Chapter 1 #2
She puts her hand on top of mine, bringing my attention back to her. “He’s a brilliant surgeon, Mia. The best ortho in the world. Don’t take my word for it. Google him and you’ll see.”
Her tone pleads for sympathy, but it's her eyes that drag me down on the emotional guilt trip as she continues, “He’s also the kindest man I’ve ever met.
And a father to me. His world turned upside down, and he…
” Whatever she’s thinking forces her to pause and look away before she faces me again. “… he just couldn’t cope.”
“Sounds rough.” My stomach knots, and it’s my turn to avoid her eyes. I know what ‘rough’ looks like. And smells like. And wrecks like.
I can put two and two together. I’m here to babysit two people.
“I think he quit drinking,” April carries on.
“Calista, the other musketeer from our trio, has her doubts.” The mere mention of Calista perks my mood again.
I can’t wait to meet her since every story starring her cracks me up.
“So no, Mia. Right now, he’s not the hotshot surgeon he used to be.
He’s taken time off, actually. He needs help with the house, with his kid.
With the shoelace wars at seven. Bedtime negotiations at eight.
He still uses a baby monitor, for fuck’s sake. Why? Why?”
I stare back in silence, hoping that’s a rhetorical question.
“He needs help to get his life back in order so he can go back to what he’s great at. Liam and I thought you’d ace this.” She gives me an apologetic smile as her pager beeps hysterically, breaking up the somber conversation.
“Sorry, Mia, it’s the hospital. I’ve got to make a call.”
She steps away, and to keep myself from overthinking, I eat what’s left of the muffin and the inevitable serving of guilt that comes with eating a sweet treat.
April comes back a few minutes later to find me scraping the crumbs stuck in the muffin liner with my lower teeth.
Oh, just kill me now. We’re definitely not close enough for her to witness this trash-raccoon performance.
“I’m so sorry. I’m filling in for Preston as head of the department while he’s on leave, and there’s been a train derailment. Dozens of injured people are being taken to our hospital.”
“Go. Go save people’s limbs.” I wave her away. “Text me his address and I’ll get a taxi. Can’t wait to ride in one of those yellow things.” I might yell ‘follow that car’ midway and scare the hell out of the driver, just so I can have the whole Hollywood experience.
“Will do. Sorry again. You’ll be great. I’m so happy you’re here,” she babbles at the speed of light as she walks backward, somehow gracefully weaving through the crowd behind her.
“Thanks again. You’re great, he’s great.
A bit grumpy, but a great guy. Just… have some patience.
You know what? Scratch that.” She flicks a dismissive hand in the air. “Don’t worry, you’ll do great.”
With every “great” out of her mouth, a seed of doubt is planted in my fertile mind. By the end of her little speech, there’s a tiny, terrified version of me living in a dark forest inside my head.
* * *
Fuck my life! The house number is 81, not 18. It takes three unanswered doorbell rings for me to realize I’m at the wrong place. My taxi’s long gone, my suitcases outnumber my hands, and my pride just filed for divorce.
Why am I conditioned to do whatever Gunn asks? What was I thinking when I said yes to this? Why didn’t I ask more questions? What the hell am I getting myself into? Am I going to babysit an old broken man and safeguard his kid?
Who am I kidding? I know damn well why I agreed to this without a second thought.
Gunn said please, and I caved. That’s such a foreign word in that man’s vocabulary, I stopped thinking straight.
And to my utter shock, he said it multiple times.
The death blow came on the last one, when he added more emphasis on the vowels.
I’m not even sure if I said yes or if I was so shocked he took my silence as agreement. Fucking Gunn!
Then, in true Liam Gunn fashion, he put me on his payroll rather than the doctor's—since I’m on a tourist visa and can’t legally work here—and gave me a ridiculous raise. The kind of money no one in my shoes could afford to turn down.
So here I am, shepherding my suitcases ahead of me, as pedestrians dodge past. When I finally reach house number 81, I park my luggage and walk up the steps to the front door.
I have to sidestep a bunch of pipes, a sink, a showerhead, sheets of plywood, and lots of other construction bits piled together that almost barricade my way up.
I double-check the address I’m at. No, this is it.
I’m at the right place this time. They must be renovating or something.
I ring the bell and wait. A moment later, the door creaks open, and I catch a strong arm bracing against the doorframe, water droplets trickling down his shoulders.
My stomach does a little flip, and my pulse picks up.
There’s something about the way his silhouette fills the doorway that has me doing a double take.
It’s not the fancy doctor who opens the door for me.
Oh, no. I’m greeted instead by the hottest plumber on Earth, and I suddenly understand the appeal of those awful, poorly scripted and even worse-acted porn movies with a plumber as the main character.
Oh yeah, I totally get it now.
“Oh, hi.” My voice comes out breathy as I tuck a loose tendril of hair behind my ear, twirling the tip around my finger.
Lord, help me. I’m acting as the counterpart in those movies.
I try to pull myself together and stand straighter, but that just pushes my tits out.
Lord, this time, it really wasn’t intentional.
But I don’t think God would judge me. I mean, look at this plumber. He just won whatever wet T-shirt contest he came from. Tens across the board.
The man is soaked, his white T-shirt clinging to his muscles for dear life—hey, I would too. His hair is just as wet, slicked back by his fingers, droplets trailing down his neck. It’s thick and dark, speckled with gray, and my fingers tingle with the urge to take their turn running through it.
The hot plumber is lean but strong, not bulky. I bet every muscle is toned and honed by hard work and life itself. He’s probably never seen the inside of a gym.
Oops. I stand corrected. He does have some bulk—right in his jeans. His wet denim clamps to his lower body, and that crotch of his holds promises. Big promises.
As my eyes wander up to the guy’s face, I mentally thank Gunn, aka, the best boss ever, for this amazing opportunity. I have a feeling I’ll get along just fine with the other employees of this household.
My lips tug into a grin I can’t control. I’m such a fool. And way too obvious. My smile only widens when I wonder if whatever he’s fixing in there is as big of a job as his—
“Hi. It’s Mia, isn’t it?” He smooths his hair back, and my eyes follow the movement, my head bobbing as I trace the contour of his biceps. He takes the hypnotic effect of his arm muscles as a yes.
Wait. How does the plumber know who I am?
He can’t be.
Lord? It’s me again. Please don’t let this be—
“I’m Preston Jett. Welcome.”