Page 150 of Just One Little Bargain

He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, unmoved by the barb. “I was going to offer sympathy next, but I can see you’re having more fun with hostility.”

I whip around. “Do you find this funny?”

“No.” He doesn’t flinch. “I think you’re overwhelmed and taking it out on me.”

That only makes me angrier. “You don’t get to stand there and psychoanalyze me while another part of my inn falls apart.”

His mouth tightens for half a second, then eases. “Can you wait to fix it?”

“Guest checking in at five specifically requested this room.” I dry my hands and pull out my phone. “So no, it can’t wait. Which means emergency-plumber rates and another chunk disappearing from my savings.”

The call to Hayes Plumbing confirms exactly what I was afraid of.

Yes, emergency.

No, this evening is too late.

Yes, I understand rates are higher for same-day service.

Martin Hayes arrives forty minutes later in a faded blue pickup with rust freckling the wheel wells and headlights clouded white with age. The engine gives a tired shudder when he kills it. He sets a scuffed toolbox on the ground before climbing out, broad and solid beneath his flannel, with a comfortable belly softening his frame. His beard is dense and well kept, his dark hair flattened on one side from a cap he tosses onto the seat behind him.

“Evie.” He gives me a warm grin that creases the corners of his eyes, lending his thirty-five years an easy, boyish charm. “Heard you’ve got hot water problems.”

“It’s in the Clover Room.” I’m already heading for the stairs. “I need it back in service before today’s check-in.”

“I’ll get you sorted.” He follows me up, tool belt jangling.

I’m hyperaware of Milo trailing behind us. Usually, a new face draws him out within seconds, his curiosity spilling into conversation before anyone has properly introduced themselves. Today, he offers Martin nothing beyond a quiet hello. Without the frustration that sharpened my earlier words, I can finally hear how needlessly cruel they were.

Martin turns both taps, holds two fingers beneath the stream, then crouches and opens the vanity cabinet. He reaches past the drainpipe to test the supply lines before twisting one of the shutoff valves.

“Well?” I ask as he leans farther into the cabinet.

“Give me a sec.” He pulls a flashlight from his belt and angles the beam along the pipes. “Huh.”

“Huh is not reassuring.”

“Yeah, so . . .” Martin eases out from beneath the sink and braces one forearm on his knee. “Good news is I can get you hot water today.”

“Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?”

“But I found a bigger problem.” He gets up and points into the cabinet. “The mixing valve for this room is shot, which is why you’re only getting cold water here. While I was tracing the line, I found significant corrosion in the main supply pipe that’s probably been developing for years.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough that I’m surprised you haven’t had pressure issues or leaks.” He scratches his jaw. “You’re looking at a full repipe. Not today, but within the next year. Maybe sooner, if luck’s not on your side.”

Given the pattern of my life, I should start pricing the work now.

“How much?”

“Today’s emergency repair? Three-fifty.” He grimaces. “Full replacement? Six to eight thousand, depending on materials, and how much wall we destroy getting to everything.”

Six to eight thousand. I manage a bland nod while my mind races through loan applications, interest rates, and how much more debt I can carry before the bank starts asking questions I don’t want to answer.

“Just do today’s fix.”

“You got it.”