Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Winners don’t quit?
Oh Jesus.
“This isn’t football.”
Dex grunts.
Returns to his back, determined to figure this out on his own.
I raise a brow but decide not to say another peep about the time he’s been below the sink. Shouldn’t he have a grasp on this by now? Shouldn’t he kind of already have this figured out?
I press my lips together.
Actually, now that I think about it . . . maybe I should be filming him. So when everything does inevitably implode, I have it on my phone for posterity and I can watch it again and again. Or show Wyatt. She would think it’s hilarious.
Or maybe my time is better served going to the bathroom and grabbing a stack of towels. Just in case.
It’s endearing, this desire he has to fix my problem.
Me, a practical stranger.
Me, a random woman he met on a dating app and has no interest in dating.
Makes him seem human, not this larger-than-life figure I had to read about on the internet.
Minutes tick by, and he is still grunting and making a big stink beneath the counter.
I can’t see his frustration, but I can feel it simmering. I can hear it with every turn of a wrench or screwdriver or whatever tools he’s using that I can’t see because it’s dark down there.
I’m too scared to look, honestly.
He wipes his hands on a dingy rag I handed him earlier.
“Everything all right?”
“Just fine,” Dex grumbles, his tone far less confident than it was before. “Almost there.”
Sure it is.
I stifle a giggle, my attraction for him growing. His determination is charming, even if it is slightly misguided.
Don’t quit your day job, Dex.
“Okay, I definitely think I’ve got it now,” he declares triumphantly, beginning the slow shimmy out of his spot. He uncurls himself, emerging at last from under the sink, his hair tousled, face flushed.
He doesn’t look any less hot than he did when he got here.
More so, if I’m being honest.
“Moment of truth. Let’s test it out.” He reaches to turn the faucet, and my breath hitches, caught in my throat.
Nothing.
For a brief, glorious second, nothing happens. Nothing at all.
No water, no gush, no explosion.
My shoulders relax, thinking maybe he has actually managed to fix the—
A burst of air emerges from the faucet.
Whoosh!
Water shoots out of the faucet like a geyser. I don’t know how, but it arches through the air, drenching Dex and me and spraying water all over the kitchen. This way, that way—all the ways!
Water is everywhere.
I scream, “Oh my God!”
Frantically fumbling for a towel, I toss it over the nozzle to stop the outpour of water from spraying everything in sight. “Holy shit!”
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!
We are both soaked.
Water covers me from head to toe, my white T-shirt drenched.
My clothes cling to me as I stand here, dripping water onto the tile floor, shivering as Dex stares at me, wide eyed and horrified, droplets of water dribbling from his hair.
“Dex!” I sputter. “I . . . this . . .” I have no words.
“Oh my dude, I’m so sorry!” He scrambles to turn the water off, but that only seems to make the spray worse if that were possible.
“What is happening!” I shout with a laugh, the situation too ridiculous to do anything but. If I don’t laugh, I may cry.
This was inevitable; let’s be real here. Dex is a pretty football star, not a handyman.
Side by side we stand in stunned silence, the hissing of my pipes the only sound in the air. That and the mini waterfall cascading down the front of my cabinet, pooling on the floor.
“That was not supposed to happen.”
“Ya think?” I move, water at my feet dripping from the countertops.
What a freaking mess!
A knot forms in my stomach, nerves and hysteria creating a bubble that rises in my throat and threatens to erupt like my pipes.
I burst out laughing.
“This isn’t funny!” he protests, though a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
“No, it’s not. It’s a mess. But also, it kind of is.” I wipe water from my eyes, almost positive I’m crying too. “I told you we should have called a pro.”
“I am a pro.”
“Do not compare yourself to a skilled tradesman. You play sports.” Not even close to being the same thing.
He shakes his wet head. “All right, fine. You were right—we should have called my buddy.”
I grab another nearby towel and hand it to him, still chuckling. “I think it’s safe to say you need to retire your borrowed tool belt.”
He sighs, using the towel to wipe his face. “You didn’t happen to film that, did you?” He looks so sheepish, standing there dripping wet, that I feel a pang of sympathy.
“No. But I thought about it,” I admit, stepping closer and putting a hand on his arm. “I appreciate you trying. Really. It means a lot to me.”