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“Heavy for you?” I ask, my voice an embarrassing level of breathy. But the question is completely valid. I mean, have you seen the muscles on this guy?
“Heavy for anybody.” He laughs. “Ten gallons of water is a lot. Especially because it sloshes.”
“Right. Of course. I think I have a garden hose somewhere.”
I have to mentally slap myself a couple times, but eventually, I pry my gaze away from the fly of his pants. Apparently, even the word hose is setting me off like a hormonal teenager now.
“Why don’t you try to find it?” he suggests gently, a smile curling one corner of his mouth. “I don’t think Frank is going to be happy in the bag that much longer.”
“Oh. Right. Of course,” I agree, jolting myself from my there’s-a-crazy-hot-fireman-in-my-living-room trance. He’s smirking, though, and I’m not sure if it’s because he can tell what’s wrong with me or if maybe it’s because he can’t.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. I need to find a hose—one that doesn’t live in his perfect-fitting pants—and get Frank into the tank so I can tell Garrett to head on home without seeming like I’m on mind-altering drugs.
Plus, the longer he’s here, the more I’m considering asking him to take off his clothes and stay awhile, and I’m not entirely sure I’m ready to put my money where my arousal’s mouth is.
I mean…am I ready to sleep with this man I hardly know? To be intimate in a way there’s no going back from?
Yes! my vagina cheers. We just got waxed last week!
Goodness. Chill. I have to take this one step at a time.
Once I reach my cramped utility closet, I start my search for the garden hose my dad bought me when I moved back to San Diego.
I shove the toolbox to the side—something my dad also got me—and root around behind it for almost a full minute before my fingers close around the tightly wrapped cylindrical tubing.
I pull it out victoriously. “Yes! I knew you were in here, you son of a biscuit!”
“Everything okay in there?” Garrett asks from the living room, and I head back toward the door.
“Yes! I’m coming!” I shout back, striding down the hallway from the laundry room with the huge, never-been-used, still-brand-new-and-in-its-package green roll tucked to my chest. “I’m coming, and I’ve got the hose!”
He snickers appropriately, just like I was kind of hoping he would, and my heart does a little flip inside my chest.
He’s larger-than-life in my small living room, almost dwarfing the furniture in a way that makes it look like I got it from some sort of doll shop.
I swear the couch didn’t look play size when I was sitting on it watching J.Lo last night.
“I take it that hose has never been used before?”
I shrug. “Haven’t done much gardening lately.”
For some reason, the innocent phrasing manages to sound dirty. I don’t know if it’s because my hormones are spinning at a fifty on a ten-point scale or what, but everything that runs through my mind sounds like the perfect opening for a garden-themed porno.
No, sir, I don’t know where my ho is. Maybe you could help me find it with your hose. Spray me down with some fertilizer. Really plant some seeds.
Jesus, Lauren. Get it together.
Garrett takes the hose from my arms because, somehow during my mental breakdown, he’s still able to function. He unfurls it from its packaging, hooks it up to my kitchen sink faucet—something I didn’t even know was possible—moves the tank to the white shelving unit on the side wall of my living room, puts in the accessories and rocks, and then drops the hose down into it to start it filling.
It goes fairly quickly, and I busy myself with comforting a still-bagged Fat Frank. It’s crazy town, but at least it stops me from mentally writing awful porn scripts.
“You’re going to love it here. Well, I hope. It’s not, like, a lot happens, but I’m usually around a fair bit, and we can have movie nights and stuff. Not The Wedding Planner, though,” I say, thinking about how much anxiety that stupid movie has brought into my life since I rewatched it last night. “That movie’s blacklisted.”
Frank swims from side to side and gulps his mouth, and I nod. I hear him. “I totally get you,” I tell him. “I’m more of a Dermot Mulroney girl, too.”
Garrett clears his throat, and I quickly turn around from my spot on the floor to find him standing behind me, his body towering over mine.
His hands are on his hips, and I have an instant desire to shuffle over, undo his pants, and do the kind of hernia exam that would make me lose my medical license if I did it on the clock.
“The tank’s about ready for him. I’m going to let it fill another couple inches, and then we should be able to put his bag in the top and let him float.”
