Then I head downstairs to make coffee.
And possibly have a small crisis about what I've just agreed to.
I'm looking forward to what comes next.
Even if it terrifies me.
Because the things worth having are usually the things that scare us most.
And Carlos, with his carpenter hands and his terrible jokes and his six years of patience, might just be worth the risk.
11
CARLOS
The kiss is still burning on my lips when I crawl under Jessica's sink.
Focus, Negrorio. You're here to fix pipes, not seduce your best friend's ex-girlfriend in her flooded bedroom.
Except I already kissed her. Already felt her melt against me, her hands fisting in my shirt like she needed the anchor. Her scent already tasted that made my alpha howls with satisfaction.
Six years. Six goddamn years of wondering what would have happened if she'd stayed that night. If she'd let me kiss her longer. If she'd realized that Callum was all wrong for her and I was right here, waiting, ready to give her everything.
Now she's standing in her bedroom doorway wearing a soaked t-shirt that's practically painted onto her curves, and I'm supposed to concentrate on corroded copper pipes.
I shine my flashlight into the cabinet and force myself to focus on the problem at hand.
The damage is worse than I thought.
The burst pipe is obvious, a jagged hole where the metal gave way under pressure, but that's not the only problem. The entire line is corroded. Green oxidation creeping along the joints like some kind of plumbing disease. Rust flaking off in patches. Thispipe has been dying for years, slowly degrading until one cold snap was all it took to finish the job.
I slide out from under the sink and sit up, wiping my hands on my jeans.
Jessica is still in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, shivering. The wet fabric of her t-shirt has gone translucent, clinging to the swell of her breasts, the curve of her stomach, the dip of her waist. Her nipples are hard from the cold, two perfect points visible through the thin cotton, and I have to physically drag my eyes away before I do something stupid like stare at them for the next hour.
My mouth goes dry anyway.
"Well?" Her voice pulls me back to reality, to the flooded bathroom and the job I'm supposed to be doing. "How bad is it?"
I clear my throat. Stand up. Put some distance between us before I forget I'm here professionally.
"Bad." I gesture at the bathroom, at the water still dripping from every surface, at the spreading stain on the ceiling that's only getting worse. "The pipe that burst is just the tip of the iceberg. The whole system is compromised. I'm seeing corrosion throughout the visible lines, which means the stuff inside the walls is probably worse."
Her face falls, and I watch the light drain out of her eyes. "What does that mean?"
I grimace. "It means this is going to be expensive and invasive. I need to open up the walls, check the main lines. Replace everything that's degraded before another pipe decides to blow."
I run a hand through my hair, trying to calculate. "This house is seventy years old. The plumbing is original. One pipe going means others aren't far behind."
"And how long will that take?"
I do the math in my head. Square footage. Pipe access. The age of the house. The fact that I'll have to special order materials because nothing in Largo Waters stocks 1950s fittings anymore.
"Three weeks minimum," I say honestly. "Probably closer to a month."
Jessica closes her eyes. Her shoulders sag like someone cut the strings holding her upright.
I watch the fight drain out of her and feel something twist in my chest, sharp and painful.
