Chapter 18 #2
“—find someone who has the skills necessary to complete that task. But first I’ll need you to fill out some information. If you could start by describing what exactly a ‘P-trap’ is, that will aid—”
“Felicity, how would slaughtering your stepcousin in broad daylight compare to having lamb on the prix fixe menu?”
“Probably a similar level of Valentine’s vibes killing.”
“But he’s making me very angry.” Nic’s hands were squeezed together like he was really, really wanting to wring her cousin’s neck.
“We at Aaron’s Plumbing Services prefer to handle all complaints via our automated survey system.
” Toby pointed to a blue hyperlink that spanned two lines across the piece of paper on his clipboard.
“Go ahead and type that into your preferred internet browser. Or if you prefer, you could use my aaronsplumbing2 at angelfire dot com email address.”
“How did this man get top-notch SEO?”
“I’ve taken young Kevin under my proverbial entrepreneurial wing, and in exchange, he is ensuring that my website gets the traffic it needs for success.”
“Kevin’s that high school senior tech prodigy who lives next door to you and your mom?” Felicity asked before throwing back another candy heart.
“He’s using my website in his Stanford entrance essay to show how optimized search engine utilization can make any company successful. Huh.” An unfocused look came over Toby’s face. “Come to think of it, I’m not sure that essay is going to reflect well on Aaron’s reputation.”
“There isn’t anyone named Aaron, Toby.” Nic pushed the clipboard back at Toby. His hands curled into fists.
Felicity tapped his shoulder. “Hey now, there are lots of people named Aaron. No Aaron erasure.”
Nic growled at her.
Felicity sucked on the candy to keep herself from biting her lip like some dopey, besotted teen movie ingenue.
“As listed in the contract, the charge for coming out is fifty dollars, and we will be charging your credit card on file.”
“You gave him a credit card number? Nic … you didn’t.”
“I had water spraying all over my kitchen. I was desperate.”
“The water’s not still spraying, is it?”
“No. Got it off. Found the shut-off valve.”
“Good. Want a SweeTart? My old therapist said sour candy can soothe acute anxiety. And you look like your blood pressure is rising. I can see a vein popping out right here.” She tapped the spot on his forehead.
“My blood pressure is perfect. Leave my veins alone.” Nic grabbed ahold of her finger and then punched his own into Toby’s chest. “I’m calling my bank to stop payment on that charge, and you better dissolve this little scam operation you got going on here, or so help me I will sue the pants off you for fraud. ”
“Ew, stop talking about taking off my stepcousin’s pants. Gross.”
“Shush, you.” He flicked her chin and turned back to snarl at her cousin.
Toby took a step away like he was sensing the impending danger of bodily harm. “I think you’ll find that the contract is fully—”
“Made in bad faith for a business using deceptive sales techniques.”
Toby was just dumb enough to open his mouth to talk more, so Felicity figured it was time to intervene.
While arterial blood splatter would match the red and pink décor she’d spent all day draping over the patio, there was the pesky problem of Nic doing hard time in jail when what Felicity wanted was him doing hard time in her pants.
Inwardly, she sighed. Her brain had gone there, again.
“Scram, Toby.”
She grabbed Nic by his nearly frozen hands and dragged him back across the courtyard and up into the garden shop.
“Who says scram anymore? Which reminds me that we still need to address your plant shop’s business mott—”
“Who doesn’t fix their own clogged P-trap?” She jogged to the greenhouse area in the back of the shop, where she had been fixing some shelves, and grabbed her toolbox. “Come on.”
“Come where?”
“Which sink is it? The bathroom or the kitchen?”
“One of the kitchen ones.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “What’s that?”
“A toolbox.”
“It’s purple and sparkly.”
“And hand-painted courtesy of my favorite twelve-year-old niece after starting her elite evening art classes.”
“Your twelve-year-old niece calligraphied fuck the patriarchy on your giant toolbox?”
“Are women who own commercial-grade ratchet sets not also allowed to like purple sparkly things? I grew up working for my dad. I’m not some pick-me girl who uses tools to be quirky.
I can get down and dirty and unironically wear lipstick and glitter while I do.
” She hid her mortification of having spoken that monologue aloud by pretending to verify the latch was fully shut on the box.
“All right, I’ll just grab this, then you can lead the way to your—” As she looked up from where she was crouched, Nic walked around the corner, which meant her face was right at the level of a distinctive outline beneath the zipper of his worn black Levis.
“P-ni—peen—trap.” She hid her almost Freudian slip with an obviously fake coughing fit. “P-peen trap. Fuck. P-trap.”
“My peen trap?”
Fix this. Fix this. Fix this.
“Right. Uh. Your plumbing disaster reminded me that I’m supposed to have a shipment with a penis flytrap—fuck—Venus flytrap coming in soon, and I need to check the estimated delivery date, and the words got jumbled, and then I accidentally sucked my SweeTart down my throat.”
“Wouldn’t want the wrong thing sucked down there, would we?” The infuriating man didn’t even give her a chance to respond before he hauled her toolbox out of her hand. “I hope your Venus flytrap shipment is okay.”
“It’s a very delicate carnivorous plant.”
“Good to know. I’ll grab Betsy here.”
“Betsy?”
“Anything that festively decorated deserves a name.”