Page 21 of The Highland Bad Boy
I grab it then realise there’s nowhere to hang it. “Er . . .” I balance it precariously on top of a stack of moving boxes. “I’ll need to get some hooks. Maybe that’s something you could help with. Anyway, the tour!”
I lead him into the living room, hyperaware of his presence behind me. Robbie glances around, taking in the cracked walls, peeling wallpaper, and worn carpet. He lets out a low whistle.
“So,” I say brightly, “just needs a bit of TLC, right?”
“More like CPR.” His gaze lingers on the stack of paperbacks piled haphazardly in one corner. “That’s a lot of books.”
I raise my hands in a “what can you do?” gesture. “English teacher. It comes with the territory.”
He crouches to read some of the spines. “Ah, Trainspotting. Brutal but honest. Shows a side of Scotland tourists never see.”
I put a hand on my hip. “Have you actually read it? Or just seen the film?”
“Read it. Just because I work with my hands doesn’t mean I can’t use my brain.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Sure you did.” He straightens. “Anyway, we’re not here to talk books.”
“Actually . . .” I grab my tablet. “I have a few ideas for custom bookshelves I’d love to get your opinion on.”
I pull up my Pinterest board and hold the tablet between us, forcing Robbie to lean in. His proximity—his body heat—makes my pulse quicken.
“How about something like one of these for the living room? Built-in shelving with space for all my books. Is that something you could do?”
Robbie studies the images, and I take the opportunity to study him up close. His profile is all strong lines and hard edges, softened by dark lashes that cast shadows on his cheekbones. He really is beautiful.
“Aye. If you need something made of wood, I can make it. Whatever it is.”
I like that. There’s something undeniably sexy about a man who knows exactly what he’s capable of.
“Brilliant,” I say. “Shall we look at the rest of the flat?”
I lead him through each room, watching as he taps walls here and there and takes mental notes of all the work that needs done. In the kitchen, he glances at the drawer that’s still sitting on my floor.
“Ah. So, about that—”
“You got a screwdriver?”
“Er, aye, I think I do, actually.” I fetch it for him, and within thirty seconds, the drawer that caused me so much grief last week is back on its runners, opening and closing smoothly.
“Easy fix,” he says, then he grimaces up at the flickering fluorescent light. “That, on the other hand, needs replaced.”
“To be honest, I’d love to replace the entire kitchen at some point. But that’ll have to wait. For now, the priority is to get the place livable.”
Once he’s finished looking around, we head back to the living room, where we agree on a list of everything he’s going to tackle.
“All in, should take about two weeks, give or take.” He tells me his daily rate, which is not insignificant, especially for someone who’s newly self-employed.
“Wow.” I play with my braid. “How about we haggle that down a bit, and in return, I’ll make sure everyone in town knows you’re the best handyman in the Highlands?”
“Nope.” He glances out of the window, completely unfazed by my little negotiation attempt. “People already know I’m good.” His blue irises meet mine once more. “They think I’m trouble, but they know I can fix anything. My rate’s my rate. Take it or leave it.”
Again with that confidence. It’s infuriating and attractive all at once.
“Is there really nothing we can do?” I try once more, giving him my best pleading look, complete with dimples.
He doesn’t even respond, just folds his arms.
