stop me in my tracks. They’re spoken low. So low, I almost don’t hear them, but I do. They send a tremor down my spine.
“I can assure you, I’m nothing like them.”
I pause, glancing at him over my shoulder. The muscle in his jaw jumps continuously, as if he’s grinding his teeth together.
Too bad for him, I don’t care enough to know how different he really is.
But that’s just another lie.
Because I do care. Way more than I’d like to admit.
The weekend comes with its own set of issues, the first being the plumbing in the house. Or is it the piping? Whatever the hell it is, the water is still cold as shit. The water heater isn’t working either, but I refuse to call my dad back here so soon. For once, I need to figure this out on my own. And sadly, YouTube hasn’t given me the answer. Yesterday on my lunch break at work, I called a local plumbing company, and they agreed to send a guy out to take a look and see what the problem is.
Which brings us to now. He toured the house and checked the water heater, and as he did it all, he did nothing but grunt and scribble something on his clipboard filled with papers. We finally head back out toward his truck, and he slams me with the bad news. In my peripheral, I can hear Max growling. I glance over my shoulder, spotting Roman and Max in the garage. He’s working on the car again.
The same car that is most definitely not a Mustang.
I can feel his heated gaze on me from here. It has my stomach dipping violently. I hurry and whirl around, focusing on Arnold, the plumber with a beer belly that rivals my old neighbor’s. Mr. Greene was the poster child for a man with a beer belly, if there ever was one. It was like his gut had a mind of its own. When he’d laugh or grunt, the thing would bob up and down in a distracting way. And regardless of how big the man’s shirts were, his belly would always manage to make an appearance.
“Well, I found the problem. You have weak piping. It’s an old house, so this was bound to happen. It definitely needs work done. We’ll have to re-pipe. You need a new water heater. The unit you have in there isn’t working anymore. I can help you out. A crew of guys can be here next week, but you’re looking at about eight to nine grand, not including the cost of labor.”
I choke.
Literally. I start choking, right there in front of my house.
I think I’ve even swallowed my tongue.
“I’m sorry, what? Ten grand?” On the verge of hysterics, my voice is deafening. I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire neighborhood heard me just now.
“It’s an old house, ma’am. If you want warm, clean water, this is what needs to be done.”
My jaw is still on the ground, as I stare at Arnold, trying to make sense of the large sum of money. There’s just no way. My dad usually did all the house maintenance himself. I don’t ever remember him having to call in a plumbing company, but I’m obviously not my father. And I can’t just have him drive all the way out here to fix this.
“What’s the issue?”
I whirl around at the sound of Roman’s voice. He steps up behind me, Max following his every step. The dark pattern on the dog’s face makes him look severe and intimidating, so much so, Arnold glances warily at me, then at Roman. After a few beats, he gathers himself, rattling off everything he just told me, including the price. The entire time, my gaze is fixed on Roman. He’s dressed in a white T-shirt today that hugs his body to perfection. I can’t help the way my eyes trail across his pecs and around the material straining against his biceps. The shirt is plain and dirty, smudged with oil and grease, but he still looks good. Better than good, actually. The man could literally walk around with a smear of shit on his face, and he’d probably still attract women. It’s unfair.
I’m so busy checking him out that I miss half of the conversation, barely clueing in when I hear Roman.
“Thanks for your time. I’ll take it from here, man.”
Arnold shoots me a questioning glance, and I don’t even have the ability to respond because I’m in a state