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Was he some sort of peeper? Had he crept along the fire escape outside her apartment and watched her blow up her air mattress? Maybe he knew her from her shop. People came in and out all the time. Not enough people, but still.
He didn’t respond, just set down his toolbox in the bathroom with a clatter. Without comment, he went to the kitchen and did something under that sink before reappearing in the bathroom doorway. “What seems to be the problem?”
How many times did she need to say the same thing? She pointed to the bathroom sink. “The sink leaks. This sink, not the kitchen one.”
“Got that. I had to turn off the main water valve or else you’re going to get wet all over again.” He stole another quick glance at her damp skirt, probably figuring she wouldn’t notice.
Oh, she noticed, all right.
She startled as Trixie—the only cat in the history of cats who actually liked water—emerged from behind the shower curtain and hightailed it into the kitchen. “Whatever. For the final time, I turned on this sink to get some water for my bucket—the water smells, by the way—and it shot out all over me.”
“The water smells?” He was smiling at her, obviously amused by her high jump when her cat slunk past her ankles.
“Yes. Like chlorine. Can’t you still smell it in here?”
He leaned closer and drew in a slow breath, his nostrils flaring. “Nope. All I smell are flowers. Lavender, I think. Is that your shampoo?”
“It’s a freesia blend, with a hint of lavender. Not shampoo. It’s a body cream.” For inexplicable reasons, her voice dipped embarrassingly on cream, and she cleared her throat.
“It’s nice.” He touched her skirt, so lightly she barely registered the gesture. “Flowers suit you. You’re delicate.”
She scoffed. “Delicate? Me? I drink Coors and watch football. I run my own business and I’ve even been known to dance on tables when properly motivated.”
“And that means you’re not delicate?”
“Delicate women need someone to take care of them.” She thought of her spider episode. Sure, it would’ve been nice to have a guy around to get rid of the thing, but she could do it herself. Though she hadn’t. Yet. “I don’t.”
He jutted his chin toward her sink. “So you could fix that, if you chose.”
“Sure.” She propped her hands on her hips as he moved slightly closer. “I can do anything I put my mind to.”
“Really.” More of the distance between them disappeared. Did he realize he was about to stomp on her boots? And her toes? But she had ten of them, so surely she could spare a few.
His eyes were blue, she noted a little dizzily. This close, they were the shade of the center of an anemone. The color fanned out from his pupils and got lighter at the edges, though that visual effect might’ve been a result of the fumes. They were probably also to blame for her sudden urge to plant her hands on his broad chest and haul him in for a kiss.
Alexa grimaced at her train of thoughts. Clearly she was now suffering from stress-based arousal transference.
A well-known sexual phenomenon, she was sure.
“I like a woman who doesn’t stand around and demand immediate service.”
She didn’t reply at first, because she kind of had. But this wasn’t her area of expertise, and she’d had a rough day, the cherry on top of a rough year. When it came to flowers, she had it all under control. Except lately, though she had a plan to handle that.
Plans helped make negotiating life easier. Even her currently nonexistent sex life could benefit.
“There’s nothing wrong with having high expectations,” she said, firming her voice against its insistent wobble. That wobble hadn’t been there before the last few months, and she hated it. “Just look around this place. The rates were decent and I own Divine Flowers, so I figured the building would be okay. And it’s not. There are bugs in the closet and the AC’s crappy and—”
He glanced past her. “I like your beaded curtain.”
She frowned. “It’s tacky as hell, but I didn’t have anything better to hang up.”
“The bed’s more important than the wall hangings anyway, don’t you think?”
He wasn’t looking at her, just studying the apartment. As if he were considering her space and what could be done with it. “I have an air mattress,” she said in a low voice, wondering if somehow he’d missed that aspect of her accommodations.
“Is it comfortable?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Because I could probably come up with something better—”
Finally, a segue from her pity party for two into a possible sex fiesta. She wet her lips. “Are you offering me yours?”
