The Landlord

Damien
I’ve been fixing things my whole life. Broken pipes, busted electrical, crumbling foundations.
If it’s damaged, I can make it work again. What I can’t fix is my tendency to fall for the one woman who’s completely off-limits.
Alyssa James lives across the hall in my building, and she’s everything I’m not: quiet where.
I’m gruff, delicate where I’m rough around the edges.
She blushes when I say good morning and practically sprints past my door like I might bite.
Smart woman. I probably would.
As her landlord, I should keep things professional.
But the delivery guys can’t seem to tell the difference between D. Finch and A. James, so her packages end up at my door weekly. It’s the only excuse I have to see her face, though, to catch a glimpse of those blue eyes before she disappears back into her apartment.
Then my dog – Doug – destroys one of her packages, and suddenly I’m standing in her doorway,
holding the most mortifying thing imaginable. Her face turns seventeen shades of red, and all
I can think is that the real thing is so much better than whatever’s in that box.
Maybe it’s time I proved it—professional boundaries be damned.