"Helping a friend with a plumbing issue."
"Uh-huh." Wade's expression doesn't change, which is how I know he's formed a detailed opinion that he's choosing not to share. He tips his hat and turns back to the barn, and I pull out of the drive grinning like an idiot.
I park in front of Sunny’s house at five minutes to five and sit in the truck for a second, hands on the wheel, telling myself to calm down. I'm here to fix a sink. That's it. Except my racing pulse has nothing to do with plumbing, and the toolbox in the truck bed feels like a prop in a plan I didn't realize I was making.
Her house looks the same, small and quietly charming. The pot of herbs on the porch railing has been watered, and a pair of work boots sit neatly beside the front door.
She opens before I knock, still in her work clothes from the winery, the faded navy tank top and jeans, her hair loose now, falling past her shoulders.
"You brought a toolbox," she says, amusement in her voice.
"I brought the right tools for the job." I wink at her. "Good thing I know what I'm doing." She steps aside, and I move past her into the living room. The house is exactly what I expected. It’s clean and warm, with soft colors on the walls and small touches everywhere, a vase of flowers on a side table, a throw blanket draped over the couch, and framed photos I want to investigate. The kitchen is straight ahead, small but well-organized, with a window over the sink that lets in the afternoon light.
She leads me to the cabinet under the sink and opens it. A mixing bowl sits on the cabinet floor, half full of water. The wood at the base of the cabinet is darker where moisture has been seeping in.
"There it is." She crosses her arms. "The drip has been going since last week. I tightened the joint myself, but it didn't help."
I set down the tools and crouch in front of the cabinet, clicking on the flashlight and angling it up at the pipes. The problem is clear within five seconds. The compression fitting on the cold water supply line is corroded, and the seal has failed. Water beads along the joint and drips steadily into the bowl below.
"Your fitting is shot," I tell her, pulling one of the new fittings from my kit. "The seal corroded through. Tightening won't fix it because the metal itself has degraded." I hold up the replacement fitting. "This is a ten-minute swap."
"You say that like you've rehearsed it." She sounds unconvinced.
"Okay. Five if I'm showing off."
She leans against the counter and watches me work, and the weight of her attention presses on me like something physical. I shut off the water supply valve, place a towel beneath the joint to catch the residual drip, and fit the basin wrench around thecorroded fitting. The old piece resists for a moment, then gives with a creak.
"How did you learn all this?" she asks, and her voice has shifted from teasing to genuinely curious.
"Necessity." I work the old fitting free and inspect the pipe beneath it. The threads are clean, which means the replacement will seat without trouble.
"When you run a ranch, you learn to fix things yourself or go broke paying other people to do it. My grandfather taught me early that there's no problem too small to handle and no skill too basic to learn." I wrap the threads with plumber's tape, winding it tight and smooth. "My brother-in-law makes me look like an amateur. Mason's the real craftsman. He built his own cabin from the ground up, framed and plumbed and wired the whole thing himself."
"You respect him."
"He's a good man." I thread the new fitting onto the pipe and begin tightening it with the wrench. "He's the kind of guy you can count on. He loves my sister in a way that makes me believe the world still works the way it should."
The fitting seats with a satisfying click. I tighten it a final quarter turn and reach for the supply valve. "Here's the moment of truth."
I open the valve, and water rushes back through the pipe. The new fitting holds. I hold the flashlight on it for a full thirty seconds to be certain, and everything stays dry.
"Just under ten minutes," I say, pushing myself up from the floor and brushing off my knees. "And your kitchen isn't flooding."
Sunny stares at the pipe, then at me, and the expression on her face is something I wish I could photograph. Her lips are parted, brows slightly raised, and there's an expression that combines genuine surprise with reluctant admiration.
"You actually fixed it," she says.
"Was there ever any doubt, Sunshine?"
She shakes her head slowly, and the smile that spreads across her face is the relaxed one that reaches her eyes and crinkles the corners. It makes everything else in the room disappear. "Well, Hayden. I owe you dinner."
"You don't owe me anything."
"I'm making you dinner, so sit down and stay out of my way." She's already at the refrigerator, pulling it open and scanning the shelves. "I hope you like pasta."
"You could feed me cereal out of the box and I'd be happy to be here."
She shoots me a look over the refrigerator door, but her cheeks are flushed and her shoulders are loose in a way that tells me her walls have come down for the evening. I settle onto one of the two stools at the small kitchen counter and watch her work.
