“Thank you,” I say, sincere.
His gaze flicks to my face. Lingers. Then he looks away.
“Don’t thank me yet.”
I trot back to my studio, muttering under my breath about grumpy mechanics and anti-social mountain men. I kneel under the sink, twist the wrench the way I think I’m supposed to, and immediately make things worse.
The pipe shudders. The water sprays harder. A cold stream hits my neck.
I shriek.
“I hate this place,” I announce to no one.
And then—because apparently I’ve reached my emotional limit—I burst into tears.
Full-on, ugly, overwhelmed sobbing. Because I moved my entire life here. Because I spent my savings on this studio. Because I just wanted to teach kids to paint and instead I’m losing a fight with plumbing.
A shadow fills the doorway.
The water shuts off in less than thirty seconds.
I blink through my tears to find Boone crouched under the sink, wrench in hand, calm and efficient like this is nothing. He tightens something, checks another joint, then stands.
Silence.
The flood stops.
I stare at the fixed pipe. At him.
“That’s it?” I demand.
“Yes.”
“That took you thirty seconds.”
“Thirty-one.”
My annoyance flares hot and immediate. “You could’ve just done that in the first place.”
He straightens, towering over me, expression unreadable. “You wanted to do it yourself.”
“I wanted to prove I wasn’t helpless.”
“You proved you’re stubborn.”
I push to my feet, wrench clutched like a weapon. “I am not helpless.”
He arches a brow. “You cried.”
“That was—” I stop. Reset. “That was strategic.”
He snorts.
I bristle. “You think I’m some delicate city girl who can’t handle a little chaos?”
“I think,” he says slowly, eyes darkening, “that you walked into a workshop yesterday covered in paint like you owned the place, knocked on my door without fear, and tried to fix plumbing without knowing how.”
“That sounds brave.”
