She took his hand, which was strong but not callused like she’d expect of the landscaper or whatever he was. She let him guide her to her feet and as she rose, she looked down at her outfit, soaked and destroyed.
Letting out a whimper, she brushed her trousers and tried not to say a very dark word.
“Here.” He offered the shoe again, putting it on the ground so she could step in. Then he turned one way, then the other, muttering something as he went for her laptop case.
“I hope this is okay.”
After getting it, he grabbed her bag, stuffing God only knew what back into the open top, snagged a pen that must have fallen from the laptop bag, and brought it all to her.
The whole time she stood in shock, the damp clothes cold despite the sun, her hair dripping in her face, and she didn’t even want to think about her mascara.
“I’m sorry…ma’am.” His voice was deep and rich with regret. “I wasn’t sure which way was on with this system. I’m really…” He gave a soft laugh. “Not exactly a sprinkler repair man.”
No kidding.
“It’s…” She wanted to say “all right” but really? It wasn’t. She was wrecked. “I’m, um, supposed to meet…” She angled her head toward the house. “Ms. Buckman.”
He cringed as if the very idea pained him. “You want me to cover for you?”
“While I change in my car?” she quipped, taking her belongings and wiping some dirt from the jacket. “It’s fine. I’ll just step into the bathroom and towel off.”
“There’s a powder room off the entry.” At her surprised look, he added, “I tried to fix some wonky plumbing when she moved in.”
“Thanks for the warning,” she said dryly. “I’ll avoid the faucet.”
He chuckled. “Look at that—prettyandshe has a sense of humor. Don’t see that a lot, you know?”
Did he say…pretty? Was this handyman flirting after he’d drenched her? She felt a smile pull despite the fact that she kind of wanted to kill him. Except, yeah, he had a handsome face under the whiskers and shades.
“Thank you…”
“I’m Danny,” he said. “Danny Sullivan and I’m?—”
The front door flew open, revealing Fiona Buckman standing in the doorway, her smooth white hair contrasted against a black sweater making a daunting impression.
“What is going on?” she demanded.
“Ruh-roh,” he muttered under his breath. “Ding-dong, the witch is not dead.”
Vivien half-gasped, half-snorted, stunned by his insolence. She hoped Fiona hadn’t heard and didn’t lump Vivien with this half-baked handyman from hell.
Swiping back some wet hair, she lifted her chin and smiled as if nothing in the world was wrong.
“Little run-in with the sprinkler system,” she said, feigning brightness.
“Oh, it works, Danny?”
“We’re getting there.” He stepped back and touched the brim of his hat in a gesture that was somehow both mocking and chivalrous. “I’ll wait until you’re inside.”
“Come on, come on.” Fiona waved her closer. “I’ll give you a towel. You can’t possibly ruin the floors because they’re all coming out anyway.”
With one more glance at—what was his name? Danny the Walking Disaster?—she headed up to the porch.
Inside, Fiona ushered her straight into the powder room. “Honestly, that man’s going to be the death of me,” she murmured. “There’s a towel in there. You’ll be fine.”
In a room with a black pedestal sink andghastlyvelvet flocked wallpaper, Vivien tried not to look too hard at herself in the ornate mirror. After an attempt to dry, she donned the jacket, which was damp, but not see-through like her wet silk top.
As ready as she could be, Vivien stepped into the center hall, a two-story affair at the bottom of a massive staircase, just as Fiona joined her.
