Chapter 10 Jessica #2
"Carlos." My voice comes out too high. Too panicky.
I clear my throat and try again. "It's Jessica.
Jessica Delacroix. I'm so sorry to call so late but I have a situation.
A water situation. An aquatic disaster situation.
My bathroom sink just declared war on my bedroom and I got the water turned off but there's water everywhere and my ceiling is doing this really concerning impression of a Jackson Pollock painting and my mom's in Mexico and I'm alone and I don't know what to do and I'm rambling, I'm totally rambling right now, aren't I? "
"Jess." His voice cuts through my panic spiral. Sharp now. Alert. Awake. "Slow down. Breathe."
I try to breathe. It comes out more like a wheeze.
"The pipe burst?" he asks, and I can hear rustling on his end. Movement. Bedsprings. He's getting up.
"Under the bathroom sink. It just exploded. Like a geyser. Like Old Faithful decided to relocate to my bathroom without filing the proper paperwork."
Despite everything, I hear him huff a quiet laugh, and the sound makes my chest do something complicated.
"Are you hurt?"
"No. Just wet. And scared." My voice cracks. "And really, really alone, Carlos."
Silence for a beat. Long enough that I start to worry I've made a huge mistake.
Then: "Not anymore. I'm on my way. Give me fifteen minutes."
"It's four in the morning."
"I don't care."
"I'll pay you extra for the emergency call. Time and a half. Double time. Whatever contractors charge for middle-of-the-night disasters."
"Jess." His voice drops lower. Softer. Does things to my insides that are entirely inappropriate given the circumstances. "I don't care about the money. Just stay warm. Move what you can out of the water. And don't touch anything else. I've got you."
He hangs up.
I stand there in my flooded bedroom, soaking wet, probably looking like a drowned rat who lost a fight with a washing machine, clutching my phone.
He's coming.
Carlos is coming.
My omega does a little happy dance in my chest, which is absolutely not helpful right now.
"We are having a plumbing emergency," I tell it sternly. "This is not the time for romantic feelings. We are in crisis mode."
My omega ignores me completely and continues purring like a very satisfied cat.
I look around the disaster zone.
"Okay," I say to the flooding. To the universe. To myself. "Fifteen minutes. I have fifteen minutes to make this look less like the Titanic hit an iceberg in my bedroom."
I start grabbing things. I find an old suitcase at the top of my closet, which I used to use when I was younger and grab that. Along with my pillows, books and laptop. Hauling them to higher ground while water sloshes around my ankles.
Then I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
Dad's t-shirt is completely see-through. Like, nothing left to the imagination see-through. My nipples are making a statement. My wet hair is plastered to my head. I have mascara smeared under my eyes like a raccoon who made poor life choices.
"Oh no."
Carlos is going to see me in a transparent shirt in a flooded bedroom at four in the morning.
My omega perks up with significant interest.
"No,” I tell it firmly. "We’re not doing this. This is a professional service call. He's a contractor. We're a disaster. There will be no hanky panky. No funny business. No shenanigans of any kind."
I sprint to my suitcase and dig through the soggy contents for something, anything, that's not see-through.
I find a sweatshirt. It's damp, but it's opaque, and that's good enough.
I'm pulling it on when I hear the sound of a truck in the driveway.
He's here.
My heart does something complicated that feels like it involves gymnastics and possibly a trapeze.
I run downstairs, my wet pajama pants making unfortunate squelching sounds, and yank open the front door before he can knock.
And there he is.
Carlos, standing on my porch at four in the morning, looking like every single fantasy I've tried not to have for the past six years decided to show up in work boots and absolutely destroy me.
He's wearing jeans that have been washed so many times they're soft and faded and molded to his thick thighs in ways that should be illegal in at least seventeen states.
A grey henley that stretches across his broad chest and shoulders, the fabric pulling tight enough that I can see the outline of muscle underneath.
Sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing those forearms.
Those forearms.
Thick with muscle from years of hauling lumber and swinging hammers. Dusted with golden hair that catches the porch light. Marked with small scars that tell stories. Corded with strength that makes my mouth water and my omega practically whimper.
Work boots, unlaced, shoved on in a hurry.
A tool belt slung over one shoulder, heavy with equipment that clanks softly when he moves.
His dark curly hair is sticking up in every direction, pillow-mussed and adorable and unfair.
Stubble shadows his jaw, making him look slightly dangerous and entirely too attractive for someone who just rolled out of bed.
And his eyes. Those blue eyes, sharp and alert despite the hour, scanning over me quickly, checking for injuries.
Then his scent hits me.
Alpha scent thick with concern and something that makes my newly awakened omega sit up and take very close notice.
My mouth goes dry.
His gaze travels down my body. The damp sweatshirt. The soaking wet pajama pants clinging to my legs. My bare feet.
Then back up to my face.
His throat bobs as he swallows.
His nostrils flare slightly, and I know he can smell me.
"Hi," I manage.
"Hi," he says, and his voice is still rough from sleep, and why is that so attractive? Why is everything about him so attractive? This is unfair. This is a plumbing emergency. I should not be having feelings about his voice.
"Thanks for coming. I'm sorry. I know it's stupid early and you probably have actual work in a few hours and I'm a disaster and..."
"Thanks for calling," he interrupts, and his eyes haven't left my face. "Where's the damage?"
"Upstairs. Second door on the right. It's bad, Carlos. It's really bad. My bedroom looks like Atlantis decided to stage a hostile takeover."
"Let's go see."
I lead him up the stairs, hyperaware of him behind me. His footsteps heavy. His breathing steady. The way his scent gets stronger as we climb, mixing our scents together.
I push open my bedroom door.
"Oh," he says quietly. "Yeah. That's bad."
He wades into the room, water sloshing around his boots, and I watch him work. Watch him crouch down by the bathroom door, muscles shifting under his henley in ways that make me need to sit down. Watch him pull out a flashlight and examine the burst pipe with professional efficiency.
His forearms flex as he works. His hands, rough and capable, handle the tools with easy confidence. His shoulders are broad enough to block out half the bathroom doorway when he leans in to get a better look.
I am having thoughts. Inappropriate thoughts. Thoughts involving those hands and what else they might be good at.
Stop it, I tell myself firmly. Plumbing crisis. Focus on the plumbing crisis.
"Corrosion," he mutters, half to himself.
"Original piping. 1950s copper. One cold snap and.
.." He stands up, wiping his hands on his jeans, which should not be as attractive as it is.
"I can patch this tonight. Get your water running again.
But Jess, the whole system needs to be replaced. If one pipe went, others will follow."
"How long?"
"Weeks. Maybe a month. Depends on what else I find when I open up the walls." He looks around the room, taking in the floating suitcase, the sodden carpet, the spreading ceiling stain. "And you can't stay here while it's being done."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Can't stay here. In my childhood home. In the only place that feels safe. In the house where Dad's clothes still hang in the closet and Mom's brownies are still in the kitchen.
"Where am I supposed to go?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
Carlos turns to face me fully. His expression shifts. Softens.
"The packhouse has a guest room," he says quietly. "You could stay there. While I do the repairs. It would be easier than trying to live around construction. Safer."
The packhouse.
Where he lives. Where Sergio and Pedro and Nacho live. Where I'd be surrounded by four alphas and their scents and their presence while my body counts down to a heat that's coming in less than two weeks.
My omega practically screams sign me up immediately.
"I can't," I whisper.
"Why not?"
Because I'm terrified if I go to that house, surrounded by their scents and their care, I might never want to leave.
"It would be complicated," I say finally.
He takes a step toward me.
Then another.
His scent gets stronger. Sandalwood and sawdust with something underneath. Something heated. Something alpha.
"Everything's already complicated, Jess.
" His voice is low. Intimate. Does things to my nerve endings.
"You're alone in a flooding house at four in the morning.
Your ex is stalking you. Your body's changing.
" Another step. He's so close now I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
So close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "Let us help you."
"I don't know how." The confession tumbles out. "I spent two years with someone who convinced me I couldn't do anything without him. And now I don't trust myself. Don't trust anyone."
His hand comes up.
Slowly. Giving me every opportunity to step back.
His fingers brush my jaw. Rough calluses catching on my skin. The touch sends electricity through my entire body, lighting up nerves I didn't know existed.