"I'll pay you extra for the emergency call. Time and a half. Double time. Whatever contractors charge for middle-of-the-night disasters."
"Jess." His voice drops lower. Softer. Does things to my insides that are entirely inappropriate given the circumstances. "I don't care about the money. Just stay warm. Move what you can out of the water. And don't touch anything else. I've got you."
He hangs up.
I stand there in my flooded bedroom, soaking wet, probably looking like a drowned rat who lost a fight with a washing machine, clutching my phone.
He's coming.
Carlos is coming.
My omega does a little happy dance in my chest, which is absolutely not helpful right now.
"We are having a plumbing emergency," I tell it sternly. "This is not the time for romantic feelings. We are in crisis mode."
My omega ignores me completely and continues purring like a very satisfied cat.
I look around the disaster zone.
"Okay," I say to the flooding. To the universe. To myself. "Fifteen minutes. I have fifteen minutes to make this look less like the Titanic hit an iceberg in my bedroom."
I start grabbing things. I find an old suitcase at the top of my closet, which I used to use when I was younger and grab that. Along with my pillows, books and laptop. Hauling them to higher ground while water sloshes around my ankles.
Then I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
Dad's t-shirt is completely see-through. Like, nothing left to the imagination see-through. My nipples are making a statement. My wet hair is plastered to my head. I have mascara smeared under my eyes like a raccoon who made poor life choices.
"Oh no."
Carlos is going to see me in a transparent shirt in a flooded bedroom at four in the morning.
My omega perks up withsignificantinterest.
"No,” I tell it firmly. "We’re not doing this. This is a professional service call. He's a contractor. We're a disaster. There will be no hanky panky. No funny business. No shenanigans of any kind."
I sprint to my suitcase and dig through the soggy contents for something,anything, that's not see-through.
I find a sweatshirt. It's damp, but it's opaque, and that's good enough.
I'm pulling it on when I hear the sound of a truck in the driveway.
He's here.
My heart does something complicated that feels like it involves gymnastics and possibly a trapeze.
I run downstairs, my wet pajama pants making unfortunate squelching sounds, and yank open the front door before he can knock.
And there he is.
Carlos, standing on my porch at four in the morning, looking like every single fantasy I've tried not to have for the past six years decided to show up in work boots and absolutelydestroyme.
He's wearing jeans that have been washed so many times they're soft and faded and molded to his thick thighs in ways that should be illegal in at least seventeen states. A grey henley that stretches across his broad chest and shoulders, the fabric pulling tight enough that I can see the outline of muscle underneath. Sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing those forearms.
Thoseforearms.
Thick with muscle from years of hauling lumber and swinging hammers. Dusted with golden hair that catches the porch light. Marked with small scars that tell stories. Corded with strength that makes my mouth water and my omega practically whimper.
Work boots, unlaced, shoved on in a hurry. A tool belt slung over one shoulder, heavy with equipment that clanks softly when he moves. His dark curly hair is sticking up in every direction, pillow-mussed and adorable and unfair. Stubble shadows his jaw, making him look slightly dangerous and entirely too attractive for someone who just rolled out of bed.
