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She peers at my knuckles, and her hair brushes my forearm. Holy mother of god. Just like that, my cock stirs … again and strains against my zipper.

"Okay, it's not that bad, but you should probably clean it. Do you want a Band-Aid? I have like fifty different kinds, different sizes, colors, and shapes. I'm weirdly prepared for minor injuries."

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I have cartoon ones if you want something fun. Dad once cut his finger, and he went to work with Pikachu wrapped around his thumb."

"I'm sure."

She sits back on her heels. We're eye level now, just a few inches apart. Her eyes aren't just hazel—there's gold in them, a ring around the pupil that I can see at this distance.

I should put some distance between us because I can sense my control fracturing beneath a pressure I do not recognize. Around Katy, I can't trust my own body, and it's taking years off my life.

"You must be good at this handyman thing if you have your own company now. My dad said you have like forty employees? That's crazy. In a good way. Like, you built that from nothing."

"Forty-three."

"Forty-three people who depend on you for their jobs. That's a lot of responsibility."

"They're good at their jobs. Makes it easier."

"Still. You must be doing something right."

The valve turns smoothly. Water flows to the faucet, no leaks at the connection. Perfect repair. I should pack up. I should leave. Instead, I find myself checking the connection again, testing a shut-off valve that's working perfectly because I don't want to go.

Yes, I'm pathetic. And yes, I'm owning it.

"Do you have a dog, Mason?"

"No."

"Have you ever had one?"

"When I was a kid."

"What kind?"

"Mutt. Part lab, part something else."

"What was his name?"

"Duke."

"Duke's a good dog name. Very dignified. Was he a good judge of character? Did he ever growl at someone who turned out to be sketchy?"

"He liked everyone."

"See, that's the problem with really friendly dogs. They're no help detecting the sketchy people. You need a dog with trust issues. A dog who's seen some stuff. A dog who looks at new people like, 'prove to me you're not garbage.'"

I can't help but chuckle. Jesus Christ, this woman. I can't keep track of all the things she's been talking to me about. Although 'talking to me' is a bit of a stretch. This is more of a one-sided conversation.

There's nothing left to fix in this bathroom, but every time I think about packing up my tools, she says something else that hooks my attention, and I find another connection to check.

That's when I notice a soft spot in the wall near the shower.

I press my thumb against it. The wall gives slightly.

Shit.