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Shrugging, I taste the salmon as I take in the lake view through a floor-to-ceiling window.
I’m jealous of Floridians yet again. In New York, you’d have to be a billionaire to have anything close to this house with this kind of view.
The fish is divine, so I sample each of the veggies, which are also amazing. Even the bean is tasty, and the miso soup is the best of its kind, sweet and savory in equal measure.
Suddenly, I hear rustling on the other side of the island.
What the hell?
The island is blocking my view, so I gingerly step over to where the sound is coming from—a sink that I couldn’t see earlier.
I gasp.
A man is getting to his feet. Based on the tools scattered on the floor, I assume he must be a plumber here to fix said sink.
Now I’ll admit, until today, if I were forced to picture a plumber in my head, he (is that sexist?) would look like Super Mario with a cartoonish mustache, coveralls, and as much sex appeal as a blobfish.
This plumber, however, has to be the hottest man I’ve ever seen.
His eyes are the clear blue of a Siberian Husky, his hair is the sun-bleached shade of a Golden Retriever’s coat, and his sharp angular facial features are godlike with no dog analogs. Sadly, his ears are covered by headphones, but I bet they are sexy too. Oh, and his bare chest boasts an army of glistening muscles that include a six pack. Also, his nipples are hard.
Correction, it’s my nipples that are hard.
Spotting me, he frowns, but he makes even grumpy look good. Then his gaze falls on what remains of the tapas, and his eyes beam icicles at me.
“Who are you?” he demands in a low growl that somehow manages to be sexy. “And why did you eat my fucking breakfast?”
Chapter Two
Evan
Twenty minutes earlier
I’m starving. If I don’t eat soon, I think I might pass out.
Fasting cardio is the stupidest idea since wrestling alligators and hunting eagles using drones.
After my morning jog on the beach, I’m like a bear who’s woken up after a long winter, and I’m talking typical bears, not the garbage-rummaging troublemakers we have around these parts that don’t even need to hibernate on account of the warm weather. I have a headache, zero energy, and feel extremely irate (like said bear), especially about the stupidities of the world, of which there are many. Case in point: I was about to eat my breakfast after examining the house for the next renter, but I’ve just discovered that the sink is clogged after going over to wash my hands.
Can someone remind me why I do this? I thought it was because I like to socialize with people from different places, but now I’m starting to suspect that I have a masochistic streak.
What I didn’t anticipate is that besides the socializing, you also learn what kind of things people stick in the garbage disposal unit. Thus far, I’ve seen a blond wig, a deer’s horn, a bike tire, and enough dildos and butt plugs to stock a sex-toy shop.
Fucker. I have to see what it is. I won’t be able to enjoy my meal until I have this taken care of. Maybe I’ll start my own trend—fasting plumbing.
Taking off my shirt, I get under the sink and add a new clog-causer to my collection: a plush Pokémon, specifically Pikachu.
My first instinct is to write the family a bad review on Airbnb and charge them a fee, but I quickly change my mind. I hate bad reviews with a passion, so the Golden Rule says I shouldn’t dish them out unless I really mean it, and at the moment, it could be my hanger tempting me.
What I need is a meal, followed by some cuddles with Harry and Sally. If I’m still pissed about Pikachu tomorrow, I’ll write the review then. Though I already know I won’t because I’ve never written bad reviews about other guests whose miscellaneous items have clogged the same disposal unit.
Climbing out from under the sink, I hear something, which makes my starved-for-nourishment heart jump.
An intruder?
Unlikely in a gated community, but not impossible.
I carefully rise to my feet.
