re almost good to go. I’m gonna turn the main water back on. Scream if something bad happens.”

“That inspires confidence,” I say as he disappears down the narrow set of stairs into the dark and dingy basement. This house is old—like, dirt floor and stone walls in the basement old. I’ve only been down there once and have no plans on going back ever again, the visuals of a Blair Witch-like bogeyman in the corner too vivid to ignore.

Moments later, heavy footfalls pound back up. “I didn’t hear screaming.” Shane heads for the sink.

“The day is young.”

He chuckles as he kneels. “Okay, let’s try out my handiwork.” He glances over his shoulder at me, and I try not to admire his face too much. “Ready?”

I give an exaggerated thumbs-up and hold my breath as the valve squeaks open with a twist of his wrist.

No hissing, no spraying water.

“So far, so good.” He reaches up to open the faucet. After a short sputter to force out the air bubbles, water streams out.

“You actually did it!” I exclaim, sounding dumbfounded.

He leans back on his haunches, grinning. “Told you. Good as new.”

I sigh with relief. Shane Beckett, of all people, saved me from spending a ton of money I don’t have.

Wiping his dirty hands on a rag, he tosses his tools into a black, rectangular toolbox. “Hopefully the rest of the pipes will hold until you can afford to have them replaced.”

“Yeah. Hopefully.” I muster as much sincerity as I can. “Thanks, Shane.” He’s still a douchebag, but he’s a douchebag who’s knowledgeable and willing to fix my house. “What do I owe you?”

“Nah. Nothing.” He waves dismissively.

“No, seriously. I need to repay you.”

“Well, then how about dinner with me? The Patty Shack’s still around.”

Are you fucking kidding me? I spear him with an “Are you on drugs?” glare. We had our first date there.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “As friends.”

“Well, yeah. Of course, it would be as friends,” I scoff. As far as he knows, I’m dating Joe. I’m not about to cheat on my fake boyfriend with him. But uneasiness gnaws at my insides. Shane may have helped me today, but we’re a far cry from reminiscing about the good ol’ days over hamburgers and milkshakes. Getting friendly is a bad idea. “Where are the receipts from the stuff you picked up at the hardware store?”

“In there, I think.” He juts his chin to the plastic bag sitting on the counter.

“I have to go out so I’ll grab cash for you and bring it by as soon as I can.”

“No rush.” He leans over to grab the handle on his toolbox, his forearm straining with the weight. “And let me know about dinner.”

That’s a hard pass. I press my lips together to flash him a tight smile that hopefully says as much.

He saunters toward me, his leg brushing against my thigh ever so lightly. I can’t decide if it was an accidental or intentional move. “You should go with this one.” He taps the periwinkle paint chip. “It matches your eyes.”

Shane always did say he loved the way my irises looked more purple than blue in certain light. He’d spend long moments studying them during lazy afternoons at Pike’s Park beneath the gnarly oak trees. I keep getting lost in them, he’d whisper, and I’d swoon like the lovesick idiot I was.

I shift my body away and keep my focus on the table, desperately trying to ignore the electric current coursing through me at his proximity. “You don’t even know which room it’s for.”

“Which room is it for?”

I hesitate. “My bedroom.” Why does divulging that to him sound like a dirty suggestion?

“Well, then it’s definitely perfect.” His voice has dropped an octave. “Anyone you bring up there won’t ever want to leave.”

My blood pounds in my ears. What the hell does that mean? Is Shane Becket flirting with me? After what he did all those years ago?

I will not look up at him.

I will keep my eyes forward.

On his belt buckle, apparently. And the sexy V-shape I know is hiding beneath his clothes, his body chiseled with muscle as if hand-carved.

“Scar …”

I sigh heavily and then force my head back to meet that beautiful whiskey-colored gaze. “What?” My disloyal heart stutters, despite the bitterness I grip tightly. Dear God, how did I ever hold fast at second base with this guy? Even now, my thighs are growing warm with a need to feel his hips between them, my palm twitches as I imagine his hard length within it. Men should not be built to look like him. It’s not natural.