Three.
Shea
I don’t know what I expected when Callie said she was sending help. A plumber, maybe. Someone older, rounder, with a belt full of tools and zero interest in my spiral. Not… him.
The man filling my narrow bathroom doorway has to be at least six-foot-two, with the kind of build that makes a simple grey T-shirt work entirely too hard.
My gaze snags, briefly and against my will, on his forearms when he reaches under the vanity—the flex of muscle, the map of veins shifting under his skin when he wrestles with the wrench.
I look away. Focus, Shea.
I have a house that’s actively trying to drown me, a contractor who ghosted me on day one, and a walking responsibility downstairs who’s offered approximately zero help. The last thing I need is to be cataloguing a stranger’s arms in my flooded bathroom at nearly eleven o’clock at night.
But then he laughs—this low, unexpected sound that rumbles out of him—and something about it settles warm in my chest before I can stop it.
“I’ve got a shop vac in my truck,” he says, already moving past me into the hallway, all calm efficiency. He glances at the water damage with those eyes. Hazel, I notice, warm and light like the first pour of cream into a fresh cup of coffee…
I really need to focus.
“I’ll run home for a mop,” he continues, then pauses at the top of the stairs and raises his voice. “Hey, Tyler, right?”
A beat of silence from below. “Yeah?”
“Shop vac is in the bed of my truck. Black handle, grey tank. Can you grab it?”
Another pause, longer this time, and I brace myself for the flat refusal—accompanied by a blank stare, usually—I’ve come to expect in the last twelve hours since I became his reluctant guardian for the next six weeks.
“Fine.”
I blink.
This…guy just accomplished in four seconds what took me forty-five minutes of negotiating earlier today. I don’t know whether to be impressed or humbled.
Both, I settle on.
He turns back to me then, and I get the full effect of those latte eyes finding mine in the dim hallway light. “I won’t be long,” he tells me, turning away and taking his pretty eyes and arm porn with him.
My mouth opens to respond, but he’s already heading down the stairs, the old wood groaning under his boots.
I stand in my flooded hallway, wet curls dripping onto my shoulders, surrounded by the remnants of my spectacularly disastrous first day in Montana. I almost smile.
The house is a disaster, my contractor is a ghost, I’ve learned my pet teenager responds better to strangers than to me, and the man who just fixed my sink in under two minutes has eyes the color of my favorite thing in the world.
I groan, my head falling back. “God, I could go for a caramel latte right now.”
“Do they even have a Starbucks in this shithole?” Tyler grunts, pounding up the stairs with the shop vac in hand.
“Hey! Language, dude,” I scold as he rolls his eyes. He sets the barrel-like vacuum between us with a thud and a light splash. “Do you know how to use this thing?”
He gives me a dead stare, one that says, Obviously not, I’m fifteen and from Malibu.
“Me neither,” I say, biting my lower lip.
The sound of boots on the porch saves us both from figuring it out. The front door opens and closes, up the stairs in quick stride, and then he’s back—mop in one hand, bucket in the other. He looks at me, Tyler, then finally at the shop vac sitting untouched between us.
“Neither of you know how to use it, do you,” he says. Not a question, sadly.
“We were…waiting for supervision,” I tell him.
The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. He sets the mop and bucket down, crouches in front of the shop vac, and with three efficient movements has it assembled and humming.
“Come here,” he says to Tyler, who miraculously listens. “Keep the nozzle flat to the floor and move slow, let the suction do the work.”
Tyler takes it with the energy of someone unwilling, but with a hint of mild interest.
My hero straightens, and I suddenly realize, with embarrassment, that I still don’t know this man’s name. “I’m Shea, by the way,” I say, extending my hand. “Shea Winton. A clearly very experienced home owner.”
Those hazel eyes drop to my hand then back to my face. He takes my hand in his, his grip warm and firm and…rough against my palm.
I nearly melt.
“Rhett Montgomery,” he states proudly.
My brow furrows. “Montgomery? As in, like, related to Beau Montgomery?” The same guy who’s now engaged to my best friend.
“He’s my brother,” he says.
Also meaning, this man and those forearms are about to be very difficult to avoid.
Wonderful.
“Small world,” I manage.
He nods his agreement, reaching for the mop.
We fall into an easy, wordless rhythm after that.
Him, working the mop down the hallway while Tyler makes slow, begrudging progress with the shop vac in the bathroom.
I follow behind with a handful of rags Rhett brought up with the mop, crouching to press them into the baseboards where the water has settled.
Tyler appears in the bathroom doorway, shop vac still humming. “I think I got most of it,” he announces proudly.
Rhett steps in to check, nodding once. “Good work.”
Tyler blinks, seeming surprised by the praise before retreating back into his teenage indifference. “Whatever,” he mumbles, but I catch the subtle straightening of his shoulders.
Rhett disappears downstairs briefly and returns with two box fans tucked under his arms like they weigh nothing, setting one at each end of the hallway. The hum of them filling the space immediately.
“Let these run overnight,” he says, adjusting the angle of the second one. “Keep the bathroom door open. The floors should be dry by morning if the wood’s not warped.”
My stomach drops. “And what if it is warped?”
He looks at me, steady and with a ‘no problem’ attitude. “Then we replace it.”
We. I note the word but don’t comment on it.
“Tyler,” I say instead, turning to where he’s leaning against the wall with his phone back in hand. “Why don’t you head down to the car? My keys are on the kitchen counter.”
He’s already moving, but then he pauses at the top of the stairs, and in a move that genuinely surprises me, glances at Rhett. “Thanks.”
My jaw drops.
Rhett nods. “Anytime.”
Tyler disappears down the stairs and suddenly it’s just me and Mr. Forearms. “Thank you for all your help,” I say, waving a hand around us. “We’d have an indoor pool by now if it wasn’t for you.”
Rhett dumps the mop bucket and vacuum container into the clawfoot tub. “Not a problem. Glad I could help.”
I watch him. Half wanting to help, but also not wanting to get in the way. “So, um, what do I owe you for this?”
He tosses his wrench back in his tool bag. “Nothing. Count tonight as a favor for Beau and Callie.”
I shake my head. “I can’t let you—”
“You’re not letting me do anything,” he says simply. “It’s done.”
I study him for a moment. This man who showed up uninvited into my disaster, fixed it without a second thought, and taught my stepbrother how to use a shop vac without being asked. “Okay,” I relent. “Thank you.”
He nods, already reaching for his toolbox.
“Actually,” I stop him, and he turns. “Do you know any good contractors in the area? For the renovation. Since apparently my first choice was a disaster waiting to happen.”
His expression shifts. It’s subtle, like he’s considering something. “What kind of renovation?”
“Full restoration,” I beam, my hands moving on their own accord as they tend to do when I get to talking about my latest endeavor.
“The whole house. I’m hoping to document it for a TV pitch.
” I pause, suddenly aware of how that sounds in a previously flooded hallway at midnight. “I know how that sounds.”
“Sounds like a lot of work,” he says.
“It is,” I agree with a light laugh. “Which is why I need someone who will actually show up.”
The corner of his mouth pulls into a rationed, almost-smile as his yummy gaze holds mine for a beat. “I might know someone.”
“I figured you might,” I say, smiling as I make my way toward the stairs. He follows my lead. “I mean, I’ll of course put in a good word for you. Yelp and wherever else you get reviews. I think contractors bring in their own guys? But if they don’t have a plumber, I’ll ask for you specifically.”
When we reach the front door, I usher him ahead and lock the door behind us, then turn to him. “So, do you have their card or a phone number I can call?” I ask.
Rhett tugs his wallet out from his back pocket, producing a blue business card. He hands it to me and I read: Montgomery Construction & Lumber beside his name, phone number, and business address located right here in Whitetail. Oh.
I stare at the card, heat crawling up my neck. I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. “So, when you said you might know someone, you meant…”
“Me, yeah.”
“So, you’re not a plumber.”
He smirks, pushing his wallet back in place. “I’m a man of many trades, darlin’.”
My entire body flushes with heat.
Why the hell did that sound like an invitation to learn every last one of them?
I straighten, pulling every ounce of professionalism I can back into my shoulders. “In that case, Mr. Montgomery, is there…a good time to reach you for a consult?”
That rationed smile makes its fullest appearance yet. “I’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning, but if you can be here around noon, I’ll swing over and take a look at your plans. See what we can cook up.”
“Perfect! It’s a date,” I hear myself saying before the double meaning fully registers in my apparent lack of a brain. Should I add this to the Yelp review?
He doesn’t correct me, or say another word to confirm I’m not insane, he just grins and crosses the porch. I watch the stretch of his shirt across his back as he walks down the short sidewalk toward his black truck wrapped in a royal blue and silver company logo parked beneath a street light.
His truck rumbles to life and pulls away from the curb and down the quiet street. I look down at the card still in my hand, shining in the front porch light.
Rhett Montgomery.
I have a house to restore, a show to pitch, and a teenager to keep alive.
I don’t have time for a man of many trades.
However tempting he may be.