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Which brought her thoughts around full circle to her streak of celibacy. She couldn’t fix all the problems in her life in one go, but was a night of blow-the-roof-off spectacular sex too much to ask for?
No. It damn well wasn’t. Besides, there was more to life than work, and she was doing everything she could there. She’d started to import more specialty flowers from far-flung places. Delicate blooms rarely seen around the hills of Pennsylvania. She’d hired an amazing new floral designer at substantial cost. Soon, no one would doubt that Divine Flowers was a force to be reckoned with. With her new designer, she would be more equipped to handle splashier events. Eventually, when the budget allowed, she’d be able to hire a whole team of designers.
Divine would survive. Thrive, even. No matter what it took.
She knocked on the open door, then knocked again when he kept working. Diligent. She liked that. “Excuse me?”
“Yeah?”
That he didn’t turn to face her moderately grated, but hey, she still had his ass to observe. She didn’t mind talking to his backsi—err, back.
Better yet, perhaps she’d found someone to make her very happy to be alive for a few hours. Someone who would make her forget about huge spiders, possibly ruined boots, and impending financial collapse. Maybe, just maybe, this guy would fit the bill.
Though she should probably talk to him before she started plotting sexcapades.
“I’m assuming you’re the building handyman?” she prompted.
His lengthy hesitation earned him a frown he didn’t bother to shift around to see. “Need some service, ma’am?”
Her frown spread. She wasn’t used to being ignored, at least not when she’d almost made up her mind to rock his world. “I have a leak.”
He set down his stripping tool and swiveled on his knees toward her. Though he wasn’t smiling, he didn’t seem annoyed by the interruption either. A handy thing, that, since his face sucked the thoughts from her head. Yeah. He’ll do.
She was due a karmic windfall after all she’d gone through recently, wasn’t she? Maybe this—he—was it.
If not, there was always the purple wand with butterfly attachment in her suitcase.
She wouldn’t have called him traditionally handsome. His jaw was too square, his eyebrows too slashing. A copper ring highlighted one of them, stealing her attention from his large, long-lashed eyes, though from this distance she couldn’t tell their color. He wore his dark blond hair in a buzz cut, grown out enough to make her want to feel the prickle against her palm.
His mouth quirked when she continued to silently catalog his features as if he were the featured male model in an underwear advertisement. Slowly, he dragged his own gaze down her body, but she didn’t look down to see what he saw. He held her riveted, as did that intriguing fluttering thing happening in her belly. She hadn’t fluttered in regard to a man in way too long.
“You do look a little…wet.” He didn’t smile, but his amusement came through loud and clear.
Alexa looked down and gasped. Her flowing cream skirt with its miniature purple flowers had gone from sheer to transparent. It stuck to her legs from ankle to hip, highlighting everything—including her blush-pink panties. She might as well have not been wearing a slip at all.
“It’s the sink,” she managed, so mortified that her throat closed around the words. She could deal with moving out of her dream home. Could handle extreme business competition. What she couldn’t face were fashion faux pas that led to entertaining random handymen. “I was going to clean and the sink threw up all over me!”
“You were cleaning, princess?” He rose from the floor and rubbed his forearm over the sweat beading on his forehead. No wonder. This apartment was like an oven set on broil.
Her store had functional AC, something that was necessary for her flowers. She’d been told the units all had air-conditioning as well, but apparently that didn’t apply to this one.
She crossed her arms over her chest and thanked God her damp top was royal purple and therefore not see-through. “Who are you calling princess? And how do you know what I clean or don’t clean, plumber?”
“Who said I intended to help you with your plumbing problem?” He bent to pick up his toolbox and strode to the doorway, taking a moment to tower over her when she refused to give way. She didn’t doubt the move was intentional. “And didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s not nice to make fun of the help?”
He had to be six inches taller than her, at a minimum. Considering she was five-eight, she didn’t meet a lot of guys who could tower over her. Or even lean much. When combined with the raw, sexual pheromones he exuded along with the faint, clean scent of perspiration, she couldn’t quite breathe properly. The chlorine fumes must’ve screwed with her lung function.
“You called me princess. Plumber is hardly an insult, if that’s one of your job responsibilities,” she said, stepping aside. If she didn’
t, he’d probably call her more names and drip sweat on her. Actually he’d probably produce more just to prove he wasn’t lacking in the testosterone department. He seemed like the type.
Again he swept his gaze up and down her body, but not in a sexual manner. More like he was appraising her as he might a particularly thick slab of drywall. “You wear the clothes of one, you get the title. So about that leak of yours…”
“In my apartment.” She balled her hands into fists. “My bathroom sink.”
“Ah. Glad you clarified.” He walked ahead of her down the hall, pushing open the door of number 33 without waiting for her direction. “You know, this doesn’t really strike me as your sort of place. How did a woman like you end up here? Though I’ve gotta say, nice furniture. Leather and Tiffany.” He winked at her over his gigundo shoulder. “Princess.”
She fought not to sniff. “There’s nothing wrong with this building.” It was one thing for her to think negative thoughts about her new home. He wasn’t allowed. “And how did you know which apartment was mine?”
