8. Clark
Chapter eight
Clark
I pull into the dirt circle driveway and park behind a blue Honda Accord. Although I knew this high ridge on the edge of town contained a handful of small houses tucked off the beaten path, I’ve never been inside one. This particular cabin was owned by a couple who had downsized to the small property after their children moved away as adults. I guess they decided the town wasn’t worth sticking around for anymore. Not when so many people were leaving. Not when they could be closer to grandkids.
No outdoor lights pierce the pitch-black night. I use my phone flashlight to guide me along the stepping stones walkway to the front porch, then to illuminate the lock on the door. Punching in the code I was sent, I hear the electronic slide of the deadbolt and open the door.
This isn’t the weirdest call I’ve received as a handyman in this town—that prize is reserved for the Edleman family. They tried to install a toilet in a tree house, and I was the lucky one to get to uninstall the mess.
Still, a person who’s supposedly brand new to town unable to open an interior door? Seemed a little odd, so I’m slightly on the alert as I step into the cabin.
I slowly enter the living room, stepping over a pair of women’s tennis shoes. Boxes cover the kitchen counters and are stacked against the walls, confirming the story that she recently moved in. “Ma’am?” I call loudly to announce my presence. I was told that the occupant is a single woman, so I don’t want to alarm her. “I’m Clark, the town handyman. A woman named Dawn called me about getting a door unstuck.”
“I’m back here, in the bathroom,” I hear a muffled voice respond. Following the sound, I walk behind the fireplace and past a dark room with a wall of windows. There’s a closed door before the open bedroom. I set my toolbox down and give a soft knock.
“Just letting you know I’m here,” I call through the door. “What seems to be the trouble?”
A burst of exasperated laughter. “Well, I’m being held hostage by the bathroom door. The doorknob came off in my hand, and the door seems to be wedged shut. I can’t get it open.”
I quickly scan the door frame, noticing an uneven lean. “It appears the top hinge has gotten loose, causing the door to lean against the frame and get stuck. Do you have a screwdriver in there that you could use to tighten the hinge?”
“Uh, nope. No screwdrivers in sight. Which is silly, considering I always kept one in my shower caddy in college. Not sure why I stopped being such a good Girl Scout now.”
I pause. “You kept a screwdriver in your shower caddy?”
“No, I did not. I think the sarcasm lost its effect since you can’t see my facial expression. Courtesy of the devil door in the way.” Even muffled, her voice sounds sweeter than a glass of Pops’ tea.
The corner of my mouth twitches. “Sorry to ruin your punchline there, ma’am.”
“You can drop the ma’am title,” she calls back. “I’m sure it’s just a Southern politeness thing, but considering I’m not even thirty years old yet, it’s making me feel prematurely aged.”
“As you wish,” I respond.
“Was that a Princess Bride reference?” she asks.
“It wasn’t not a Princess Bride reference,” I muse, impressed that she caught it. I can’t even count the number of times Davis, Beau, and I watched it with Pops and Bev. But that’s not necessarily the norm for our generation. “You’ve seen The Princess Bride ?”
“Oh gosh, more times than I could count. My parents loved it. I went through a phase where I refused to answer to anything but the name Buttercup. Unfortunately, my third-grade teacher, Ms. Smith, was a stickler for reality and wouldn’t play along. It was a devastating time in my life,” she concludes, a wistful tone in her voice. I can’t stop the smile from widening across my face.
Who is this woman?
“I can relate. My best friends and I overused the ‘I am not left-handed’ line for a solid two years,” I respond, half-laughing. Suddenly, I realize I’ve gotten so sidetracked conversing with her that I’d nearly forgotten my purpose here. I turn the door-knob and gently try to push the door open, but it’s not budging.
“I could bust open the door Fezzik-style, but it might cause some damage. Are you okay with that?” I ask.
“Fezzik away. The villain door forfeited its right to long life the minute it decided to take me captive,” she quips, doing nothing to temper my smile. “Please, just get me out. I can’t spend my first night here stuck in the bathroom.”
“All right, stand back as far from the door as you can,” I say loudly, making sure she avoids injury. I shift my weight to my back foot, readying to give it a firm shove with my shoulder. “Uh, hold on. I, um, want to make sure—are you, uh, decent in there?”
“Oh.” Her voice sounds startled, but in a positive way. “Thanks for asking. Yes, I had my bathrobe in here with me, so I’m . . . decent.”
“Okay then, stand back.” I wait a second to make sure she’s clear, then put my full weight into a forceful shove against the door. A metallic groan erupts from the hinges as the door crashes open.
My momentum has me following the door into the bathroom, unable to stop myself from stumbling into the woman in front of me. She lets out a high-pitched yelp of surprise as her hands fly up to my chest, halting my forward motion. I mutter apologies as I stand upright, and then my voice cuts out altogether as I take in the sight of her.
She’s slender and tall, although still shorter than me by about six inches. Wet curls fall just past her shoulders. The dry ends reflect the light, revealing their shiny strawberry-blond hue. My gaze travels from her hair across the smattering of freckles on her fair cheeks to the striking cornflower-blue eyes staring widely at me. I take another step backward, which only serves me a better view of the black robe cinched above the curve of her hips. The velvet robe appears to be the buttery-soft kind. But I intuitively know that her skin is softer than that velvet, even without touching it.
What are you doing thinking about touching her?! I swallow hard and tear my eyes back up to hers. That doesn’t help. Those vibrant blues stall my words all over again.
Come on, man! I tell myself. You never act like this around women. Stop being an idiot!
Clearing my throat, I turn to survey the door. The top hinge has come undone, the door hanging lopsidedly from the frame. But overall, I don’t think it’s badly damaged.
“Sorry about the door,” I say, as though it was my fault that it acted up in the first place. “Should be an easy fix though—you won’t have to replace it.”
She finally speaks, and her voice is even more adorably sweet than the muffled sound through the door had let on. “Thanks for the rescue. I was really starting to panic about living out the rest of my days in a bathroom. The thought spiral was getting grim.”
I huff a laugh, which causes her to smile shyly. Which does not help the “Clark-acting-like-an-idiot” matter at hand. I’m suddenly very unsure of what to do with my hands, awkwardly shifting them from my pockets to crossing my arms to leaning one hand against the counter like a moron. I stand up straight and let them drop to my sides.
“I can replace the hinges on the door tomorrow. But I should take it off the frame in the meantime so it doesn’t cause more damage hanging there,” I finally say.
“Okay,” she responds. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go to the bedroom and change while you take the door down.”
I do mind. But I can’t very well admit that I’d like to continue staring at her in her robe. To her or to myself. “No problem.”
I hear the bedroom door click shut as I make quick work of the still-attached hinge, safely removing the door and propping it against the wall. The woman is still in the bedroom, so I move to the living room to wait for her. I give my head a shake, trying to dislodge the invisible string pulling me to her.
She enters a minute later, but her new outfit is somehow worse than the robe. Navy blue leggings stretch like a second skin across her long, long legs. My eyes follow the lines of her legs up to her fitted, pale blue t-shirt that reads, Botany Plants Lately? I’m a sucker for bad puns and, apparently, for this stunning woman.
Once again, the connection between my brain and hands misfires. I clasp them in front of me briefly before feeling like I’m standing in church. I settle on crossing my arms across my chest as casually as possible, which is minimally casual.
“Thanks again for the help,” she says. “I know it’s late, so I appreciate you coming out quickly. The door opened and closed just fine earlier today—I’m not sure what happened.”
“The combination of steam from the bath and heat from the lamp may have caused the wood to expand. And the doorknob and hinges aren’t exactly new. It was the perfect storm of unfortunate coincidences,” I say. “What time should I come back tomorrow to install the new hinges and doorknob?”
She shrugs. “I don’t have much going on other than unpacking boxes. Whenever fits into your schedule is fine with me. I don’t want to cause you any extra trouble—I’m just grateful for the help.”
“It’s no trouble,” I shrug back. My impulses want to announce that I have all day for her, but instead I reply, “9:00 work?”
When she nods an affirmative response, I decide I’d better get out of here before Idiot Clark puts his foot in his mouth. I’m not sure what kind of spell this woman has conjured, because I’m generally a confident, prefers-to-be-left-alone man who’s not flustered by women. And I definitely never feel the draw to get truly close to a woman. Which is exactly what her pheromone vibes are doing to me right now. I need to get out of here, fast.
I open the front door, but turn back and hold my hand out to shake hers. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning—?”
“Clara,” she says with a small smile as she places her hand in mine. “I’m Clara.”