Page 34 of Snowed Inn
Charlotte’s long pause tells me everything. “Um, that would be Aiden usually. But since he’s not here, Jesse could—”
“Nope!” I’m not about to call Jesse to my apartment to fix a pipe. Not after that near mistletoe kiss. Not after the hot dream I had about him. It’s far too close to a bed up here. My self-control isn’t built for that kind of temptation.
“Is it something I can help with?” Charlotte asks. “Or I can try Miller.”
Miller is a linens vendor so I’m not entirely sure how great he’ll be with plumbing. Plus, I don’t want to bother him either.
“No, don’t worry. It’s just a leaky pipe under the sink. I’ll figure it out.”
“Are you sure? I can—”
“Totally sure. You’ve got enough to handle. Thanks!”
I hang up before she can insist, then I google “how to fix leaky sink pipe.” They say you learn something new every day. Apparently, that’s my entire lifestyle now. I feel like I’m a few tutorials away from running a whole quaint, quirky inn single-handedly.
Fifteen minutes and three confusing YouTube tutorials later, I’ve discarded my sweater and I’m on my knees on the kitchen floor, head and shoulders wedged under the sink, a flashlight clenched between my teeth, muttering curses at whoever designed plumbing systems. It’s not as simple as you might think.
I’ve located what I guess is the problem—a loose connection where two pipes meet. But every time I try to tighten it, water sprays in unexpected directions. My hair is damp, my T-shirt is soaked, and I’m seriously reconsidering my life choices.
That’s when I hear a knock at the door.
“Go away,” I mutter around the flashlight. “Unless you’re a plumber, in which case, the door’s open.”
The door creaks open, and I hear splashy footsteps.
“Charlotte mentioned you might need some help.”
Jesse. Of course.
I try to extract myself from under the sink with dignity, which is impossible. I bang my head, drop the flashlight, and emerge looking like I’ve been caught in a very localized rainstorm.
“I’m fine,” I insist, pushing to my feet and wiping wet strands of hair from my face. “Just a minor plumbing situation. I’ve got it under control.”
Jesse stands in the doorway, arms crossed, looking annoyingly dry and composed. There’s amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. I look down. My white T-shirt is nearly see through. Fantastic. Jesse’s staring at my bra. “I’m fine,” I repeat for good measure as I tug the shirt away from my skin.
“Is that why there’s water all over the floor?”
I glance down. The puddle has tripled in size. “That’s . . . part of the process.”
His amusement deepens, settling into his eyes. “The process of flooding the apartment?”
“Look,” I sigh, “if you’re just here to make fun of me, I’d rather struggle alone, thanks.” I dash into the bathroom and pull out a stack of towels, which I proceed to toss on the floor to soak up the mess.
Jesse watches me, his expression softening. “I’m not here to make fun of you, Maria. I’m here to help.”
“By fixing it for me? So you can accuse me of being pampered again? Not interested.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “We called a truce, remember? I was thinking more like showing you how to fix it yourself.”
That catches me off guard. “What?”
“You were already trying. Seems like you want to learn.”
I hesitate. He’s right—I do want to learn. I hate feeling incompetent, especially at basic life skills. But learning from Jesse means admitting I need his help, which feels like losing some unspoken competition between us. And the competition is what’s keeping me from thinking about how close we are to a bedroom . . . two actually.
“Fine,” I say finally. “Show me.”
Jesse nods, stepping farther into the kitchen. He grabs a dish towel from the counter and tosses it to me. “First, dry your hands. Water and tools don’t mix well.”
