“Okay,” she said slowly. “That does sound credible. What’s your full name?”
“Uh, Garrett Wilder?”
She pulled out her phone and quickly typed into it. Just as quickly, it chimed with a response.
“Okay, Cadence says you’re not a serial killer who tricks new arrivals in town by offering to fix their sinks as a trick to drag them into your evil lair.”
Garrett felt his eyes go wide. Goodness,didhe seem like a villain? That was… upsettingly specific.
“You asked Cadence Meadows if I was aserial killer?” he asked, aghast.
For the first time since he’d interrupted her, Eleanor smiled. It made her hazel eyes bright.
“Okay, not really,” she admitted. “I just asked if you were okay, and she said you were. Sorry. I’ve been reading too many thrillers recently. My imagination got away from me. But you can come in, I guess.”
Garrett didn’t know precisely what to make of this woman, with her low, self-deprecating laughter, the way her hands fluttered when she talked, or the fact that, in the last several minutes, he had spoken to her more than he spoke to most people in a month. So he turned to the thing he did know: how to fix a sink.
He didn’t respond to Eleanor’s comment about her reading habits and how they may or may not affect his menacing aspect. Instead, he reached for a spare rag he saw hanging off the oven handle and cleaned up the worst of the water before sticking his own head underneath the sink.
He saw the problem immediately.
“Oh, it’s your supply valve leaking,” he said. “Let me guess, you thought it was the drain leaking? Common mistake. Hand me that wrench,” he said, pointing.
Eleanor did, although she grumbled something that sounded a lot likeknow it allunder her breath. It was playful rather than unkind, but Garrett still stiffened. He didn’t want to establish a playful rapport with this woman… or with anyone else. It took him only a few quick motions to fix the sink.
“Turn on the water to check,” he told Eleanor gruffly. From his spot under the sink, he could see how she had to push up on those pink-painted toes to reach the faucet without stepping on him.
The sound of water hitting metal rang out as she turned the faucet on, let it run for a moment, then turned it back off again. He checked around the valve for any dampness but found none.
“All good,” he said. He needed to get out of here, needed to get back home to his quiet house where things weren’t broken, where he could eat his sandwich in peace and not be caught upnoticingthings about pretty women. That would be easy at home, as there were no women to be found, pretty or otherwise. Just how he liked it.
When he emerged from under the sink, Eleanor was looking rueful.
“Thanks,” she said.
He grunted.
Her look got a little defensive. “I’m sure I would have figured it out sooner or later,” she said, crossing her arms mulishly. “I fixed that shelf after all.”
It was like something out of a farce, or almost as if the shelf was waiting for her to speak, for the moment Eleanor jabbed a finger at the shelf, one of the moorings came loose and the unit fell, whacking Garrett slightly on the head and quite strongly on the shoulder.
Eleanor’s hands flew to her mouth as he bit back a variety of unsavory words.
“Oh my…” she said, eyes wide. “I am… I amsosorry. Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry! I really thought I had put it in correctly, and it’s been up there all day, so I didn’t think it would be at risk of falling, and?—”
“Hire a professional,” he said, cutting her off. His head was an annoyance, his shoulder throbbed, and he didn’t want to care about what this woman did or didn’t do in her house. If the thing fell down about her ears? Well, that wasn’t Garrett’s problem, not a bit.
He supposed it was professional pride that urged him to give this last piece of advice.
“Get somebody out here to help you,” he said, striding toward the door, ignoring Eleanor’s aghast expression. “That way, you know you won’t get yourself—or someone else—killed.”
He let the screen door swing shut behind him with a punctuatingslam.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Macarons from Honey Bee Bakery were, in Diana’s opinion, one of the wonders of the world. They were the greatest treat in the world, light and airy and brightly colored. The shop too, was a treat, always fragrant with whatever was warming in the ovens, filled with high top tables and tall chairs that invited you to sit and take a load off.
Frankly, the owner, Tate, wasalsopleasant to look at… though, much to Diana’s disappointment, there was no spark of attraction between them.
