Two.
Rhett
The slam of the front door tells me two things: Levi is home and he’s in a sour mood.
I focus on the bacon sizzling in the pan in front of me. “Hungry?” I call out, flipping the bacon and hissing when the grease pops, landing on my wrist. I swipe it away and drop the lid over the pan with a clang.
“Have you seen this shit?” my brother hollers from down the hall, grumbling something under his breath about the family group chat I set up at Ma’s request a few months ago when Beau returned home.
It’s usually pictures of the grandkids, updates on Sunday dinner attendance, or weather-related, but every now and then, big news drops in the ol’ Montgomery text chain.
The side chats are where the real family drama lies.
“Yep,” I say, knowing he’s referring to the engagement announcement Beau shared—his second message ever sent in the chat. His first was, Who is this?
Beau told me a few weeks ago about his plan to propose to Callie when he used ‘helping Rhett’ as an excuse for why he was gone half the day. In reality, he was picking up the custom ring from a jewelry shop in Billings.
Levi comes around the corner from the living room, appearing in the archway connecting to the open concept kitchen we just finished last spring. He tosses his hoodie over the back of the couch and plops onto a bar stool at the end of the island.
His blond hair flops and he sighs, “I’m going to die alone.”
If it’s not one brother, it’s another.
I roll my eyes and return them to the stovetop. “Relax.”
“How can I relax? Brit won’t answer my calls.”
My jaw tightens and I spin a glare on my beloved, yet moronic, brother. “She’s going to put a restraining order on your ass if you don’t dial it back.”
He huffs dramatically. “You can’t restrain love, Rhett.”
“She’s not the one, man.” I shake my head, asking, “BLT?” I transfer the bacon onto a paper plate and set the pan to the side, turning off the stove before heading for the fridge.
“Sure,” he says, rising to grab the bread from the far counter.
I return with the lettuce and sliced tomato leftover from yesterday’s lunch. I even grab a few slices of cheese for Levi—knowing he’s sad and prefers a BLT with cheese, making it more of a BLT+C.
He’s a strange one when it comes to his dairy products.
“How the hell are you okay with all of this?”
I raise a brow and glance at him. “With what?”
“Butch, Duke.” He ticks off a finger with each name. “And now Beau. Fuckin’ Beau is getting hitched before me, or you. It’s bullshit.”
I shrug a shoulder and slide his plate to him, then pick up my sandwich and take an oversized bite.
It’s after ten o’clock at night and this is the second thing I’ve eaten all day.
Work has been crazy with everyone trying to fit in last-minute renovations before the trifecta of the holiday season hits.
“It is what it is,” I mumble around a mouthful.
He takes his plate to the island and sits. “I hate that saying.”
I do, too, but it’s the truth.
I swallow and grab two longnecks from the fridge. I pop the tops and hand one to my brother. We drink and eat in silence, neither of us wanting to dive into all the reasons why we’re single, why I’ve stopped dating altogether, and why Levi can’t seem to stop searching for his elusive The One.
We finish eating, and the second I start to clean up, Levi is making himself scarce. “Thanks for dinner,” he says and promptly yawns. “What time do you need me to meet you at the resort tomorrow?”
The urge to tell him not to bother is on the tip of my tongue. I love my brother to death, probably more than the rest of ‘em, but sometimes…his priorities aren’t in line with the growing company we’ve had since we were sixteen: Montgomery Construction we know each other well enough to acknowledge our strengths and weaknesses. When to push and when not to. I don’t hold any of them against him.
Although, his desperate need to find love is getting out of hand these last few months.
“You got it.” He stretches and heads for the stairs. “Night, bro.”
“Night,” I say, scraping the grease off the pan into the trash before washing it.
I’m just turning off the lights to head up when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I groan, “Fuck.” Fishing it out, I glance at the name on the screen. Brow furrowed, I answer. “Hello?”
“Hey, Rhett,” Callie rushes out on the other end. “I’m so sorry to be calling you this late, but it’s an emergency.”
I straighten and head for the door. “What’s going on? You guys all right?” I tug on my boots, bending to stuff the laces in the sides before grabbing my keys off the hook.
“We’re fine,” Beau grunts, revealing I’m on speakerphone.
I pause, hand on the doorknob.
“Everyone is fine,” his fiancée says. “Sorry, I probably should have led with that.”
“What—”
“My friend, Shea. She just bought a fixer-upper in town; it’s right down the road from you,” she tells me. “And she, um, well, I’m not sure what the heck she did, but now there’s water running down the stairs. We think it might be a pipe, or the bathroom, or—I have no idea; I’m not a plumber.”
I tilt the phone away from my face and take a deep breath. Neither am I, I want to argue, but instead—being the brother always on call—I say, “What’s the address?”
Callie rattles off the address, three houses down from mine. “I’ll be there in five,” I say and hang up before she can thank me.
The drive takes less than five minutes. One, actually.
I pull into the gravel driveway behind an expensive-looking black SUV with California plates and kill the engine.
The house is lit up, every light blazing, which tells me whoever’s inside is either panicking or trying to see the full extent of the damage.
I grab my tool bag from the truck bed and head for the front porch. The wood creaks heavily under my boots, and I note that the boards need replacing. Through the window, there’s movement inside, but I can’t make out details.
I knock, then wait.
Muffled voices greet me. Something along the lines of, “Can you just—” followed by a distinctly teenage groan of, “Fine, whatever.”
The door swings open to reveal a lanky kid, maybe fifteen or sixteen, in a crisp, white hoodie and expensive sneakers that have never seen a speck of dirt.
He’s got dark hair flopping over his forehead and the kind of bored expression that suggests a flood in the house ranks somewhere below watching paint dry on his list of concerns.
“You the plumber?” he asks, monotone.
“Contractor,” I correct. “Rhett Montgomery.”
He shrugs like the distinction means nothing. “Cool. She’s freaking out upstairs.” He steps aside, gesturing vaguely toward the chaos beyond. “Good luck with that.”
I step inside, and the first thing that hits me is the smell—old wood and dust. The second is the sound of rushing water somewhere above my head, followed by a string of creative cursing.
“Up here!” a woman’s voice calls out, sharp with panic.
I take the stairs two at a time, tool bag in hand, following the sound to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Water pools under the door, spreading across the hardwood in dark rivulets.
And standing in the doorway, phone pressed to her ear with one hand while the other gestures wildly, is the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in…
Hell. Maybe ever.
She’s soaked. Water’s dripping from her dark ringlet curls, plastering them to her neck and shoulders.
Her white T-shirt clings to her ample, perky chest in ways that have my cock twitching.
There’s a wet footprint trail leading from the bathroom to where she stands now.
Her skin is a rich, warm brown tone that catches the hallway light and highlights how flushed with frustration she is.
When she turns those wide, brown eyes on me, I forget how to breathe.
“Thank god,” she pants, lowering her phone. “Callie said you were coming.”
I manage a nod, tearing my gaze away from her in an attempt to reel my shit in. “Where’s the main shutoff?”
“I have no idea.” She runs a hand through those wet curls, and I watch a droplet slide down her temple. “The contractor was supposed to be here to show me everything, but he never showed, and I just wanted to wash my hands, and—” Her voice cracks slightly. “God, this is such a disaster.”
I move past her into the bathroom, careful not to brush against her as I do, then set my tool bag on the edge of the tub. “Let me guess,” I grunt, crouching down in front of the dated vanity to assess the situation underneath. “Jack Depew.”
The same jack-off who I’ve had to redo jobs for, for fuckin’ years. The guy is dumber than a rock, but hell if he can’t talk his way into any job at any skill level. Problem is, he has no idea what he’s doing. If anything, she’s lucky he didn’t show up.
She doesn’t respond so I chance a glance over my shoulder as I grab a wrench from my bag. She blinks at me, those big brown eyes searching my face.
Something tugs in my chest.
Don’t.
“How did you know?” she asks.
I huff, refocusing my attention at the shutoff valve under the sink that’s cranked in the wrong direction, nearly stripped from someone forcing it to, quote, ‘close.’
She crouches down beside me, close enough that one of those damp curls brushes my forearm when she leans over. And I feel it like a live wire.
Definitely don’t.
I reach in, wrench in hand, and coax the valve back into position with three firm turns. The rushing water sputters, gurgles, and dies.
Silence.
She exhales beside me, long and slow. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“I caused all of that—” she gestures vaguely at the wet hallway behind us, “—by turning the wrong valve?”
“Previous owner half-stripped it.” I straighten, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Whoever closed on this place should’ve caught it in the inspection.”
The look that crosses her face tells me exactly how that went.
“There was an inspection,” she says carefully.
I snort. “Jack Depew.”
Her expression answers for her.
I shake my head slowly. “I’ve got a shop vac in my truck. We can start sucking up the majority of this water. You got a mop?”
She stares at me for a beat. Then those full lips curve into a breathtaking smile despite everything. “I have an emotionally unavailable, surly, teenage stepbrother downstairs with a head full of hair,” she offers. “Does that count?”
My laugh catches me so off guard I almost don’t recognize the sound coming from my own chest. Don’t, I remind myself again.
But it’s already too late.