Page 20 of Small Town Daddy

“Screws, eh?” she said, a dirty look on her face.

“Nails, too.”

“Lots of nailing goes on in this town, I guess?” A look like butter wouldn’t melt.

“If my hardware sales are anything to go by.” I tried to move the chat back to less sexy ground.

“Let’s clean up, eh? Things get so dirty so fast.”

Okay, she was definitely flirting with me. Dangerous. Very dangerous.

As we moved around the kitchen cleaning up, I couldn't stop my gaze from drifting to Lucy. There was an air of innocent sweetness about her—the way she hugged Mr. Whiskers close, how her face glowed talking about life's simple joys. It stirred up this protective instinct deep inside me, one I hadn't felt in a long time.

Watching her, a thought began niggling at the back of my mind again. The way she carried herself, little quirks in her behavior . . . I couldn’t shake the idea she was a Little. Being a Daddy Dom myself, I recognized potential signs.

I briefly considered bringing it up as I rinsed suds off the frying pan, but decided against it. Too soon. Last thing I wanted was to make her uncomfortable when she was already dealing with so much. For now, I'd focus on being there for her, helping with the house. There'd be time to explore that connection later, if it was meant to be.

"Ready to get this show on the road?" I asked, drying my hands on a dishcloth.

Lucy looked up with a determined nod, hugging Mr. Whiskers a little tighter. "Let's do this."

Keys in hand, I followed her out the door, wondering what the day would bring. Whatever challenges that old house threw our way, we'd face them. Together.

***

The old Victorian loomed before us, its faded elegance still evident beneath peeling paint and overgrown shrubs. Lucy gazed up at it, emotions playing across her face - nostalgia, apprehension, resolve.

"Home sweet home," she murmured, voice soft with memory.

I offered what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "It's got great bones. Lotta character. We'll get 'er shining again in no time."

She glanced over, green eyes meeting mine, and I caught a glimmer of gratitude. "I hope so."

Grabbing my trusty toolbox from the truck bed, I quirked an eyebrow at her. "Ready to tackle this beast?"

Lucy squared her shoulders, determination flickering in her eyes. "Let's do it."

Inside, the house seemed to hold its breath, a museum of memories coated in dust. Even though I’d been round here yesterday, I’d been a little busy averting a potential flood to take much in. This morning though, I noticed it all. Motes danced in sunbeams slanting through lace-curtained windows. Family photos marched along the wall up the staircase - glimpses of happier times.

The aged wood smell hit me, undercut with something earthier. Damp. I frowned. Probably the pipes. Breaking the reverent hush, I cleared my throat.

"Alright, I'll head down and see what the plumbing gremlins cooked up. Maybe you could start upstairs in your old room?"

Lucy hesitated, fingers toying with the hem of her sweater. Her gaze flitted up the staircase and back. "Yeah . . . that's a good place to begin."

I watched, wishing I could smooth the furrow from her brow. "Hey. If ya need anything, gimme a holler, okay? I'm here for ya."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Thanks, Marcus. I will."

As she made her way upstairs, I turned toward the basement door. The weight of the house seemed to press down, a mantle of memory and unspoken emotion. I drew a steadying breath.

The basement was a dim cavern, cooler than I expected. Damp too. The air felt thick, laced with something musty and metallic. Wrinkling my nose, I set my toolbox on the bottom step with a muffled thunk.

I squinted into the gloom, waiting for shapes to resolve. A single bare bulb dangled from the low ceiling, cocooned in cobwebs. It cast a sickly light over a chaotic tangle of pipes—copper, PVC, galvanized steel, all jumbled together like some plumber's fever dream.

"What a mess," I muttered. This was gonna be a challenge, no doubt. But hell, I'd faced worse. Plus, I was stubborn as a goat. Maybe evenmorestubborn.

Rolling my shoulders, I got down to business. The familiar rhythm of the work settled me some—cutting, measuring, fitting. Damn pipes fought me every step, corroded and pitted.

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