The hiss of water cut off. I stood, feeling my jeans and T-shirt sticking to me like a second skin. I pulled the material from my body, wrung out some of the extra water.
At least it was clean water.
Garret blinked.
“Towels,” I repeated for the umpteenth time.
“You’re Charlie.”
“Yup.”
“You’re a plumber.”
My chin dropped to my chest, not going to point out the fact that I was wearing a company T-shirt that was emblazoned with Charlie’s Pipes above one breast and Charlie above the other.
Then I sighed and straightened, opening my mouth—
Garret’s lips curved, and I felt that smile like a punch to my gut . . . or maybe between my thighs, because it transformed his face from all hard lines and brooding brows into something soft and playful, giving a glimpse of something that was decidedly not asshole.
And so maybe surly assholes weren’t my type after all if they came in the form of six-feet-plus tattoo artists with playful edges to their smiles and piercing green eyes, who had at first appeared to be an asshole but then seemed to have the possibility not to be.
What? That didn’t even make sense.
Plus, no.
As in, no.
“Towels.”
I blinked. “What?”
He brushed by me, reaching for the cabinet that I knew held some linens, making me shiver. No, that was because I was soaking wet and cold.
Except, suddenly I was on fire.
“I’ll grab the towels from here then go up to the apartment for more.”
“Right.” I nodded, reining my mind back into focus.
I crouched, had started grabbing what I’d need from my box when Garret’s voice suddenly sounded very close to my ear. “I’ll clean up the mess.”
Another shiver.
He draped a towel over my shoulder.
“You just keep fondling those pipes, baby.”
Two
Garret
Okay, so I was an asshole.
That would come as a surprise to . . . exactly no one in the universe.
Charlie, the fucking slice of a gorgeous, curvy woman with deep chestnut hair and bright blue eyes, Charlie had lain back down in the puddle of water on the floor without a second thought and was reaching back behind the cabinet. Working.
Doing something.
Like I should be doing.
Stifling a sigh, I strode from the room and headed for the edge of the puddle, creating a blockade between it and the rest of the shop then ran back up to my apartment, thankful Delia had made sure it was fully stocked with towels.
None of my using a single towel for a week . . . well, I still did that.
It just wasn’t as critical for me to remember moving it from the washer to the dryer on laundry day.
I grabbed the stack and hustled down the stairs, spreading them out and mopping the water up.
“Fucking idiot,” I muttered, knowing this was the first thing I should have done after making the phone call to Tig and because I hadn’t, his and Delia’s floor might be fucked. Also . . . there was going to be more water here than the towels could handle, so I set them aside and grabbed the shop vacuum to begin taking care of the standing water.
Probably not its intended use, but this trick had saved my life more than once. Once it was full, I’d dump it out back and grab the fan from my station.
Hopefully, that would save the floor.
Plan in place, I got to work and didn’t stop until the canister was full.
Then out through the back door, the dirty water into the bushes—if two pots of half-wilted plants could be called bushes—before heading back inside to repeat the process.
By the third trip, I felt I was making progress.
By the fifth, I was wishing for a larger vacuum.
By the seventh, I was hating my decision to move to New York for six months.
But by the eighth, I’d made enough progress to switch back over to towels. And that was a good thing because my arms were aching.
Upstairs to throw them in the wash—which, by the way, was more laundry than I’d done all week—and then I grabbed my fan from my station, pilfered a few others from the other artists’, and set them all up on full blast.
The last one was in the hall, pointing into the storeroom, and I’ll admit that the tile floor there probably didn’t need the fan as much as the wood in the front, but I was being nosy. When I’d finished mopping up in here a few minutes before, the cabinet had been pulled out slightly and just Charlie’s ankles were visible, popping out from behind it.
I supposed being tiny did have its advantages when it came to plumbing.
Now though, more of her was visible as I bent to turn the fan on high.
Shapely thighs, round ass, and . . . tight, see-through T-shirt.
My dick twitched.
Fucking hell.
Months of not feeling anything since Lorna dumped my ass, and the first thing that made my cock come alive was a plumber named Charlie.
There was a certain karmic satisfaction in that.
Since Lorna had dumped me for Charlie. Albeit, a male Charlie, but it didn’t make the process any easier on the ego. I’d been head over heels, totally in love with Lorna . . . and I’d gotten my heart broken.
Cute.
With a grunt, Charlie shimmied the rest of the way out, using the back of her arm to push the hair from her face.
“Oh!” She jumped.
“Sorry,” I said, realizing too late she probably couldn’t have heard me over the fan noise, and standing there, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe must have been giving off serious creeper vibes. “Here.” I held out a towel. “You . . . um . . . must be cold.”
Aw, for fuck’s sake.
Cold, really?
I mean, I wasn’t going to lie and say I hadn’t seen the very obvious evidence of her being cold—cough, hard nipples against the tight white cotton—but I usually kept the pig-like thoughts in my own head.
This time I’d said it aloud.
And was kicking myself because she glanced down, cheeks growing rosy, and then snatched the towel.
“Uh, thanks,” she muttered, turning her back on me. I watched her dry off from behind, seeing the edges of the cotton appear and disappear as she wiped her arms and the end of her ponytail. After a few moments, she set the towel on the counter and picked up her jacket.
Her nipples were fully covered by the time she spun back to face me.
“The pipe finally gave way,” she said. “I was able to cut the bad piece out and patch it for now, so you guys will have water. But it’s only a temporary fix. All the pipes back here will need to be replaced.”
“Does Tig know?”
She reached up and fixed her ponytail. “Most of it. There’s some rot in the floor and wall where the leak was. That’ll need an actual contractor to fix. The pipes, I can handle.”
I knew she could.
And that wasn’t an innuendo, or at least, not an intentional one.
Because, yes, my pipe was very aware that she was beautiful and curved in all the places I loved on a woman. Not to mention she had spine and was smart. Tick. Tick. Tick.
If she wasn’t Tig’s friend, I’d be offering to help her out of those wet clothes.
After all, I had an actual washer and dryer in my apartment and, after spending the last months traveling around the U.S., working in different shops, most of the time staying in places without laundry—thus having to cart my shit to the laundromat weekly—I was well-aware of how much that perk was worth.