Page 6 of Restored By You

“Up here!” a woman’s voice calls out, sharp with panic.

I take the stairs two at a time, tool bag in hand, following the sound to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Water pools under the door, spreading across the hardwood in dark rivulets.

And standing in the doorway, phone pressed to her ear with one hand while the other gestures wildly, is the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in…

Hell. Maybe ever.

She’s soaked. Water’s dripping from her dark ringlet curls, plastering them to her neck and shoulders. Her white T-shirt clings to her ample, perky chest in ways that have my cock twitching. There’s a wet footprint trail leading from the bathroom to where she stands now. Her skin is a rich, warm brown tone that catches the hallway light and highlights how flushed with frustration she is. When she turns those wide, brown eyes on me, I forget how to breathe.

“Thank god,” she pants, lowering her phone. “Callie said you were coming.”

I manage a nod, tearing my gaze away from her in an attempt to reel my shit in. “Where’s the main shutoff?”

“I have no idea.” She runs a hand through those wet curls, and I watch a droplet slide down her temple. “The contractor was supposed to be here to show me everything, but he never showed, and I just wanted to wash my hands, and—” Her voice cracks slightly. “God, this is such a disaster.”

I move past her into the bathroom, careful not to brush against her as I do, then set my tool bag on the edge of the tub. “Let me guess,” I grunt, crouching down in front of the dated vanity to assess the situation underneath. “Jack Depew.”

The same jack-off who I’ve had to redo jobs for, for fuckin’ years. The guy is dumber than a rock, but hell if he can’t talk his way into any job at any skill level. Problem is, he has no idea what he’s doing. If anything, she’s lucky he didn’t show up.

She doesn’t respond so I chance a glance over my shoulder as I grab a wrench from my bag. She blinks at me, those big brown eyes searching my face.

Something tugs in my chest.

Don’t.

“How did you know?” she asks.

I huff, refocusing my attention at the shutoff valve under the sink that’s cranked in the wrong direction, nearly stripped from someone forcing it to, quote, ‘close.’

She crouches down beside me, close enough that one of those damp curls brushes my forearm when she leans over. And I feel it like a live wire.

Definitely don’t.

I reach in, wrench in hand, and coax the valve back into position with three firm turns. The rushing water sputters, gurgles, and dies.

Silence.

She exhales beside me, long and slow. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I caused all of that—” she gestures vaguely at the wet hallway behind us, “—by turning the wrong valve?”

“Previous owner half-stripped it.” I straighten, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Whoever closed on this place should’ve caught it in the inspection.”

The look that crosses her face tells me exactly how that went.

“There was an inspection,” she says carefully.

I snort. “Jack Depew.”

Her expression answers for her.

I shake my head slowly. “I’ve got a shop vac in my truck. We can start sucking up the majority of this water. You got a mop?”

She stares at me for a beat. Then those full lips curve into a breathtaking smile despite everything. “I have an emotionally unavailable, surly, teenage stepbrother downstairs with a head full of hair,” she offers. “Does that count?”

My laugh catches me so off guard I almost don’t recognize the sound coming from my own chest. Don’t, I remind myself again.