“I did tell you so,” I remind her, connecting the final piece. “Just not about the plumbing specifically.”
“Oh right, it was more like ‘Your entire bakery is a catastrophe and you’re going to burn the building down.’ My mistake.”
Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. “Looks like water beat fire to the punch.”
“Don’t sound so smug. The day is young. I could still burn something before closing time.”
I make a show of glancing at the sodden oven. “Might be harder than usual.”
She laughs again, and the sound does something to my insides—twists them up, makes them warm and tight and uncomfortable in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant.
I finish connecting the new pipe section, ensuring all joints are secure, then sit back on my heels. “That should hold. I’ll check the main and turn it back on. Go slow with the taps at first.”
I stand, my knees protesting after kneeling in the cold water, and make my way to the utility closet. When I return, Lena has made remarkable progress with the cleanup. The standing water is mostly gone, and she’s arranging industrial fans she must have pulled from storage.
“Found these in the back,” she explains. “Used them when I was painting before opening.”
“Good. You’ll need to dry everything out to prevent mold.” I move back to the sink and turn the tap carefully, watching for leaks. Water flows normally, staying obediently within the pipes. “Looks good. No leaks.”
She claps her hands together, a relieved smile breaking across her face. “You’re amazing! I was about to call a plumber before you showed up. Would have cost me a fortune.”
The mention of payment makes me stiffen. “Don’t worry about it.”
“No, seriously, let me pay you.” She’s already moving toward the register in the front of the shop. “I know you took time away from your actual work, and you used your own supplies, and?—”
“Lena.” My voice comes out sharper than intended. “I said don’t worry about it.”
She stops, turning back to me with confusion written across her face. “But I want to. It’s only fair.”
“It’s my building. My responsibility.” I close my toolbox with more force than necessary. “I should have caught this before it happened.”
“That doesn’t mean you work for free,” she insists, stubborn as always. “You fixed it right away, on a Sunday, when most people would have charged double.”
“I’m not most people,” I growl. “And I’m not charging you for something that was my fault to begin with.”
A flush creeps up her neck, her eyes narrowing. “So what, I’m just supposed to be the helpless tenant who takes handouts?”
“It’s not a handout. It’s my job.” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated by her inability to see the simple logic. “You pay rent. I maintain the building. That’s the arrangement.”
“Fine.” Her voice has gone tight, controlled. “Then at least let me thank you properly.”
“You don’t need to?—”
“I want to.” She cuts me off, stalking to the kitchen and opening one of the higher cabinets, the only ones spared from the flood. She pulls down a plate of something round and spiral-shaped, covered in butter and sugar. The scent hits me immediately—rich, sweet, with a hint of cheese.
“Ensaymadas,” she says, thrusting the plate toward me. “Fresh this morning. Since you won’t take money, take these.”
I stare at the pastries, then at her face. Her expression is fierce, challenging, a flush high on her cheeks. My shirt is still slipping off one shoulder, her hair curling wildly as it dries. She looks beautiful and infuriating and so goddamn stubborn I want to growl.
“I don’t need payment in any form,” I say, my voice low. “Not money, not food.”
Something flickers in her eyes—hurt, maybe, or anger. Possibly both. “Right. Because accepting anything from me would be terrible.”
“That’s not what I?—”
“No, I get it.” She slams the plate into my hands with enough force that I have to catch it or risk dropping the pastries. “God forbid the mighty Thorne accept a simple thank you from the disaster tenant.”
“Lena—”
