Page 130 of Confessions of a Smutty Romance Author

The bell rang over the door, and I stood up to greet the head contractor. Unfortunately, this couldn’t have been him. He couldn’t have been more than thirty, and he had sleeves of black tattoos on his arms. Part of me wondered how much his tattoos covered under his tight white t-shirt and jogger sweatpants, but I quickly shut that thought down. He didnotlook like the kind of guy in charge of a multi-million dollar operation, and I had a diner to get to.

“Sorry,” I said. “The office isn’t open right now.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” he replied.

I raised my eyebrows, so was not in the mood for sass from a walkin on a Saturday afternoon.

“Janessa told me to come this way to get my keys?”

My eyes widened. “Janessa?” She was stationed in the corporate office in LA and didn’t work with regular tenants....Shit. “You’re the head contractor?”

“That’s me. Tyler Griffen, but everyone calls me Griff.”

“Henrietta Jones. But everyone calls me Hen.”

“One syllable nickname club,” he said, holldin gup his hand for a highfive.

My cheeks were red as I clapped my hand to his. “Sorry,” I said, turning and looking for a key in the lock box. “I thought you were someone else.”

When I turned back to him, he had an amused look on his chiseled face. Now that I looked a little closer, I could tell he worked outside. His skin had a deep tan, like he spent a lot of time in the sun, and his strong jaw had a light cover of stubble. Not to mention, there were flecks of paint on his hands as he reached for my key. Interesting. This head contractor wasn’t just a stand by and tell everyone what to do kind of guy. He must have been highly involved in the work. And that made me far more interested than the tattoos or the defined biceps.

My cheeks grew hot as I realized I was ogling, and I said, “Why don’t you let me show you around the unit?”

“That would be great,” he replied with a crooked smile. “Thanks, Hen.”

God, the way my name sounded off his lips. “Is that a Texas accent I hear?” I asked as we pushed out the door and stepped outside.

He chuckled. “It’s that obvious? I’m from Ft. Worth.”

“It’s subtle,” I replied. Cute, I didn’t add. “I thought you Texans weren’t fans of California.”

He laughed. “You can get us to come here from time to time—if the price is right.”

I smiled, stopping in front of the C building. “This is the building you’ll be in. There’s a laundromat downstairs with a few coin operated washers and dryers. Your apartments on the third floor, so we have a bit of a climb.”

Usually people weren’t so happy about all the stairs, but he rubbed his hands together and said, “Can’t wait to see it.”

As we hoofed it up the flights, him with ease and me trying not to breathe hard and embarrass myself, I wondered why he was staying here at all. He had to be making hundreds of thousands of dollars a year, and this place definitely wasn’t the best he could afford.

But I’d already been rude enough for one day, so I didn’t pry. We reached unit 303, and I said, “This is it. Why don’t you test the keys.”

He leaned forward, slipping the key into the lock and turning. It opened easily, and he walked in, examining the two-bedroom unit. “It’s nice,” he said.

He was full of surprises. “I keep trying to talk corporate into replacing the carpets,” I admitted, “but they’ve been freshly cleaned by a great local company. Most units aren’t brought in, but I personally picked out some pieces for you so you’ll be comfortable while you’re here. If you get situated and realize you don’t have something you need, give me a call and let me know. I’ll make sure to get it for you right away.”

He turned from his examination of the apartment and laid his hazel eyes on me. They were captivating, a mix of green and gold and brown that I’m sure my mother would have loved to paint. “That’s real nice of you, Hen.”

God, if he could stop saying my name so my heart would slow down. Or maybe that was just from walking up the stairs.

“Of course,” I said, straightening my blouse. I found myself lost without something to do with my hands. “I’ll let you get settled in.”

I turned to leave his apartment, but he said, “Wait up.”

Standing in the hallway, I faced him again. “Did I miss something.”

“Your number,” he said with a smooth smile. My eyebrows rose and I was about to say something stupid before he added, “In case I need anything?”

“Oh, right,” I said, reaching into my purse hanging from my shoulder. I always kept some business cards on them with my cell number written on the back, just in case. “This is the office number, but you can use my cell if I’m not in there. My hours are ten to six, Monday to Friday.”

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