The Contractor’s Rose (Bayridge #1)

Chapter 1 Rosemarie

ONE

ROSEMARIE

The sound hit me like a gunshot—loud, violent, and completely out of place.

I dropped the romance novel I’d been “shelving,” my heart now pounding like I’d been caught doing something wicked. Which, I guess, in a way I had. I’d been reading instead of shelving the new releases, but I didn’t think the universe would punish me this swiftly.

Water was flowing—no, pouring—from the ceiling, down the walls, like the building itself was crying. A steady roar echoed off the wooden floors and bookcases, a cruel mockery of rain in a place that was supposed to feel safe and warm and mine.

“My books!” I choked out, sloshing through water that was already nearly ankle-deep. It was icy, soaking through my flats instantly, and the hem of my favorite skirt dragged heavily around me like an anchor. The whole back section—memoir, poetry, and new adult—was getting annihilated.

I froze. My heart raced so hard it felt like it would crack my ribs.

Water damage was one thing, but this? This was ruin.

My entire store. My dream. My grandmother’s dream that she trusted me with after she passed.

Drenched in pipe water that, judging by the color, probably smelled like rust and regret.

Ink was bleeding from the pages, curling the corners of beautiful paperbacks into wet, defeated frowns. Shelf labels were peeling, dripping like they were crying too. I felt like I was underwater. Like everything was pressing in, suffocating me with a loss I couldn’t stop or even begin to slow.

Rationally, I knew the smart thing to do would have been to call a plumber and watch a YouTube tutorial on how to shut off the water. But, no. I just sank to the wet floor and cried.

It wasn’t the graceful movie-type crying, either. It was the ugly kind—hiccuping sobs and snot and the growing weight of what now?

I didn’t hear the door open over the roar of the water and my gasps for air, but I felt the shift in the air. Cold and damp and then… warmth. Heavy steps echoed faintly over the rush of water, followed by a deep, gravel-smooth voice, grounding and unexpected.

“Rosie?”

My head snapped up.

Standing in the doorway like some tall, broad-shouldered, rugged vision in a dark flannel and worn jeans was Gavin Miller. My parents’ business partner. Fifty-two. A contractor with calloused hands and silver-streaked hair that somehow made him hotter, not older.

Also my father’s best friend.

And my childhood crush. Not that anyone knew that. God, I’d have died if that ever got out.

He looked around the destroyed store, then at me—soaked to the skin and crying on the floor. His expression softened, the tension in his jaw slackening as he continued inside without hesitation. The water sloshed around his boots with each step, but he didn’t flinch.

He walked past me to the back room with the confidence of a man who fixed broken things for a living.

I heard some muffled words, a “there you are,” and then a loud clang.

The water was no longer coming out of, well, everywhere at the speed of Niagara Falls free-flowing into the store.

Just a sluggish trickle now. He must have shut the water off.

He came out dusting his hands on his pants and placed them back in his pockets like it was any normal Tuesday.

“Jesus, sweetheart. What happened?”

Sweetheart.

I hated how my body reacted. I was twenty-seven. I owned a business. I wore dainty sundresses and flowy skirts, and used phrases like “a delightful read.” I had no business getting weak-kneed because some older man with a rough voice called me “sweetheart.”

But this wasn’t just some older man.

“I—” My voice cracked. I pushed my wet hair out of my face, strands sticking to my cheek. “A pipe burst or something. I don’t know. I just heard it and then … and then … everything was wet.”

I started crying again, because there was no controlling it now. The dam had burst. Pun intended. Gavin crouched down beside me, close enough for me to smell sawdust and aftershave and something else—something warm and masculine and distinctly him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just placed one big steady hand on my shoulder. Solid. Reassuring.

“You’re okay, Rose.”

I blinked at him.

“Rose?” I echoed stupidly. No one called me that. Not even my parents, and I was named after my dad’s mom. Everyone called me Rosie.

He smiled, just a little. “Yeah. Rosie’s the girl next door who reads nice books and minds her manners. But Rose … that’s the woman sitting here trying not to fall apart, even while her whole damn world’s flooding.”

Oh.

Oh, no.

I felt that somewhere deep.

Then he added, “And you don’t need to hold it together with me. Let it go.”

And somehow … I did.

I didn’t even care that my clothes were soaked or that my eyes probably looked like I’d just lost the love of my life. I leaned into him—into Gavin—and he didn’t flinch or pull away. His arm came around my back instead, big and warm, anchoring me like I wasn’t a total disaster.

I had a million thoughts fighting for space in my head: the ruined inventory, insurance claims, how much money I was about to lose. The logistics. The panic. But all I could really feel was him. Solid. Present. Unshakable.

“I should call my parents,” I mumbled against his flannel shirt, which, unfortunately for me, smelled amazing.

“They already called me,” he said. “Soon as your dad saw the alert that the flood alarm had tripped at the shop, he sent me to check it out and turn off the water. Said he and your mom were tied up showing a house in Greystone.”

Of course they were. My parents were always tied up with something. Not maliciously—they were just the kind of people who were always doing five things at once. Too busy building someone else’s dream home to see mine falling apart.

“I know it’s just a bookstore,” I whispered.

“It’s not just anything,” Gavin cut in. “It’s yours. That makes it important.”

That shouldn’t have made me tear up again, but it did. I bit my bottom lip, trying to hold it in. I couldn’t let Gavin see me full-on ugly cry again.

He must’ve sensed it, because he gently squeezed my shoulder. “C’mon, Rose. Let’s get you upstairs before you catch a cold sitting in all this water. You’re shaking.”

“I have books I need to save—”

He stood, reaching down to take my hand. “And you’ll do that. But not right now. Right now, you need dry clothes, hot chocolate, and maybe a grilled cheese if you’re lucky.”

That made me look up at him, brows lifting. “You cook?”

He smirked. “I’m a contractor. I build kitchens for a living. You think I don’t know how to use one?”

Well, okay then.

I took his hand.

His palm was rough and warm, his grip firm. And as he helped me up, I couldn’t help but notice how close he was. How good he looked with pipe water dripping from his silver-streaked hair, jaw set in that way that said he could fix just about anything—including, apparently, broken bookstore owners.

When we got to the stairs, he hesitated.

“Want me to wait down here?” he asked, suddenly more formal. “Give you space first to change out of your wet clothes?”

I shook my head before I could overthink it. “No. Come up. Please. Plus, you promised me a grilled cheese.”

His eyes darkened just a fraction. But he nodded and followed me upstairs.

The apartment smelled like lemon cleaner and old paperbacks. I loved it just as much as the shop below. It was my hideaway, my safe space. The kind of place where I lit candles for no reason and organized bookshelves by vibe, not title. A little chaotic. A little cozy. Entirely me.

Gavin stood awkwardly in the middle of my tiny kitchen while I peeled off my soaked flats and stepped into my bedroom to change from my drenched clothing into a comfortable sundress.

When I returned, his eyes dropped low and made their way quickly and politely back to mine—but I saw a flash of tension in his jaw.

I grabbed a throw blanket off the couch and wrapped it around myself, comforted by its weight and the familiarity of home.

He cleared his throat. “Are you warm enough?”

“I will be.” I nodded toward the kettle on the stovetop. “Are you still making good on that hot chocolate and grilled cheese offer?”

His mouth twitched. “You bet, Rose.”

There it was again. Rose.

And somehow, with my entire world half-flooded and chaos waiting downstairs, I felt like something was just beginning.