Page 22 of Broken Vows

Men who fix things.

“Great,” I say. “You handle it. While you’re working on that, I’ll fix the damn thing.”

Her mouth opens. I don’t wait to hear what comes out of it.

I duck home, grab my toolbox, and head back across the yard just as Carmen steps out her front door carrying a tiny pink drill.

We both stop.

She looks at my toolbox. I look at the drill in her hand.

“What the hell is that?”

She glances down at it. “A drill.”

“That come free with a manicure?” I ask. “You even got bits for it?”

Her brow furrows. “What’s a bit?”

For Christ’s sake.

“Come here.”

Her eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

I set the toolbox down with a solid thud. “Bring the toy.”

“It’s not a toy.”

“It’s pink and weighs less than my phone. Bring it here.”

She looks like she’s about to tell me where to go, but then she steps off the porch and crosses the yard anyway, chin lifted like she’s doing me a favor.

The second she’s close enough, I take the drill from her hand and toss it onto the lawn.

“Hey,” she snaps.

“You want the gate fixed or not?”

I open my toolbox, pull out my normal sized drill, and hand it to her. Then I find the right bit and a handful of screws.

“I’ll hold the gate. You pull the trigger when I tell you.”

She eyes me for a long second, looking like she wants to argue.

Which is ridiculous, considering I’m the one doing her a favor, and she’s the one who came outside armed with a toy and no plan.

Finally, she closes her eyes for half a second, like I’m testing the outer limits of her patience.

“Fine,” she says.

I wrestle the gate back into position. Pain shoots through my bad shoulder like a hot poker, but I lock my jaw, brace the weight, and ignore it.

“Right there,” I say, nodding at the top hinge. “Line it up with the holes and go slow.”

She raises the drill. The screw immediately skitters off the metal and gouges a fresh groove into the wood.

I close my eyes.