I trudged into the kitchen. “Do you have bacon?”
“Do I have bacon?” Grandpa snorted. “What sort of ridiculous question is that?”
I don’t know if the wordbaconroused Rufus to his paws, but he followed me into the kitchen and dropped into a furry huff at my feet.
I found the bacon in the fridge, a package of hot dog rolls in the bread box, and a can of clam chowder in the cupboard—all of the ingredients for what Grandpa called a Sloppy Walter, and his own recipe for a premature heart attack. I put the bacon on the griddle and listened to Grandpa flip through the TV channels.
When I emerged with a plate holding a piping hot Sloppy Walter and a large dill pickle, I found Grandpa watching one of those fixer-upper shows. This one featured a pretty brunette in a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a white T-shirt.
The host wore a tool belt strapped around her hips and a girl-next-door smile. I started when her name flashed on the screen: Clare ofClare’s Revamp & Restore.
That was the woman Marcus wanted to set me up with!
Grandpa must have noticed my interest because he changed the channel back toBonanzawith a harrumph. “Nowadays, women think they can do anything.”
“And they can,” I said.
Maybe they can even do the impossible. I went into the kitchen to send Marcus a quick text.
*CLARE
I knelt in a sea of cold, muddy water, my hands slippery with grime, struggling to stem the flow from the burst pipe. “This house is going to kill me!” I twisted with all my strength and a wrench, but the miserable piece of plumbing refused to budge—like it had a personal grudge and excellent upper body strength. When I thought I couldn't get any wetter, the door creaked open and the shift of air told me I was no longer alone.
I turned to see a man, tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in a suit that looked far too expensive for this kind of mayhem, standing in the doorway. His face was a mixture of concern and...was that... horror?
He cleared his throat. “Hello? I’m Ethan Bingham. We have—had—a date set up? Through a mutual friend, Marcus Morgan?” His voice, a low rumble echoing in the confined space, sounded uncertain. “Marcus told me I could find you here.”
If my hands weren’t already occupied, I would have slapped my head. I had completely forgotten I had promised Arrianna I’d meet up with Marcus’s friend.
“It looks like you’re busy...having fun without me,” Ethan said.
“All sorts of belly laughs,” I retorted.
Ethan hesitated, his eyes darting around the old house as if assessing the damage. Finally, he stepped inside, his expensive leather shoes crunching on the debris-strewn floor. I could practically hear him lamenting the inevitable mud stains.
“Need...uh...some help?” He hesitated, but looked willing enough.
I raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Do you think?”
He seemed to deflate slightly, his gaze dropping to his shoes. “Huh, not to brag, but I’m quite possibly, stronger than you. My being male, six-four and over two-hundred pounds, and you being...you.”
That last part was said with a heartfelt earnestness, and I found myself warming toward him because everything he said was true. “Alrighty then.” I waved my wrench at the toolbox, curious as to what he’d pick up.
He chose a wrench to match my own. A decent choice. Determination flickered in his expression. He shed his jacket, laid it on the kitchen counter, and rolled up his sleeves. His movements were graceful and his forearms remarkably toned for someone who looked like he spent most of his time behind a desk.
Together, we fumbled with the stubborn valve, our hands bumping once—then again—as we both reached for the same spot. I let out a nervous laugh, but he didn’t pull away, just adjusted slightly, his knuckles grazing mine. Our thighs were only inches apart, my damp jeans pressed close to his expensive suit in the narrow space beneath the sink. His warmth, solid and steady beside me, and the roar of the water wasn’t the only thing making my heart race.
We finally got a grip, twisted hard, and the valve gave with a groan. The water slowed, then stopped, leaving a ringing quiet in its place. We stayed like that for a beat too long, kneeling side by side, breathless and soaked, the silence almost more intense than the flood.
He smiled, a shy, almost apologetic expression. “You’re welcome.” He climbed to his feet and extended his hand.
I let him pull me upright. “I'm Clare, by the way.”
“I know who you are. I saw you on TV.” He didn’t release my hand.
“I’m not dressed for a date.”
“I can see that.” His gaze flicked over me before coming back to meet my eyes. “You were cute on TV, but I think I might like this drowned-cat look better.” A blush stained his cheeks. “Actually, I wanted to meet you, not just because you’re, well, you, but also, I have something of a proposition.”
