Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
RACHEL
Ishould have left the stupid shower head alone.
That is my first thought while the freezing water blasts me in the face and sprays across the bathroom like a fire hose gone rogue.
One second, I was tightening the thing with a wrench, and the next, it snapped loose in my hand, and suddenly, the whole shower was spewing water with the fury of Niagara Falls.
This is what I get for thinking I can do it myself.
“Oh my god!” I scream, slipping on the slick tile as icy spray soaks me from head to toe. My hair plasters itself to my face as I twist more knobs. I have no idea what I’m doing. My shirt is clinging to my skin, and the floor tile is already flooding.
I yank at the handle and shove the shower head back against the pipe, hoping it magically reattaches itself. But nothing is working. Water just keeps gushing out, hissing louder, as if it’s mocking me.
Panic claws up my throat. I grab my phone, fingers slipping on the wet screen. I call the first person I can think of: Anderson. He always knows what to do.
“Anderson—it’s—the shower—it broke! Water—everywhere!” I barely make sense, my voice shaking.
“Whoa, slow down,” he says calmly. I can hear people talking in the background. Shit, I’m interrupting him at work. “Did you find the shut-off valve?”
“I don’t even know what that is!” I spin in place like an idiot, staring around the hallway as though the magic valve would appear next to my closet.
“Check under the sink or in the crawl space,” he says.
Then he sighs. “Look, Rach, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got meetings all day.
It’s like the one day a year I’m actually in the office.
So I can’t really leave right now. You’ll be fine.
Just—just try Ben, or I can send you a number for my plumber. ”
“Shit, yeah. I’m sorry, you must be busy.” I let out a sigh. “Thanks anyway!”
Click.
I want to throw the phone against the wall. When I call Ben, it goes straight to voicemail. And I’m not even a little surprised. I scour my brain for anyone else who might be able to help. Margo wouldn’t know what to do. She’d panic right along with me. Everyone else I can think of is at work.
I look around, and my bathroom is turning into a swimming pool. My hands begin to shake and I can’t stop thinking, I can’t fix this. I can’t fix this.
There is only one name left on my screen. The one I swore I wouldn’t call unless I absolutely had to. And yet, here I am.
I’ve done an impressive job avoiding Rhett for the last three weeks.
I skipped the bar night just to make sure I wouldn’t be trapped in the same room as him.
Because when he is near me, my thoughts blur.
My resolve weakens. I forget why I’m angry in the first place.
I told myself meeting him for coffee was safe.
Neutral ground. Thirty minutes, max. I planned to stay mad, say what I needed to say, and leave.
Somehow, that turned into me sitting on his couch hours later watching the sun disappear. Eight hours slipped through my fingers like I wasn’t even trying to hold onto them.
That is what he does to me. Something shifts the moment he is around, like a switch flipping in my chest, cutting power to my common sense. I stop being the girl with boundaries and plans and turn into someone reckless, someone who forgets herself just because he is looking at her.
I hate that I lose control with him.
I hate that part of me doesn’t want it back.
My thumb hovers. Really, what choice do I have? I press call.
“Rachel?” His voice is surprised.
“Rhett,” I gasp, “please—I broke the shower, the water’s everywhere—I can’t stop it—”
“Hey, hey, breathe,” he says, steady as a rock. “I’ve got the day off. I’m coming over. Don’t touch anything else. Maybe find a bucket or a bowl and catch some of the water.”
The next fifteen minutes feel like an eternity. By the time Rhett shows up, I’m dripping wet. My clothes are practically see through, and I’m standing barefoot in the hallway with my arms wrapped around myself like that’s going to keep me warm. I probably look like a drowned rat.
No, I’m sure I look like a drowned rat. My shirt clings to my body in all the wrong places, and I’m shivering so hard my teeth almost chatter.
He doesn’t say anything when he comes through the door.
Doesn’t waste a single second. Just strides past, completely unaffected by me, drops to one knee by the sink cabinet, and starts rummaging.
His movements are confident. By the looks of it, I’m sure he has done this before.
Then there is a twist, a grunt of effort, and—
Silence.
It is so sudden it rings in my ears after the endless roar of water.
I let out a shaky breath that has been trapped in my lungs and lean back against the wall.
My heart is finally slowing down, though it still thumps unevenly, as if it hasn’t gotten the memo that the crisis is over.
The bathroom is wrecked, water pooling across the tile and seeping into the bedroom carpet.
I’m wrecked, too. If you count being soaked through, freezing and utterly humiliated.
Rhett pushes himself up from the floor, bracing one arm against the doorframe.
His T-shirt is damp at the hem from kneeling in the mess, clinging to him in a way I have to force myself not to stare at.
His eyes flick over me, lingering a little, and I suddenly wish I could have changed into anything else before he came over.
I swallow, self-conscious, and pull my arms tighter across my chest. “I look ridiculous,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.
I watch him swallow, and he looks so serious.
But then just as I’m about to question it, his expression flips.
He grins, easy and a little lopsided. It’s the same grin that used to drive me crazy for entirely different reasons.
“Next time, Rach,” he says, “maybe just call me as soon as the water starts flying out.”
My stomach twists. He’s teasing, but there is something underneath it. I think he actually means it. And damn it, I hate how much relief rushes through me at the fact.
I press my forehead against the wall, closing my eyes. I try to ignore the heat creeping into my cheeks despite how cold I am. Because as much as I want to be annoyed at him, to dismiss that grin and the way his presence fills up the hallway, the truth is inescapable:
I’m glad it was Rhett.
And that thought scares me more than the flood ever did.
Rhett wrings out another towel, and I can’t help but watch his forearms flex. He tosses it into the growing pile by the door, then straightens, giving me that look again. The one that makes me feel like he sees right through me.
“You’re freezing,” he says as his hands come to my arms. His palms are warm—too warm—and I tell myself it is the contrast that makes a tremor break through me. “Go take a hot shower, and I’ll clean up here.”
He rubs up and down my arms again. Goosebumps rise instantly, traitorous and obvious. I pray he doesn’t feel the way my breath stutters.
“You have a guest shower, right?”
“Uh, no, but I’m fine,” I lie, though my teeth betray me and chatter hard halfway through. “It’s my mess anyway. I should help clean it up.”
“Rachel, you’re dripping, shivering, and turning blue.” His jaw works once, controlled. “I’ll step out, and you…” His throat bobs. “Get naked and yell when you’re in the shower, and I’ll come back and clean up.”
Heat flashes through me at the mere suggestion. My body wants to obey his command, but I remember who is in control. I fold my arms across my chest, partly stubborn, mostly hiding how my soaked shirt clings to everything it shouldn’t.
“I can’t just leave you to—”
“Sunny.” His voice turns low enough to curl around my bones. “Shower. Now. Before you get sick. Or worse, before I pick you up and toss you in there.”
My breath catches. Not because I think he’s joking, but because based on our history, I know he isn’t.
“The head is still off,” I protest weakly, pointing at the busted shower.
He steps into the bathroom and brushes past me.
The air seems to recalibrate around him.
His scent is warm and familiar, settling low in my stomach and triggering a flutter I refuse to acknowledge, let alone examine.
He reaches for the detached shower head and reattaches it with quick, practiced movements.
I watch his hands without meaning to. Strong. Sure. Veins stand out along his forearms as the metal twists into place, muscles tightening and releasing with unconscious precision while water splashes over his skin.
What is wrong with me? I am an overly educated woman, trained to analyze, to question, to rise above this sort of primitive distraction.
And yet I am standing here, inexplicably mesmerized by the way his arms flex while doing something so painfully ordinary.
I practically can feel the drool forming.
He should not look this good fixing a shower.
“There,” he huffs. “It’s fixed.” He steps toward the doorway but pauses when he reaches me. His eyes drag from my soaked shirt down to my jeans, then away so fast it almost hurts.
“Yell when you’re in,” he murmurs, voice thicker than before. “I’ll come back.”
And then he leaves.
The door shuts softly behind him.
My heart pounds as I peel off my clothes, each layer sticking stubbornly to my skin.
When I reach my bra, my hands hesitate—ridiculous, considering he isn’t even looking—but the idea of Rhett in the other room, knowing I’m naked just feet away…
it sends heat straight through me. How am I supposed to shower with him in here?
I hang my soaked things over the counter, trying not to imagine him seeing the outline of them. Trying not to imagine anything except the water.
I step into the shower. The first rush of heat hits my skin, and my knees nearly give out in relief. Warmth spreads through me slowly, thawing everything. My fingers grip the tile as I inhale.