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“I know. It’s very entertaining.”
A laugh escaped me, proving my point. The sound echoed through the basement, bouncing off the concrete walls and the problematic tank. The sounds above us reminded me that life was still happening while the two of us stood in a dank basement, possibly sharing a moment.
“Fine,” I said, feeling like I was breaking a trance. “Teach me how to fix a water tank valve. Add it to my growing list of skills I’m storing in my wheelhouse of basic repair knowledge.”
“Good attitude.”
“I’m a rainbow of delight.”
He pushed off the tank and opened his toolbox, crouching at just the right angle to expose a patch of tanned skin my tongue was tingling to explore. I forced my gaze toward the contents he was searching through and noticed how organized the items were. The inside of mine looked like a tornado had blown through it.
“First thing,” he said, “we need to drain the tank. Otherwise, we’re going to get very wet.”
“I’m already emotionally wet. Might as well be physically wet too.” I really needed to stop saying the first thing that popped into my head. I’d just told a guy I was crushing on that I wanted to be wet. Even my mortification stared slack-jawed at me.
Deadeye simply stood there like he was trying to figure out if that had been an invitation or a warning that my crazy had escaped its containment.
My gaze flicked around the room, looking for a large enough hole to hide in.
Don’t you dare strike a pose!
Grabbing a wrench from the toolbox, Deadeye crouched by the side of the tank. I assumed the same position next to him, close enough to kiss those soft-looking lips. His shoulder brushed my arm when he reached for the valve, and I would’ve bet the three dollars in my account he’d done it on purpose.
That wasn’t a complaint. He could brush, rub, or tug on me until I was shouting his name and coming all over his fist or mouth.
“See this?” He pointed to a fitting near the base. “That’s the drain valve. You attach a hose here, run it to a floor drain or outside, and open it up.”
“We don’t have a hose.” I barely had the right tools for the simpler jobs.
“I brought one.”
“Of course you did.”
His mouth curved. “Occupational hazard. Always prepared.”
He screwed the hose onto the valve and gave it a quick tug to make sure it held. I watched his hands work and forced my brain to focus on the lesson instead of the way his forearms flexed when he tightened the fitting.
“The valve replacement itself,” he continued, “isn’t complicated. You shut off the water supply, drain the tank, unscrew the old valve, screw in the new one. The hard part is making sure you’ve got the right replacement part and that everything’s sealed properly.”
“Sounds simple when you say it.”
“It is simple. Just requires patience.”
“I’m patient about exactly three things, and plumbing isn’t one of them.”
“What are the three things?”
“Fashion. Food. Flair.”
His laugh filled the basement, the same one I’d heard on the phone for three days straight. Hearing it in person felt different, like something settling into place.
“Noted,” he said. “Now pay attention, sparkles. You’re going to do this next time.”
“Assuming there is a next time.”
“There will be. Old buildings always have problems.”
Standing, he walked me through the rest of the process. Shutting off the water supply. Draining the tank. The part he needed was in his toolbox—apparently, he’d guessed what might be wrong and brought a replacement. The forethought made my throat tight.
