Chapter 3
LILY
On Friday night, the hospital’s automatic doors hiss behind me and close fast like they’re glad to see me leave.
The feeling is mutual. Today was hectic.
Three back-to-back traumas, one code blue, and more broken bones than the last four shifts combined.
My scrubs reek of industrial-strength disinfectant.
I was too tired to switch back to regular clothes before I showered.
I want to go home, clean up, and change straight into my PJs.
The only thing keeping me vertical is the promise of my empty apartment, where I can face-plant onto my couch and not move until Monday.
Friday. Blessed, beautiful Friday. The day when normal people celebrate the weekend, and single moms like me savor temporary child abandonment—the legal, loving kind where my daughter spends quality time with her aunt while I remember the sound of silence.
After a mercifully unclogged drive home, I fumble with my keys at my apartment door, the weight of the day making even this simple task feel like I’m performing neurosurgery with oven mitts. The lock gives, and I stumble inside, kicking off my shoes after too many hours on my feet.
“Hello, freedom,” I whisper to the emptiness, dropping my bag with a thud that echoes pleasantly through the rooms. No immediate demands for snacks or requests to check homework I’m too tired to understand.
No Disney soundtrack blaring. Just me, my couch, and the promise of takeout food I won’t have to cook.
But first, a scorching-hot shower to wash the day away.
That quiet-night-in fantasy breaks as I take two steps toward the bathroom and hear the unmistakable drip-drip-drip of water leaking from somewhere.
“No,” I mutter, running down the hall as a tired anxiety congeals in my stomach. “Not on my freedom Friday.”
But the universe has never been concerned with my schedule. I flip on the bathroom light and find a pool creeping across the tiles, seeping from beneath the sink.
“Unbelievable.” I drop to my knees and open the cabinet door, only to be greeted by a spray to the face. I sputter and slam it shut again, water dripping from my chin.
I’m screwed. Mr. Hagerty, our housing complex’s superintendent, will show up sometime next week, fiddle with the pipes for fifteen minutes, declare it fixed, and then I’ll be dealing with the same issue in a month.
His approach to maintenance involves duct tape, prayers, and the firm belief that if he ignores a problem long enough, it’ll fix itself.
My apartment is in one of those Spanish-style buildings that are so common in LA with peach stucco walls and terracotta tiles, a courtyard, central pool, and wrought-iron balconies stuffed with potted succulents that compensate for the building’s flakey servicing.
I love the character, the high ceilings, and the way the afternoon sun filters through my windows.
But I could do without Mr. Hagerty’s upkeep philosophy: If it ain’t disintegrated, don’t fix it.
I dash into the service room and close the water shut-off valve, using the wrench I keep stashed for emergencies.
I toss the tool aside and slop to the floor, grieving the hot shower I won’t be able to take tonight.
If I forsake personal hygiene, can I pretend my bathroom isn’t a swamp and sleep before I deal with the mess? No, not really.
I haul myself up, grab every towel from the linen closet, and fling them across the spreading puddle. They get soaked through in seconds.
“Great,” I mutter, surveying the damage. “Just fantastic.”
I bundle up the sopping towels, staggering under their weight as I head toward my small patio to hang them over the railing.
The evening air hits my face, still warm despite the lowering sun.
The courtyard is alive with the sounds of Friday night beginning: music, laughter, the clink of glasses.
Meanwhile, I’m wrestling with wet cloths and muttering curses that would make my grandmother reach for her rosary.
“Sink again?”
I startle. Agatha, my neighbor, is leaning over her railing one unit over, swirling a glass of white wine.
At seventy-something, she dresses like she’s constantly headed to a garden party in the Hamptons.
Today it’s a floral blouse and white pants, accessorized with chunky turquoise jewelry.
Her gray hair is perfectly coiffed even at this hour.
I suspect she sleeps sitting up to preserve the style.
“How’d you guess?” I ask sarcastically, draping a heavy bath towel over the railing.
“Third time this year,” she says, taking a sip of wine. “Same pipe?”
“Yeah. Same useless superintendent. Same ruined Friday night.” I hang the last towel. “I’d kill for Mr. Hagerty to fix something for once.”
Agatha takes an unhurried sip of wine. “You should ask the new handyman for help.”
“Did they fire Mr. Hagerty?” I perk up with fragile hope.
“No, honey.” She laughs. “I meant the new tenant in 1F. Nice young man, he moved in two weeks ago. He’s been helping everyone fix things. Mrs. Patel’s garbage disposal, the Rodriguezes’ dryer, he did my shelves.”
“And he does this because…?” I raise an eyebrow. In my experience, people don’t wander around apartment complexes offering free repairs out of the goodness of their hearts.
“Because he’s nice. And handy. Says he enjoys fixing things. Or he could just be lonely.” Agatha shrugs. “New to town and all that. You should pay him a visit before you run out of towels.” She gives the dripping mess on my balcony a pointed look.
I hesitate. My common sense screams: fix the leak however you can.
I’m desperate to have running water again.
But knocking on a stranger’s door to ask for help?
It’s got serious door-to-door vendor energy, minus the free pens and with a side of hello, neighbor, your Friday night is ruined, too, now.
“I don’t know, Agatha…”
“Apartment 1F,” she repeats, already turning back toward her living room and disappearing inside with a wave of her bejeweled hand.
Great. Now I can either ask the new arrival for help and risk awkward small talk, or field Agatha’s “How’s that plumbing issue going?” for a week. Neither sounds ideal. But the need for a hot shower overpowers everything else.
I glance down at myself and grimace. My scrubs are wrinkled and stained with who-knows-what from my shift, and my hair is a damp disaster from the sink spray. My sneakers squelch when I lift a foot.
Not exactly a Stepford Wife introducing herself to a new neighbor with a basket of freshly baked muffins. I’ll traumatize the poor man, no matter how nice he is.
But the thought of spending my precious free weekend with a broken sink and no running water propels me down the patio stairs and around to the south side of the complex.
Apartment 1F is tucked in a corner, the unit identical to all the others except for the brand-new welcome mat and a pair of large boots lined up by the entrance.
I fill my lungs, summon my best neighborly smile, and knock before I can talk myself out of it.
“I’m coming,” a deep voice calls. Footsteps echo nearer, the door swings open, and my mind goes blank.
Standing before me is a six-foot-something wall of bare, muscled chest, topped by a familiar face.
It’s Josh Collins. The firefighter from the ER three days ago, wearing only black basketball shorts riding low on his hips and the bandage on his arm.
His light-brown hair is damp, either from a workout or from recently enjoying the benefits of functioning plumbing. My mouth goes dry as my gaze drops to his chest again. He doesn’t seem sweaty. Guess I caught him fresh out of the shower.
He blinks at me, recognition dawning in those ridiculous too-blue, too-flirty eyes.
“Nurse Finnigan.” Surprise lifts his voice.
I stare, my brain frantically searching for words that aren’t “holy” and “abs.” After what feels like several decades, I clear my throat. “Err, I must’ve gotten the wrong door,” I blurt, already backing away. “Sorry to bother you.”
He crosses his arms over his chest—thank goodness and also damn it—and leans against the doorframe with casual ease. “So you’re not Lily from 2A needing help with a leaky sink like Agatha just texted me.”
I blink, feeling like I’ve stepped into some bizarre alternate universe where hot firefighters materialize in my apartment complex offering free plumbing services. “How do you—I mean, yes, that’s me, but—”
“Small world, huh?” He grins, and it transforms his entire face to maximum boyish charm. “And I finally got your name, Lily.”
The way my name rolls off his tongue is downright obscene.
I gape at him, still unable to form a coherent sentence. Something about the combination of his half-naked state and the utter unlikelihood of this coincidence has fried my ability to act normal.
He sighs dramatically, but his eyes are still smiling. “Let me put on a shirt, grab my toolbox, and I’ll come check your sink. Give me two minutes.”
“That’s unnecessary,” I finally manage. “I can call the superintendent—”
“You know how much good that’ll do,” he interrupts, his tone gently mocking. “Is there a reason you don’t want my help? I promise I plumb better than I dodge falling beams.”
How do I answer without dumping my entire tragic life story on him?
There are about seventeen reasons I don’t want his help, starting with “you’re a firefighter,” crossing into “my dead husband was a firefighter,” and ending with “talking to you is making parts of me zap that haven’t zapped in four years.
” But none of them are appropriate to vomit onto a near-stranger.
When I don’t answer, he lifts an arm and dramatically sniffs his armpit. “Is it the smell? I just showered, but I can do another pass with the soap if that’s the issue.”
“It’s not the smell,” I admit, fighting against the smile tugging at my lips. “It’s the excessive charm.”
His face breaks into a wide, goofy grin that does nothing to help my current predicament. “I’ll dial it down, Nurse Finnigan. You can give me a few pointers on how to perma-scowl.”
“I don’t scowl.”
“Right,” he says, drawing out the word. “And I don’t have a hero complex. Wait here, I’ll grab my stuff.”
Before I can protest further, he disappears into his apartment, leaving me standing at his doorstep, wondering how this became my Friday night. Through the still-open door, I catch glimpses of a sparsely furnished living room. Moving boxes stacked in corners, a new couch, but no TV or bookshelves.
When Josh reappears, he’s added socks and sliders to his wardrobe and a plain white T-shirt that does a poor job of hiding the muscles underneath. And he’s carrying a large, professional-grade toolbox.
“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing grandly like we’re heading to a royal ball instead of my water-damaged bathroom. He’s still channeling full Prince Plumbing energy, but I’m not in a position to complain—beggars can’t be choosers.
As we walk side by side, I can also confirm that he doesn’t have a body odor problem. In fact, he smells downright edible. A mix of soap, clean laundry, a hint of coconut, and something crisp—temptation, trouble, bad decisions waiting to happen? He probably has all three bottled in his aftershave.
What cosmic entity did I piss off to deserve this?
Four years of emotional numbness, of focusing on Penny and work, of barely noticing men.
And now, the universe delivers the one type of man guaranteed to trigger my baggage: a firefighter with a hero complex and a smile that makes me feel like I’m free-falling without a parachute.
And he lives in my building. With a toolbox. And those abs.
Someone up there is laughing at me.