Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“You’re not coming back here, buddy, and neither is she. Sit tight and stay dry,” I tell him, grabbing another plant and heading down to the car.
15
THE SWEET STUFF (JUNIPER)
Holy hell.
What even is this day?
This night, this life, this man?
He stands in the middle of my apartment with his sleeves rolled up, looking around at the piles of junk I’ve grabbed and parked in a safe, dry corner. Clothes, plants, a box of sentimental stuff, plus Catness’ food, carrier, and a couple salvaged cat toys.
“We might need multiple trips,” he says without a hint of annoyance. “Can you get him in his carrier without a fight?”
I frown.
Usually, it’s quite a battle when we’re going to the vet or anywhere else, but today Catness seems to know that if he doesn’t get in, he’s going to wind up as a mangy soaked cotton ball.
He shuffles in without complaint.
“Dang, that was easy. Good boy.” I pass the carrier to Dexter with a smile and our fingers brush.
Every sense pings on the contact, although he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Keep collecting everything you want to take,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
My heart sinks.
“Dexter, I—”
“No. I don’t want to hear it, Sweet Stuff.”
I want to fight the fact that he’s taking care of me better than Liam ever did—better than anyone—but he just heaves the carrier up and disappears out the front door.
I close my eyes against the endless spray gushing from the damaged pipe. I’ve put in three calls to the landlord and the maintenance guy and nobody’s answering.
Their loss, but it’s also mine.
Dexter already had a look at it, meaning his shirt is plastered wet to his skin in a way I find distinctly pleasing. He’s decided we’ll need new parts and an insane plumbing bill to get it fixed.
He’s promised to call one of the guys they use for their properties, just to shut this off and figure out the cost later. I don’t even know if he’ll be able to get to the main water shutoffs without somebody from the apartment to unlock that area, though.
God, how embarrassing.
I pause my frantic salvage job and put my head in my hands.
Of all the times for this to happen…
Also, I hate that we were plunged into chaos after a nice day.
A really nice day.
The kind of nice that had me dizzy, imagining what it would be like if we were dating for real and his mom adopted me, taking me under her expansive wing in that way she has. Like I belong.
The rest of his family wasn’t half-bad either.
The cookie Dexter bought me sits with my purse. I smile when I think of Colt, rattling on about how he had to immortalize his favorite cookie like a little Michelangelo.
Seriously.
I need to hold myself together, but right now, all I want to do is scream and cry and maybe scarf down an entire pint of ice cream.
My apartment is toast and I just know my landlord, Mr. Evans, will find a way to pin this on me. It’ll be my fault the pipes burst because the plumbing hasn’t been updated since Reagan was president.
My fault the unit is ruined.
My fault that all my stuff is destroyed.
My fault that I was out when it started and didn’t call anyone sooner.
Mrs. Patty, the downstairs neighbor who sits up all night with her trash TV shows, raps on my open door.
“What in the hell’s going on in here?” she screeches, her rollers and slippers hiding the fact that there’s probably a gun in her purse.
“Pipe burst!” I say, like the spraying water isn’t obvious enough. “I’m sorry, we just got home and—”
“Holy possum shit, you’re soaked.” She narrows her eyes at me. “There’s fuckin’ water dripping into my apartment. A lady can’t even get on the toilet without it raining on her head!”
My brain revolts at the image.
“I’m really sorry.” I fumble for my phone. “I’ll call Mr. Evans again and—”
“Aw, why bother? He won’t do shit.”
“Well, yeah. What makes you think I can?” The stress makes me snap.
Bad idea. She might be a little old granny from the hills, but she’s not a granny whose bad side you want to be on.
Mrs. Patty’s eyes narrow and she’s about to tear into me when another voice interrupts.
“Plumber’s on the way, just five or ten minutes out now.” Dexter, his shirt still slicked to his body and those blue eyes of his sparking dangerously.
The adrenaline rush of attraction floods through me.
I look away before I do anything embarrassing like blushing or making a fool of myself.
“Who the devil are you?” Mrs. Patty asks, shuffling around in her slippers to look up at him, all six foot plus of delicious male body with its military tattoos on full display. And even though she’s always packing out of paranoia, she backs away slightly.