“Great,” I mutter, surveying the damage. “Just fantastic.”
I bundle up the sopping towels, staggering under their weight as I head toward my small patio to hang them over the railing. The evening air hits my face, still warm despite the lowering sun. The courtyard is alive with the sounds of Friday night beginning: music, laughter, the clink of glasses. Meanwhile, I’m wrestling with wet cloths and muttering curses that would make my grandmother reach for her rosary.
“Sink again?”
I startle. Agatha, my neighbor, is leaning over her railing one unit over, swirling a glass of white wine. At seventy-something, she dresses like she’s constantly headed to a garden party in the Hamptons. Today it’s a floral blouse and white pants, accessorized with chunky turquoise jewelry. Her gray hair is perfectly coiffed even at this hour. I suspect she sleeps sitting up to preserve the style.
“How’d you guess?” I ask sarcastically, draping a heavy bath towel over the railing.
“Third time this year,” she says, taking a sip of wine. “Same pipe?”
“Yeah. Same useless superintendent. Same ruined Friday night.” I hang the last towel. “I’d kill for Mr. Hagerty to fix something for once.”
Agatha takes an unhurried sip of wine. “You should ask the new handyman for help.”
“Did they fire Mr. Hagerty?” I perk up with fragile hope.
“No, honey.” She laughs. “I meant the new tenant in 1F. Nice young man, he moved in two weeks ago. He’s been helping everyone fix things. Mrs. Patel’s garbage disposal, the Rodriguezes’ dryer, he did my shelves.”
“And he does this because…?” I raise an eyebrow. In my experience, people don’t wander around apartment complexes offering free repairs out of the goodness of their hearts.
“Because he’s nice. And handy. Says he enjoys fixing things. Or he could just be lonely.” Agatha shrugs. “New to town and all that. You should pay him a visit before you run out of towels.” She gives the dripping mess on my balcony a pointed look.
I hesitate. My common sense screams:fix the leak however you can. I’m desperate to have running water again. But knocking on a stranger’s door to ask for help? It’s got serious door-to-door vendor energy, minus the free pens and with a side ofhello, neighbor, your Friday night is ruined, too, now.
“I don’t know, Agatha…”
“Apartment 1F,” she repeats, already turning back toward her living room and disappearing inside with a wave of her bejeweled hand.
Great. Now I can either ask the new arrival for help and risk awkward small talk, or field Agatha’s “How’s that plumbing issue going?” for a week. Neither sounds ideal. But the need for a hot shower overpowers everything else.
I glance down at myself and grimace. My scrubs are wrinkled and stained with who-knows-what from my shift, and my hair is a damp disaster from the sink spray. My sneakers squelch when I lift a foot.
Not exactly a Stepford Wife introducing herself to a new neighbor with a basket of freshly baked muffins. I’ll traumatize the poor man, no matter how nice he is.
But the thought of spending my precious free weekend with a broken sink and no running water propels me down the patio stairs and around to the south side of the complex. Apartment 1F is tucked in a corner, the unit identical to all the others except for the brand-new welcome mat and a pair of large boots lined up by the entrance.
I fill my lungs, summon my best neighborly smile, and knock before I can talk myself out of it.
“I’m coming,” a deep voice calls. Footsteps echo nearer, the door swings open, and my mind goes blank. Standing before me is a six-foot-something wall of bare, muscled chest, topped by a familiar face. It’s Josh Collins. The firefighter from the ER three days ago, wearing only black basketball shorts riding low on his hips and the bandage on his arm.
His light-brown hair is damp, either from a workout or from recently enjoying the benefits of functioning plumbing. My mouth goes dry as my gaze drops to his chest again. He doesn’t seem sweaty. Guess I caught him fresh out of the shower.
He blinks at me, recognition dawning in those ridiculous too-blue, too-flirty eyes.
“Nurse Finnigan.” Surprise lifts his voice.
I stare, my brain frantically searching for words that aren’t “holy” and “abs.” After what feels like several decades, I clear my throat. “Err, I must’ve gotten the wrong door,” I blurt, already backing away. “Sorry to bother you.”
He crosses his arms over his chest—thank goodness and also damn it—and leans against the doorframe with casual ease. “So you’re not Lily from 2A needing help with a leaky sink like Agatha just texted me.”
I blink, feeling like I’ve stepped into some bizarre alternate universe where hot firefighters materialize in my apartment complex offering free plumbing services. “How do you—I mean, yes, that’s me, but?—”
“Small world, huh?” He grins, and it transforms his entire face to maximum boyish charm. “And I finally got your name,Lily.”
The way my name rolls off his tongue is downright obscene.
I gape at him, still unable to form a coherent sentence. Something about the combination of his half-naked state and the utter unlikelihood of this coincidence has fried my ability to act normal.
