Page 1 of The Handyman

1

MASON

Iknock three times on Phil Harrington's front door and check my phone one more time. Phil called my cell yesterday, not the office number, not through my project manager. Personal request.

His daughter's bathroom has a leak, and he'd appreciate it if I handled it myself. I said yes because you say yes to the man who's about to hand you a construction contract that could double my business. And because I also genuinely like the guy.

Suddenly the rain comes down harder and sweeps in across the porch. I turn away and pull my jacket closer. My phone vibrates with a new message. Weather warning. Yeah, yeah, I think, typically too fucking late, and telling me precisely what I already know. It’s raining.

The door opens, and the ground disappears from underneath me. Not literally, of course.

Holy fuck.

A tiny woman, maybe five-three, maybe less. The top of her head doesn't even clear my chest.

A pair of hazel-brown eyes look up at me, and every coherent thought I have disintegrates into dust. The whole world slides to a stop around us as my eyes rake over her from head to toe. Her chocolate-brown hair is twisted into a messy knot, with pieces falling around her face.

Her lips are parted, full, pillowy lips that would look so good wrapped around my cock.

Shit, shit, shit. Is this…?

My grip tightens on the toolbox handle. Heat crawls up the back of my neck. Blood moves south, and I'm standing on her father's porch in work boots, reacting in a way that'll be visible if she looks anywhere below my shoulders.

She won't because she's looking at my face with her mouth still open, but I swing the toolbox around in front of my hips anyway.

Act casual, natural, not like a fucking caveman who's seeing a woman for the first time.

Imagine coming home to this, though. Her: petite, barefoot, hair messy, opening the door, waiting for you. The vision is so specific, so vivid, it hits me like a fucking freight train.

I blink it away. I don't know this woman. I don't know her name. All I know is she's Phil's daughter, and he'd chop my fingers off if he ever discovered my filthy thoughts about her.

"Mason Burk,” I state matter-of-factly. “Your dad called about a leak." I smile, trying my best not to let it slide into creepy.

She smiles and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Oh, right, yeah, the bathroom. I'm Katy. Come in. Sorry, I literally just woke up from a nap like twenty minutes ago. I look insane right now. Just … ignore all of this."

The door opens wider. I stamp my boots on the mat. Water and a few flecks of mud drop off.

The foyer is bright, tiled, bigger than my living room. It's not my first time here, but I'm still amazed at how it reeks of old money … even if Phil skimps on the maintenance.

Katy leads me toward a staircase, and I try to focus on the banister, the floor, the ceiling. Basically anywhere that's not her ass in those tiny cotton shorts.

Fuck me. Get a grip. Why am I acting like this?

"It's upstairs, my bathroom, the one attached to my room. Something under the sink has been leaking for like two weeks, and I keep meaning to call someone but, of course, I keep forgetting, and then my dad called me yesterday and was like, 'Did you call the plumber?' and I was like, 'Technically you're the one who just called the plumber,' and he didn't think that was funny, but I thought it was pretty funny. Anyway, it's up here."

Katy speaks like she has somewhere else to be, and between her rambling and my hard-on, the words sound like gibberish. She might as well be speaking a foreign language.

But I nod and follow.

The bathroom is standard luxury—marble countertop, undermount sink, vanity cabinet with brushed nickel handles. I open it and find the leak almost immediately. One connection is old and corroded, and water drips steadily onto the cabinet floor. Easy fix.

"So how long have you been doing this? The plumbing thing, I mean. Not specifically my plumbing, obviously, because that would be weird if this was your first time, but like plumbing in general."

"A while."

"How much of a while? Three months a while or three decades a while?"

"Katy, I'm thirty-five. I did not become a plumber at five."