Page 15 of Billionaire Bad Boy Auction

PORTIA

The screen door was going to be the death of me.

I gritted my teeth, trying for the third time to wedge the hinge back into place, but it wouldn’t catch. It was a stupid problem, one I should be able to fix, but after the night I’d had, my patience was running thin. Between Seth’s friends stirring up old wounds and the whole town suddenly talking about me like I was front-page news, this door was about to become collateral damage. I was so focused on my battle that I didn’t hear footsteps until a low voice cut through the quiet.

“That door do something to piss you off, or are you just taking your aggression out on it?”

I jumped, whipping around to find Dean standing on my porch, sunglasses on and biceps bulging in the tight black T-shirt he was wearing. He looked unfairly at ease, watching me with that unreadable expression of his, like I’d just confirmed something he already suspected.

I exhaled, frustrated. “It came off when I opened it too fast. I was going to fix it, but apparently, it wants to fight me first.”

Dean didn’t say anything, just stepped forward and reached for the door like it had already been decided that he was handling it. I hesitated for half a second before moving aside, watching as he studied the hinge.

The last thing I wanted was him saving the day again. I hated being dependent on anyone. I hated that I needed him to help me fix this stupid door.

“You’re using the wrong screwdriver,” he said after a moment, his tone flat. “This one’s stripping the screws.”

I bristled, feeling foolish. Of course, I was doing it wrong. “It’s not my screwdriver. This is a rental, and I found it in a kitchen drawer.”

He glanced at me, one eyebrow raised, like he was not sure whether to believe me. “You’re telling me you don’t own a single tool?”

“I own plenty of tools,” I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended. “They’re just in storage right now, okay? I didn’t exactly plan on needing a full toolbox when I moved back here. It’s a rental. I wasn’t aware I also had to be the handyman.”

Dean didn’t respond, just shook his head and pulled a multi-tool from his belt. He got to work, his hands moving with practiced ease, like this was just another piece of machinery he knew inside and out. I held the door steady, trying not to get in his way, but it was hard not to notice the way his forearms flexed. The way he smelled like oil and that familiar citrus smell that I now knew was the soap in the shop. I looked away before I could start thinking about how attractive he was.

“You’re holding it crooked,” he said after a moment, his voice breaking the silence.

I glared at him. “I’m holding it just fine.”

“You’re not,” he said, stepping closer to adjust my grip. His hand brushed mine. I felt a jolt of something I couldn’t quite name. “There. Now it’s straight.”

I didn’t say anything, just focused on keeping the door steady as he tightened the screws. The silence stretched between us, heavy and awkward. I couldn’t help but feel like he was judging me. Like he was thinking about how I couldn’t even fix a simple door on my own.

When he finished, he stepped back, wiping his hands on his jeans. “There. Should hold for now.”

I let go of the door, testing it to make sure it was secure. It swung open and shut without a problem. “Thanks,” I said, a bit of an edge in my tone I wished I could get rid of. He did do me a favor, even if he was a bit of a jerk about it.

Dean should leave. That was what I expected. Instead, his gaze flicked to the plate sitting on the porch railing, covered with a napkin.

“You bribing the door with cookies?”

I couldn’t help but snort. “They were for Alexis. But I guess I could spare one for the guy who just kept me from breaking my own rental.”

I lifted the napkin, revealing the batch of still-warm snickerdoodles. The offer was casual. It was just a cookie. Why did I feel so weird about it? Then, without a word, he reached out, took one, and took a slow bite.

I watched, waiting for some kind of reaction, but Dean’s expression remained carefully neutral as he chewed.

I smirked. “Careful, Jackson. You almost looked like you enjoyed that.”

Dean rolled his eyes and shoved the rest of the cookie into his mouth like it was an obligation, not a choice. “Get your door under control, Watson. I’m not making this a habit.”

He turned and walked away before I could respond.

I watched him go, debating what kind of retort I could throw at him.

He was halfway down the driveway before I called out, “Maybe next time I’ll just let it fall on me. That way you can swoop in and play hero again.”

Dean stopped, turning slightly, his expression unreadable. “I don’t think that door is going to take you down,” he quipped before walking away.