He didn't wait for a reply and walked right inside.
"Wait, I didn't say—" I tried to protest.
"Anna," he turned to me, his brown eyes meeting mine with unwavering determination. "Your house is flooding. We can argue about whether I should be here later, but right now, let me stop the water."
He was right. I bit my lip and stepped aside. With the place turning into a swimming pool, I had no room to refuse.
I stood by as he quickly located the main valve and shut it off, then examined the ruptured pipe.
"This section needs replacing," he said, holding up the new pipe. "Good thing I brought one."
"Why on earth do you have a spare pipe with you?" I asked, incredulous.
He looked up, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "I've been paying attention to your place these past few days. A house this age? Pipe issues are bound to happen. So I stocked up on some common tools and parts in my trunk."
So he'd prepared for this. Ready to step in the moment I needed help. I wasn't sure whether to feel grateful or furious.
He took off his jacket, leaving him in just a white shirt, and got to work. I should have gone to check on Sofia or grabbed a mop to start cleaning up the floor.
But my eyes were glued to him.
With every movement, his shirt clung to his body, outlining his firm muscles. Broad shoulders, toned abs, those long, powerful hands... His forearms tensed as he worked, exuding raw strength.
My breath caught in my throat. God, he looked just like he did five years ago. No—better. More mature, more powerful, more...
For five years, I'd lived practically like a nun, pouring all my energy into raising Sofia, with no time or interest in men.
But now... watching him so focused, sweat forming on his forehead, his nimble fingers handling the tools... a long-forgotten heat stirred in my lower belly.
Damn it.
I forced myself to look away and went to the kitchen for a mop to clean up the water. But my body was reacting—heart racing, breaths coming short, and that embarrassing flush of... desire.
About half an hour later, he was done.
"All fixed," he said, standing up. His shirt was damp in spots from the splashes, clinging to his chest and abs, highlighting every contour—I could make out the ridges of his abs, the curve of his pecs, even the tone of his skin through the wet fabric. "It shouldn't leak anymore. But you should have a professional plumber check the whole system just to be safe."
"Thanks," I said, trying hard not to stare at his soaked shirt, but my eyes kept drifting back. Damn, it was like some kind of torture. "I... I owe you one."
"Don't mention it," he replied, his brown eyes locking onto mine as if he could see right through me. I suspected he'd noticed my glances, because a faint smile played on his lips. "We're neighbors; helping each other is what we do."
Neighbors. He was reminding me that we were more than that—we were Sofia's parents, lovers from that night five years ago.
In the tense silence that followed, I was the one to break it.
"Your clothes are drenched. You'll catch a cold like that."
He looked down at himself and frowned. "I didn't bring any spares."
"It's okay," I said, my cheeks warming. "I'll get you a towel. Take off the wet stuff, and I'll throw it in the dryer."
A few minutes later, I came back downstairs with a large towel. Alexander had already removed his soaked shirt and was standing bare-chested in the living room.
My breath hitchedat the sight.
The muscles I'd only imagined were now right there in front of me—his broad, solid chest, sharply defined abs, arms still tensed from the work... Droplets of water glistened on his skin under the lights.
"The towel," I stammered, struggling not to stare. "You... you can wrap this around yourself."
