How hard did I just hit my head?
I lean back under the sink and finish twisting the knob to shut off the water supply.
“Oh, mercy, Danny Santana’s a hot one,” Marta says. “Was he as good in bed as he is on camera?”
“Right here, Marta,” I say.
“Oh, I know, honey, but you’re a grown-up now, and a woman has needs, and you’re notdatingTavi, so it’s not like this should offend you. Wait. You’re not dating, are you?Are you secretly dating?”
“We’re just friends,” Tavi says easily.
“Ooooh,”Marta breathes. “That means youaredating, but you don’t want the world to know it, doesn’t it?”
I slide another look back at the women.
Tavi gives me the universal smirk ofI told you so.
“Jesus on clam chowder,” Ken mutters loudly enough for the neighbors to hear. There’s a stomp, then a “Good luck, Dylan,” and then the front door slams.
Marta giggles. “He’ll be back sniffing for a good time before long. Having an empty nest has really been good for us. But tell me about you two. How long have you been—”
“Marta, you got a bucket?” I ask.
“You bet, honey. Just hold there for one minute while I go wrestle it up out of the garage.”
I lean back, sitting on my heels, while she bustles out of the house.
As soon as the garage door slams, Tavi leaps to her feet. “Here. Take your shirt off, and put this in your ear.”
I don’t answer with my words.
Pretty sure my face is doing all the talking for me while I swat at the little earbud device she’s shoving my way.
Pebbles peeks out of the purse, now battling for space on the table among succulents and newspapers and stacks of mail.
“It’s a clean earbud,” Tavi assures me. “And it’ll make your voice come through clearer on the video.”
“Video?”
“Dylan. You can’t be the hottest plumber on TikTok if you don’t do videos. C’mon. You have to talk about why you don’t put potato peels down the sink and give people three tips on how to clear it out at home when they do. The lighting isn’t the best in here, but my video people will do amazing things with it.”
She’s aiming her own phone at me.
Interesting.
“Thought you all weren’t supposed to have cell signal.”
“Gigi can hardly assign me the task of helping this town get on social media without cell signal.”
“We’re on the internet here too, you know. Patrice, who used to run the spa, even has a popular YouTube channel, but she can’t upload on Wednesday nights, because that’s the night Tickled Pink Floyd is uploading his videos to his favorite site.”
I let that linger while Tavi’s face does some gymnastics of its own.
“Like, school-janitor videos?” she asks.
Legit question. Tickled Pink Floyd—not to be confused with Deer Drop Floyd—used to be the high school janitor. And every day I’m grateful he has a big heart and forgives easily.
I grin. “Yeah. Let’s call ’em that.”
