Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
R eagan waved goodbye to Mr. Weatherby and climbed into her truck. Leaning back on the headrest, she blew out a breath and closed her eyes. She had planned on staying at Kelly’s house tonight, but as she’d been putting her groceries away—without her ice cream, which she’d left in Brody’s freezer—her grandfather’s poker buddy Phil Weatherby had called about an issue with his dishwasher. And not for the first time.
The contraption was a good twenty-five years old and needed to retire to a landfill. Mr. Weatherby insisted on keeping it. She’d replaced so many parts that it should be new. But it wasn’t, and this time he’d agreed it was time for it to pass on to the big appliance graveyard in the sky. She was planning on going to the home improvement store to find a replacement unit. Frugal Mr. Weatherby wanted to spend “as little as humanly possible,” so Reagan would be searching for a scratch-and-dent model.
At least she could finally grab a bite to eat. At the thought, her stomach roared . Other than an apple and a Pop-Tart, she hadn’t eaten since she’d raced out of the house to answer the call.
As if summoned, her cell started ringing from its perch on the dashboard as she pulled onto the main drag and pointed for home. She worried that Mr. Weatherby was calling with another issue, but instead the screen showed an unknown number. It wasn’t local but from New York . Her stomach dropped, her palms starting to sweat as the phone rang a third time. She pressed a button on the steering wheel and answered, “Reagan’s Repairs.”
“Uh, yeah, hi,” a familiar deep voice said. “I have a pint of chocolate peanut butter ice cream in my freezer that isn’t mine. I thought about eating it, but the woman who left it here seems the type to shoot first and ask questions later.”
In spite of her tiredness, she smiled at the windshield. “I know the type. You definitely shouldn’t eat it.”
“What if we shared it?” His low voice made the innocent question sound slightly erotic. “Have you eaten yet?”
“Actually, no. I’m heading home from a late call.”
“Hot date?”
She smiled again. “Oh yes. I’m totally into eighty-eight-year-old men with busted dishwashers from the Reagan administration.”
“Is that the Reagan you were named after?” He was teasing, she could tell, but little did he know…
“Hard to be sure, but my mom’s name is Ronnie.”
His laugh danced on her chest and did a good job of bringing her nipples to attention behind her bra. What was it about this guy?
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Swing by and tell me about it. I’ll split the ice cream with you fifty-fifty. I also have the oven preheating for pizza. It’s one of those deli ones, not the cheap freezer-burned ones. You should hurry. I think I’ve done this maybe one time in my life. Without my house manager here, ruining it is a high probability.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say no and blatantly ignore the errant attraction parts of her had for parts of him. She highly doubted he needed supervision for a take-and-bake pizza. She could tell him she’d had a long day and that Kelly was expecting her—only that wasn’t true. Kel had gone out with friends from work and was planning to crash at her friend Amy’s house.
Plus, Reagan was bordering hangry . Pizza of any kind sounded incredible.
“What can I bring?” she heard herself ask.
“Nothing. Unless beer won’t suffice, and you want to bring something else to drink. What goes well with cheese pizza and chocolate peanut butter ice cream?”
“I’m no expert, but beer sounds like the perfect pairing. If the edges of the pizza start to turn brown and the cheese is breathing , pull it out of the oven.”
“Breathing?”
“You’ll know it when you see it. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
She ended the call, a smile glued to her face. She was fairly certain this wasn’t a good idea, but going to Brody’s for pizza sounded like more fun than returning to Kelly’s couch for a mindless TV marathon.
Headlights slashed across the living room window. Brody raced to the front door, amused by the flutter of nervousness in his stomach. As Jaylyn had recently reminded him, he was a grown man. Sure, he’d been nervous when he’d dated as a teen, but in his thirties, he rarely experienced the sensation. Save for that time he’d parachuted out of an airplane.
The flutter remained when Reagan left her truck to walk the pathway to the front door. Still dressed in her white tee, jeans, and leather jacket, she looked the same as she had earlier, if slightly tired.
He opened the door wide, leaning half out of it to invite her in. “Noticed you locked up your truck. Is this neighborhood particularly dangerous? I checked the crime rate before I moved in, but I’m wondering if I got bad intel.”
“A touch of over-precaution on my part. There are thousands of dollars’ worth of tools on my truck, the most expensive of which I secure in the cab.”
He had to steady himself when her eyes met his. She was a gorgeous woman, no doubt about it. Her casual dress, confident stride, and painted lips only added to her allure.
“Did you burn the pizza?” she asked sweetly.
“Shit.” He’d forgotten about it. He raced back into the house and arrived at the kitchen. Smoke wasn’t pluming from the oven, so that was good. He flipped on the light and knelt down to peek into the window. She did the same, shoulder to shoulder with him.
“It’s breathing. Perfect timing.” She tapped the glass. Behind the oven door, the cheese was bubbling, lifting, and dropping, and the edges were turning a delicious-looking golden brown. “Good job.”
“Thanks.” He turned his head, once again struck dumb by clear, moss-green eyes. Naked attraction was a pull in his gut—he hadn’t felt that in a while. He’d been go-go-go for so long, he didn’t give much thought to pursuing a woman beyond convenience or proximity. He supposed she fit into both of those categories, but the lingering attraction was new. Damn, he could get used to that.
“I’ll grab the beers. Want one?”
“Yeah. Yes.” He grabbed a dishtowel and pulled the pizza out of the oven, amused by the shake in his arm. Reagan had him feeling sixteen again, home alone and trying to impress a girl from school.
Insane.
The twist of a beer cap sounded behind him. She handed over a Miller Lite and kept one for herself. “This okay?”
“Yes. But you should let me open the beer.”
“Why?”
“I…guess I’m not sure why. Seemed gentlemanly?”
She laughed, and he didn’t care if she was laughing at him. It was worth it to watch her red mouth part into a smile. “Don’t waste your manners on me. I can handle myself.”
He’d bet. She seemed confident and capable. If a little stubborn. Reminded him of himself in a way.
“So, is this your big Friday night? Frozen pizza and stolen ice cream?” she asked before taking a drink.
“And she’s funny,” he said to her pleased-as-punch smile. “Where else would I be?” He searched multiple drawers for a pizza cutter before realizing he hadn’t ordered one. He slipped a knife from the wooden block on the countertop instead.
“I don’t know. Downtown? At some fancy restaurant eating a gourmet dinner.”
“Fancy restaurants lose their allure when you’re there nightly.” He rocked the knife back and forth over the pizza to cut it. “Besides, this is gourmet. Or so the box said.”
She sighed. “I’d love the opportunity to tire of fancy restaurants.”
He couldn’t tell if she was making fun of him or not, but he had the urge to invite her to a fancy restaurant. Over and over again, until she was so sick of French food and multiple courses that she begged him not to take her to another.
He transferred slices of pizza onto paper plates. “No real dishes until I have a sink,” he explained. “Give it a sec. It’s hot.”
“Thanks.” She accepted her plate, peering at him through thick, black lashes for a heart-stuttering beat.
Speaking of hot.
His own plate in hand, he used his other hand to sweep aside a stack of manuals that had come with his furniture, his laptop, and a notebook. Then he transferred a bag of odds and ends from the home improvement store to an empty chair.
“Sorry about the mess.” He took the seat closest to Reagan.
She wasn’t looking at him or the mess but at the sink on the floor. “It looks better there than in the front yard, don’t you think?”
“Do you have cameras on me?” He flicked his eyes around the room, feigning suspicion.
“Jean might. I happened to be at her house the day you tossed the sink into the yard.”
Right. The day he’d seen her for the first time. “Well, joke’s on you. That’s not the same sink. I exchanged it for this one.”
She blew on her slice of pizza to cool it. He did the same before they each took a bite, opening their mouths to let the copious steam escape.
“Ut’s guhd,” she managed.
After he’d chugged some beer, he said, “I was going to install the sink after you left earlier but didn’t get around to it. This will be attempt number three. Either the third time is a charm, or three strikes you’re out. Too soon to tell.”
“It’s so simple.”
“Rub it in.”
She lifted a hunk of cheese and blew on the sauce to cool it. “I’ll show you how after I eat this slice.”
“That’s not why I asked you here. I mean, it wasn’t the only reason I asked you here.”
“You bribed me here with the promise of pizza and beer in the hopes I’d offer to install your sink?”
“Well, it sounds bad when you say it like that. I planned on paying you to do it another day. I can’t allow you to work tonight. It’s after-hours. I’d have to pay time and a half.”
“Ha. Like I charge time and a half?” She rolled her eyes.
“You should. Your time is valuable.”
There was a lull in the conversation while she finished her slice and he ate his second. Beer bottle in hand, she inspected the sink on the floor.
“You don’t have to do that.” He’d prefer she sat next to him. Talked to him about nothing while he admired her cute nose.
“You mentioned that you live in Manhattan.” She set her beer aside and then bent and lifted the sink. He nearly turned over his chair jumping up to help, but she only jerked her head toward his plate. “Finish your food.”
He took the sink from her and walked it to the hole in the countertop. “This part, I can do.”
At least he hoped so. The last time he’d tried, it’d gone in crooked and he’d had to pry it out of the counter. That had required a screwdriver and a copious amount of swearing. Thankfully, it nested perfectly in place this time around.
“Look at you.” She nodded like she was proud of him, and he pulled his shoulders back. He’d once nearly been bucked off a camel in the desert and lived to tell the tale, but Reagan’s approval felt like a bigger triumph. “Do you own or lease?”
“This is the first time I’ve committed to a house for myself.” He stepped out of the way and considered the brownstone and his ex—didn’t count. That was a mere six-week blip on his bad-decision radar.
“Why?” she asked as she poked her head below the counter.
“Travel is important to me. I love to be on the move. I’ve never wanted to be tied down.” The spotlight was on him again. She was talented at deflecting the topic of conversation from herself. He wondered if she knew she was doing it.
She jiggled something under the sink. “Is your book about upgrading a house?”
“It’s about making a house a home.” A twinge of vulnerability swept through him. He tackled everything else in life with gusto, but for whatever reason this settling-down business was a tad panic inducing. “Or it will be once I start writing. It’s just an idea at the moment. I should be watching what you’re doing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is the only sink in the house that needs replacing.” Her eyes back on her work, she added, “From what I remember seeing earlier.”
“You have a good memory. I don’t know how you could tell the grate in the half bathroom was stuck by looking at it.”
“Lot of practice.”
He admired her long, denim-clad legs sticking out from under the cabinet, amused by how attractive she looked while doing a job usually performed by a fifty-something male plumber.
She poked her head out to look up at him. “Do you have a pipe wrench?”
“Yes!” He was excited to answer in the affirmative. He didn’t have a pizza cutter, but he had a pipe wrench. Go figure.
He set his beer bottle aside to rifle through his shiny red toolbox and then handed the wrench over.
“Thanks.” She tilted her head like she was impressed.
“Where did you live before you lived with your friend?”
“Here.”
“As in Merriweather Springs?”
“Uh, yes. Mostly. I also shared a house with a guy…friend.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “Guy friend or boyfriend?”
There was a pause, and then, “He should have been the former but was unfortunately the latter. Who do you live with?”
“I’m a lone wolf.”
“Except when your sister’s in town.”
“Except then.”
She flipped to her back while she continued to work. Her subtle curves were all woman while doing the typically masculine task. Who knew what a turn-on that could be?
“Have you ever had a roommate?” she asked with effort in her voice as she adjusted something.
“Are you going to show me what you’re doing under there?” he asked rather than answer her question.
She peeked out at him again. “You really want to see what I’m doing?”
“Reagan, it’s not like me not to take the initiative.”
“What about your house manager who handles everything?”
She liked busting his balls. Which he found oddly appealing. “I’m talking about my projects. This is hands-on.”
One of her eyebrows quirked. Hot and cute. A lethal combo. He squatted down, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s like this. I’m keeping an eye out for life lessons while I’m here.”
“And you think you’ll find the meaning of life inside this cabinet?” She grinned, giving him hell and enjoying doing it.
He grinned back. “You never know.”
“Come on in, then.” She rolled onto one hip to make room for him.
He crammed the upper half of his body under the cabinet, where there were pipes and a garbage disposal nestled in the tight quarters. “Now what?”
“I have to attach the sink.” She pointed to two spoke thingies. “I’ll need my electric drill unless you have one. After that, I’ll hook up the garbage disposal and make sure these are tight…” Her gaze strayed to his. “You’re not paying attention.”
Oh, he was paying attention, but not to the tangle of pipes under the sink. To her . She was girl-next-door beautiful in cotton and denim, her wavy blond hair tucked behind one ear. The faint scent of lemon permeated the air, either from her or the remnants of cleaning products that had been stored there. The combination was unexpectedly sexy.
Which was why he asked, “Ever kissed a stranger under a sink before?”
She licked her bottom lip, making him want to lean in and do the same. “I can’t say I’ve kissed anyone—stranger or not—under a sink.” She studied their surroundings. “Not very romantic.”
“Ah, who needs romance?” It was a throwaway statement, but she didn’t take it that way.
“Everyone?” Her smile fell and like that, she was gone.
Shit. She’d mentioned a guy friend. The split could have left her raw, and here he was behaving like Pepé Le Pew. He crawled out to find her leaning on the counter, sipping from her beer bottle. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I’m not offended. I’m…not sure how to proceed.”
“With the sink?”
“With you.” Her lips flinched into an unsure smile that was so brief, if he’d blinked, he would have missed it.
But she hadn’t said no.
“How about I finish this up and share some fascinating sink FAQs for your book?” she asked. “You want to grab your laptop?”
“That sounds like less fun than kissing under the sink.”
She gave him a half-hearted shove. “ Go . I’m working. You have to work too.”
“Fine. But I’m drinking while I do it.” He feigned petulance as he scooped up his laptop.
“Write drunk, edit sober.” She sent him a wink before heading for the front door. “I’m going to find my drill.”
It took longer than usual for her to hook up the sink, but she hadn’t been hurrying. For one, she didn’t want to hurry. The moment he’d asked if she wanted to kiss under the sink, the only response in her head had been YES. So worried she’d say it out loud, she’d scrambled away from him as quickly as possible.
Laptop open, he took notes while she worked. He asked a few questions and then typed up notes for his book before leaning close to observe the process some more. She enjoyed the earnest way he listened and his eagerness to learn. She couldn’t say that about Dustin. He’d never been mildly interested in her abilities, let alone fascinated.
Since Brody was eager to participate, she paused several times to let him help and further explain why she was doing it “that way.” When he asked, What’s that doohickey called? she teased him for using a word her grandfather used, and then he grinned in a way that made her ribcage thrum.
No more offers came for under-the-sink kisses, and she tried to convince herself that she was glad. She’d come to two conclusions:
Kissing Brody was a bad idea.
It would also be amazing.
Brody was attractive, single, and flirting with her. She was sure of it. And she was untethered—in every way imaginable. Any doubt from earlier had dissipated the more time they spent together.
“And, by the way, writing drunk makes sober editing take twice as long,” he said as he settled onto the couch next to her. She’d finished in the kitchen, and they each had fresh bottles of beer in front of them. “Let me know what I owe you. I’m not paying you in beer again. It’s unethical.”
“I don’t usually drink this much.”
“That’s your second light beer on a Friday night. You gotta get out more.”
“Tell me about it. Some nights I act the age of most of my clients. You should see me in my curlers and slippers, unwrapping hard candy as I sit down to watch Jeopardy! It’s real cute.”
His throat bobbed when he laughed. She stared at the tanned column of his neck a beat longer than was appropriate. He was awfully rugged for a billionaire. Lounging on the couch in denim and a T-shirt, an open bottle of beer next to him, it was hard to picture him wearing a suit and tie.
“You should be a writer,” he told her. “That was a vivid picture you just painted of yourself.”
“I write a mean invoice.” Her voice softened when he held her gaze.
“Actually…” He paused. Then he said, “I have an idea.”