Page 35 of Snowed Inn

I do as instructed, watching as he crouches down to peer under the sink. His flannel shirt pulls tight across his shoulders as he leans forward, and I find myself noticing the strong line of his back, the confident way he moves.

Stop staring, Maria.

He pulls some wrench-looking thing from his back pocket and hands it to me, handle first. “You’ll need this.”

I take it, surprised. “Oh, you’re actually going to let me do this myself?” Honestly? I’d been kind of hoping he’d jump in and show me how it’s done.

“You were already doing it yourself,” he points out. “I’m just providing consultation services.”

There’s something about the way he says it—not condescending, but matter-of-fact—that makes me want to prove I can do this. Plus, concentrating on fixing this damn pipe is a preferable to staring at his shoulders.

“Fine. What’s first?” I ask.

“First, we turn off the water.”

“Right. I knew that.”

His mouth twitches. But he remains silent, which I appreciate.

He shows me where the shut-off valve is located, guiding my hand to the right spot rather than doing it himself. His fingers are warm against mine, calloused but gentle. I try to ignore the little spark that travels up my arm at his touch.

“Now for the fun part,” he says, gesturing for me to get back under the sink. “You’ll need to tighten that compression fitting.”

I wedge myself back into the cramped space, and to my surprise, Jesse lies down on the floor beside me, his head tilted to see what I’m doing, but not taking over.

“See where those two pipes connect? That metal ring is the compression nut. It’s loose.”

“That’s the part I was trying to tighten when Niagara Falls happened.”

He chuckles, and I feel it rumble through the floorboards. “You were turning it the wrong way. Righty-tighty, lefty-loosey.”

“I know that,” I huff. “I just got . . . disoriented under here.”

“Happens to the best of us. Try again—but make sure the wrench is fitted properly first.”

What’s this? He’s not making fun of me? Or openly skeptical of my knowledge? I position the wrench like he showed me and start turning.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Just a little more.”

His face is inches from mine in the confined space, and I’m acutely aware of his proximity. He smells like wood and cinnamon and something distinctly Jesse. It’s distracting.

The wrench slips and my knuckles scrape against the pipe. “Ouch! Damn it.”

“You okay?”

“Fine,” I mutter, sucking on my knuckle. “Just clumsy.”

“Here,” he says, his hand covering mine on the wrench. “Like this.”

He guides my movement, showing me exactly how much pressure to apply and at what angle. His chest presses briefly against my shoulder as he reaches farther under the sink with me.

“Now try it.”

I give the wrench one final turn, and the dripping stops.

“I did it!” I exclaim, unreasonably proud of this tiny accomplishment.

“You did,” Jesse agrees, and there’s no patronizing tone, just simple acknowledgment. “Want to check for any other loose fittings while we’re down here?”