Chapter 11
Cole
DRIP, DRIP, DRIP
December
No one ever calls in the middle of the night with good news.
When my eyes adjust enough to read the name lighting up my phone screen, my stomach drops into a pit straight through the mattress. I sit up fast, my heart trying to jump its way out of my chest.
Ariana has never once used the number I gave her, despite the fact that every tenant in the building has it. Given how long it’s been since we last spoke, this can only be work-related.
“Hello?” My voice comes out rough with sleep.
“Hi. Can you hear me?” She sounds far away, like she’s on speaker, shouting so I can hear her.
“What’s wrong?” I’m already out of bed. “What’s going on?”
“Pipe burst. Water everywhere.”
And that’s when I realize what I thought was phone static is actually the sound of rushing water.
“Get out of the building now,” I say, already moving. “I’m on my way.”
The call cuts off before she answers.
Fuck.
Adrenaline courses through me as I drag on the first clothes I can find, barely registering what I’m pulling over my head. It’s three in the fucking morning and Ariana is alone in my building while it sounds like the place is flooding.
All I can picture is her trapped inside. My brain immediately jumps to worst-case scenario—something straight out of a movie. Pipes exploding. Water blasting through the ceilings like a fire hydrant. The whole place filling faster than anyone can run.
Maybe whatever is happening is far from dire, and Ariana is perfectly safe, but that’s not a risk I’m willing to take. The panic clawing up my throat doesn’t care about maybe.
All I can think about is getting to her.
The drive from my house to downtown usually takes ten minutes. I make it in less than five.
It’s all a blur. I don’t remember stopping at lights or turning corners. All I know is that one second I’m tearing out of my driveway, and the next my truck is screeching to a stop outside the building.
From the outside, everything looks just as it should. The street is dark and quiet, too early for anything to be open yet. My breath fogs in my line of sight as I heave an exhale, eyes darting about trying to figure out the fastest way to get to Ariana because she’s definitely not out here.
The emergency shutoff valve is in the basement, which is also where Ariana stores excess supplies and bakeware.
I’m no plumbing expert, but my best guess is to head for the basement and hope I can get things under control.
The basement can be accessed from the alley, where a set of concrete stairs leads down to it. I take them two at a time, and the second I reach the bottom, I hear the sound of water hammering against concrete, echoing like a damn waterfall.
“Ariana!” I shout.
“Down here!”
Relief slams my chest so hard it almost knocks the air out of me.
I round the corner and immediately step into water. Ice cold. Already at least six inches deep and growing by the second.
And there she is, standing directly under a pipe that’s spraying water across the room like a busted fire hydrant.
Her hair is plastered to her face. Her white tank top is soaked through, clinging to her skin, and she’s got both hands on the main valve like she’s using every bit of strength she has, but it’s still not enough.
She turns to me, water dripping off her nose, droplets coming off her thick lashes. “I couldn’t just leave without trying.”
“Move.”
“What?”
“Move.” I step forward, grabbing her arm and tugging her out of the direct spray before she can argue. The water is freezing, and she’s already shaking.
“Cole—”
“Just—hold on.”
The valve is rusted to hell, probably hasn’t been touched in twenty years. I grip it with both hands and twist.
Nothing. “Come on,” I mutter.
Behind me Ariana shivers. “It wouldn’t budge when I tried.”
I plant my boot against the pipe and put my full weight into it.
The metal groans. For a second I think it’s not going to move at all until I feel it give just a little.
With one last push, the wheel turns a few inches with a violent squeal, and the spray above us weakens.
“One more,” I grit out. I yank off my hoodie for full range of motion and shove again, muscles straining until the valve finally turns all the way.
The water cuts off, and the roaring stops, leaving the basement eerily quiet except for the drip, drip, drip as the last bits leak from the pipe.
I drop my head for a second, catching my breath before looking over at Ariana. And immediately forget what I was thinking.
She’s soaked. Completely drenched from head to toe.
Her white tank top is transparent enough that the pale pink outline of her bra is impossible to miss.
Beneath it, the hard peaks of her nipples draw my attention like a moth to a flame.
Water falls from the ends of her hair, sliding down her collarbone before disappearing between her cleavage.
It takes a great deal of effort to force myself not to look.
She hugs her arms around herself, teeth chattering, and I can only imagine how cold she must be.
I’ve only been standing ankle-deep in the water for a few minutes, and I can already feel the chill down to my bones.
Meanwhile she was standing directly under that freezing spray for who knows how long.
My discarded hoodie landed on a stack of storage bins. I grab it just as I notice a knit cardigan floating past me. She must’ve been wearing it at some point.
“Let’s get out of here.” I hold my hand out, and the moment she takes it, I guide us out of the basement and back up to street level.
She gasps the second we step outside, the bitter December air biting angrily against our soaked clothes.
Thankfully, I had the foresight to install keypad locks on every storefront when I took ownership of the building, so we’re able to get inside Novel without having to go back down through the flooded basement.
Our shoes squeak against the black-and-white tile floor, the only sound in the otherwise silent shop.
I risk another glance at her, and the sight of her sends a constricting tension through me. That could’ve been bad. Really bad.
If I’d gotten here even a few minutes later, who knows what could’ve happened to her. I shudder just thinking about the worst-case scenario my brain keeps replaying.
“You could’ve gotten seriously hurt,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “What were you thinking?”
She shrugs, dropping her head. “I wasn’t really thinking. I was reacting. I have so much expensive equipment down there, and some of those tools are nearly impossible to replace if something happens to them. I panicked.”
Her teeth chatter as she talks, and there’s no way I can stay angry with her. Even if a part of me is still furious she ignored me and put herself in danger.
Right now there are more pressing matters. Getting her dry and warm.
“Do you have a change of clothes?” I ask.
Instead of answering, she walks behind the counter and starts digging through the lower cabinets.
“I think I might have a pair of leggings,” she calls out. “But that’s probably it.”
“Here.” I toss her my hoodie. “Get out of those wet clothes and change. I don’t want you getting hypothermia.”
She gives me a look that says she wants to argue, but thankfully decides against it. A second later she disappears behind the door of the women’s restroom.
I scrub a hand through my damp hair and glance toward the front windows, already mentally running through the list of phone calls I’m going to have to make. A plumber. A mitigation company. Insurance. On top of figuring out what the hell caused the pipe to burst in the first place.
A few minutes later, the restroom door opens. Ariana steps out barefoot, wearing a pair of faded leggings and my hoodie.
I do a double take. Completely caught off guard by how good she looks in my clothes.
There’s a primal sort of possessiveness kicking in, along with an undercurrent of something else flooding my veins. An overwhelming sense of rightness.
She’s drowning in the hoodie, the sleeves hanging past her hands, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. Her damp hair is tucked behind her ears, still dripping slightly onto the fabric.
For a split second, my brain does something incredibly unhelpful. It wonders what’s under the hoodie. If she’s naked beneath it. If her bare breasts are brushing against the inside.
I clear my throat and force my eyes somewhere safer. The floor. The espresso machines. Literally anything that isn’t Ariana standing there looking like temptation.
“You should sit,” I say gruffly, nodding toward one of the café tables.
She shoots me a suspicious side-eye but walks over anyway, her bare feet padding softly across the floor. Feet that were just standing in freezing water, now unprotected from the cold tile in December.
I glance toward the tasting room. We started carrying merch a few months back, and I’m almost certain there are socks included in that.
“I’ll be right back,” I mutter.
Before she can question it, I slip next door. The lights are off, but there’s enough light pouring in from the streetlamps to see. And just as I thought, right by the registers sits a bin full of merch.
I grab the first pair of socks on top and head back.
Ariana looks up when I walk in, her expression already curious. That curiosity slowly morphs into full-blown confusion when I drop to my knees in front of her and reach for her foot.
“What are you doing?” she asks, alarm creeping into her voice.
It’s adorable. And it’s not stopping me.
Before she can pull away, I gently prop her foot onto my thigh and slide the first sock over her toes.
Her mouth pops open, clearly too stunned to do anything except stare down at me like I’ve lost my mind.
I can see why she’d think that. I’m not some guy with a secret foot fetish. Everyone’s got their thing—that just isn’t mine. Pretty sure the only time I’ve ever intentionally touched a woman’s foot before this was hooking her ankle over my shoulder in bed.
But Ariana standing there shivering with ice-cold feet on tile floors isn’t something I’m going to allow on my watch.
Her feet are small and delicate. Her toenails painted a bright, cheerful shade of pink.
I pull the second sock on before she can recover enough to argue.
“There,” I say before standing up quickly and putting distance between us. Because suddenly the air between us is a little too thick to breathe through.
I went months without seeing her. Months convincing myself that was the smart move.
Now she’s sitting here in my hoodie, wearing socks with my last name on them, looking at me like she can’t believe I’m here.
If the flooding hadn’t happened, I’m not sure when I would’ve stepped back into this coffee shop again.
And the more I stand here looking at her, the more I’m realizing quitting her cold turkey might’ve been the dumbest decision I’ve ever made.