Page 28

The hardware store was supposed to be safe. A place where I could focus on work, pick up supplies for the Morrison job, and absolutely not think about my neighbor and her dark sense of humor and the way she’d looked soaking wet, holding a broken cabinet door with pure determination on her face.

I made it exactly three aisles before the universe decided to test me.

She was in the plumbing section, holding a pipe fitting upside down and glaring at it with intensity. She wore jeans that had seen better days, hair in a messy bun that left her neck exposed. She looked exhausted and frustrated.

She looked perfect.

My brain, which had functioned perfectly well for thirty-five years, promptly forgot how to form words.

“That’s, you’ve got fitting the wrong.” Oh my fucking god. What the fuck was that?! “The wrong fitting, I mean.”

Smooth. Real smooth. Five years of not dating had apparently destroyed my ability to speak to women without sounding like I was having a stroke.

She looked at the piece in her hand, then at me. A wry smile tugged at her mouth. “I have the wrong everything in that house.”

The laugh caught in my throat. I stepped closer, telling myself it was to see what she was trying to fix, not because I apparently had no self-control where this woman was concerned.

“What else is broken?”

“What isn’t?” She set the fitting down with a clink. “The porch looks like it’s planning to collapse out of spite. I’m pretty sure the electrical hasn’t been updated since Edison was alive. Two toilets make sounds that can’t be natural. The kitchen is…” She waved a hand. “The kitchen defies description. You saw it.”

I should have sympathized and moved on. Should have recommended a contractor from the list of people who weren’t me. Should have done anything except what came out of my mouth.

“I could fix it.”

She blinked. “What?”

What was I doing? I had a full schedule. The Morrison job, the Thompson renovation, three estimates scheduled for next week. I didn’t have time to take on a whole house, especially one that sounded like it needed to be rebuilt from the foundation up.

“Full renovation,” my mouth continued without permission. “My crew, professional job. Better than trying to DIY it piece by piece.”

“You’re a contractor?”

“Among other things.”

She studied me with those dark eyes that had kept me up last night. “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.”

Good question. Great question. I had no answer that didn’t sound insane. Because you moved in next door and my daughter thinks you’re wonderful? Because I can’t stop thinking about how you looked at me when I smiled? Because the thought of you in that house with failing electrical and a collapsing porch makes me want to fix everything immediately?

“It’s practical,” I said instead. “The electrical alone is a fire hazard. The porch could hurt someone when it finally gives up. You’ll spend three times as much fixing things piecemeal versus doing it right the first time.”

All true. All logical. None of it explaining why I was shuffling my entire schedule in my head to make room for her project.

She chewed her lower lip, considering. I absolutely did not watch. Much.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Do you… want to come look at it now? Are you busy?”

Say no. Say you’ll come by this afternoon. Say you have a crew waiting. Say anything except-

I nodded, like my brain had completely disconnected from my body.

“No, not busy. I can meet my crew later. I’ll, um, meet you there?”

Another nod. Christ, what was wrong with me? I watched her leave, still holding the wrong pipe fitting, before my phone buzzed with increasing urgency. Three texts from my crew wondering where the hell I was.

I followed her car home, trying to remember how to be a professional. I was good at my job. I’d built a successful business from nothing, raised a daughter alone, kept my life together when everything had fallen apart. I could handle looking at one house owned by one woman without losing my mind.

That confidence lasted approximately thirty seconds after she opened her front door.