He sighs dramatically, but his eyes are still smiling. “Let me put on a shirt, grab my toolbox, and I’ll come check your sink. Give me two minutes.”
“That’s unnecessary,” I finally manage. “I can call the superintendent?—”
“You know how much good that’ll do,” he interrupts, his tone gently mocking. “Is there a reason you don’t want my help? I promise I plumb better than I dodge falling beams.”
How do I answer without dumping my entire tragic life story on him? There are about seventeen reasons I don’t want his help, starting with “you’re a firefighter,” crossing into “my dead husband was a firefighter,” and ending with “talking to you is making parts of me zap that haven’t zapped in four years.” But none of them are appropriate to vomit onto a near-stranger.
When I don’t answer, he lifts an arm and dramatically sniffs his armpit. “Is it the smell? I just showered, but I can do another pass with the soap if that’s the issue.”
“It’s not the smell,” I admit, fighting against the smile tugging at my lips. “It’s the excessive charm.”
His face breaks into a wide, goofy grin that does nothing to help my current predicament. “I’ll dial it down, Nurse Finnigan. You can give me a few pointers on how to perma-scowl.”
“I don’t scowl.”
“Right,” he says, drawing out the word. “And I don’t have a hero complex. Wait here, I’ll grab my stuff.”
Before I can protest further, he disappears into his apartment, leaving me standing at his doorstep, wondering how this became my Friday night. Through the still-open door, I catch glimpses of a sparsely furnished living room. Moving boxes stacked in corners, a new couch, but no TV or bookshelves.
When Josh reappears, he’s added socks and sliders to his wardrobe and a plain white T-shirt that does a poor job of hiding the muscles underneath. And he’s carrying a large, professional-grade toolbox.
“Lead the way,” he says, gesturing grandly like we’re heading to a royal ball instead of my water-damaged bathroom. He’s still channeling full Prince Plumbing energy, but I’m not in a position to complain—beggars can’t be choosers.
As we walk side by side, I can also confirm that he doesn’t have a body odor problem. In fact, he smells downright edible. A mix of soap, clean laundry, a hint of coconut, and something crisp—temptation, trouble, bad decisions waiting to happen? He probably has all three bottled in his aftershave.
What cosmic entity did I piss off to deserve this? Four years of emotional numbness, of focusing on Penny and work, of barely noticing men. And now, the universe delivers the one type of man guaranteed to trigger my baggage: a firefighter with a hero complex and a smile that makes me feel like I’m free-falling without a parachute.
And he lives in my building. With a toolbox. And those abs.
Someone up there is laughing at me.
4
JOSH
Be cool. Be normal. Whatever you do, don’t scare off the pretty nurse who’s hopping in front of you like a spooked rabbit.
The most unexpected gift just dropped in my lap. The beautiful, sharp-tongued woman who stitched up my arm three days ago is my neighbor, and she needs my help. But the way she’s glancing back at me every few seconds with those wide hazel eyes tells me one wrong move, and she’ll bolt.
I follow Lily up the exterior stairs, keeping a respectful distance behind her as we climb to the second floor. She still hasn’t changed out of her scrubs, and her honey-blonde hair has escaped its ponytail in places, curling around her face in damp tendrils. Even disheveled, she’s gorgeous. Understated but breathtaking in a way that makes my throat tight.
“Sorry about the mess,” she says over her shoulder, her voice clipped. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
I take in the wet towels draped over her balcony railing, weeping onto the Mediterranean concrete below. A serious leak, then. Not just a dripping faucet.
“My entire closet is still in boxes or in the laundry basket”—I adjust my grip on the toolbox—“I’m not judging.”
She doesn’t laugh, but her shoulders relax a fraction.
“Is this the first time the sink broke?” I ask, nodding toward the towel collection.
“No. Mr. Hagerty swore he’d fixed it last month.” She fumbles with her keys. “But I came home to a geyser.”
She pushes the door open and hesitates before stepping inside. Is she having second thoughts about letting me in?
Maybe she’s not thrilled about inviting a stranger into her apartment, toolbox or not. Or it could be the firefighter thing; a job that hits too close to home. Or she might just be tired and not up for anyone’s company, period—including mine.Especiallymine?
I pretend not to notice.
