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“Could be a leak coming in from the roof, or a faulty pipe,” he says. “When was the last time you had your pipes checked?”
I bite my tongue. It’s been a LONG time since a man has been anywhere close to my pipes.
I clear my throat. “I’m not sure I’ve ever had them checked.”
This displeases him, and I remember that before Rhett went to prison, he was a handyman. A carpenter, a jack of all trades. Cohen Carpentry.
He stands.
I take a step back, rock back on my heels. “So… you can take a shower, if you want, before we leave for the caves.”
Rhett follows me up the staircase. Per usual, the stairs creak as I climb them, but under his weight, the old wood slats sound like they are literally groaning.
“The layout of this house is kind of random,” I say, a bit embarrassed. “The master is upstairs, no clue why. The house has been added onto three separate times by three separate owners.”
“Four.”
I look over my shoulder. “Four?”
“It’s had four owners. I’ve always liked this house. My buddies and I broke in while it was vacant, just to check it out, right before your mom moved here and took it over. It’s got so much potential.” He pauses. “You know, I knew Gerald.”
I step onto the second-floor landing. “You knew my grandpa?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“My first job was at a mechanic shop downtown, sweeping floors. Remember he owned that mint green 67 Chevy?”
No, I do not remember this. I know close to nothing about my mother’s father. She rarely spoke of him. Scratch that—sheneverspoke of him.
Rhett continues. “I changed his oil once and we got into a conversation about the truck, and from that point on, he asked for me every time he needed his oil changed. We’d talk cars, every time he came in.”
I don’t know why this surprises me so much. Thorncrest is a small town so it makes sense that everyone knew each other, but it’s another random connection Rhett had to my mother that makes it even less likely that he would have murdered her.
I lead him into the master, otherwise known as my bedroom. My clothes are still on the bed, my dirty kneepads in the corner, but other than that, the room is clean. The late afternoon sun shines through the large windows, pooling on a glossy hardwood floor. Rhett is right, the home has character and potential, I’ve just never noticed it before.
The tour of my bathroom takes no more than four seconds. After leaving him with a clean towel, I shut the door.
Lingering in my room doesn’t feel quite right, so I make my way downstairs to the kitchen, where I begin pacing back and forth, uneasy at the fact that a man is naked, using my shower.
Actually… this is a lie. Uneasy isn’t the only emotion I am feeling. I’m feeling excited—again—and energetic, and invigorated, and nervous, but all in a good way. The kind of way that makes you feel alive. I mean…a naked man is using my shower.For the first time in years, I am not alone in my house. I have the interest of an insanely attractive man…. what kind of interest I’m not sure, but interest nonetheless.
My mind pivots as I find myself imagining him naked, and this is followed by a rush of insecurity. Has Rhett noticed the spec of mold in the corner of the shower, and if so, is he judging me for not cleaning well enough? Did I remember to use dryer sheets with this towel, or does it have that weird I’m-clean-but-smell-like-the-dryer smell? Did I look behind my toilet for any trash that might have fallen behind it?
The pipes groan as he turns off the water. I look at the clock—the man took a four-minute shower.
I jump to the sink and begin washing more dishes that don’t need to be washed.
A minute later, Rhett steps into the kitchen.
My heart stutters.
His dark hair is wet and mussed to perfection. The pair of jeans he purchased at the store fits him perfectly, the long-sleeved T-shirt just tight enough to cling to his superhero chest. The shower has brought him back to life, I notice. His cheeks are a little pink, his eyes clearer. Alert. I wonder if this is the first time he has showered in a private space in a long time.
“Take a whiff,” he deadpans.
“I’m sorry, what?”
