Page 58 of Biggest Player
Margot
Question:Why do I get the feeling that Dex has no freaking clue what he’s doing?
Answer:Because it’s obvious he has no idea what he’s doing.
For all his grunting, it doesn’t seem as if he’s done much of anything, short of asking whether I have duct tape handy ... and other items one should never need while repairing things at home.
“What do you need duct tape for?”
I’m bending over his body, doing my best not to ogle his bare midriff, but my eyes linger far too long on his torso. His flat stomach. The happy trail disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans, which are a tad too big.
He has an innie belly button.
A cherry birthmark just above it.
His broad shoulders are lodged in my dinky cabinet, and the coif he walked in with, which was perfectly styled, has been a chaotic mess the few times he’s lifted his head to address me.
Deep frown lines are etched across his forehead.
“Are yousureyou know what you’re doing?” I ask for what has to be the third time, and not to sound doubtful—’cause I have absolutefaith that he does not in fact know what he’s doing. I make a half-assed attempt to keep the laughter out of my voice.
“Absolutely,” he grunts, hand fumbling around in front of him, reaching for another tool from those that have been scattered on the floor. “I’ve watched a bunch of tutorials, plus my buddy’s buddy told me how. How hard can it be?”
How hard can it be, indeed ...
Famous last words.
I shift my weight as I hover, enjoying the sight of him out of his element. From what I know about him, Dex is confident, somewhat arrogant, and in control.
Seeing him like this—struggling and flailing—not only has me giggling at him but also has butterflies wakening in the pit of my stomach.
“Let me know if you need anything. I’m right here.”
His legs shift as he makes room for his huge body.
A loud clunk echoes from the sink, followed by a muttered curse. “Are you sure everything’s okay down there?”
Everything is not okay down there, and I need for him to admit it before the faucet or pipes explode.
I nibble on my thumbnail nervously.
“Yep, I think this is what my buddy said to do.” His deep voice mutters with strain, though he will not admit defeat. I hear him twist a wrench, watch as his biceps flex under his T-shirt as he cranks. “Lefty loosey, righty tighty.”
“This isn’t the worst view,” I mumble to myself, unable to stop staring at his midriff. I mean, the man is harmless while he’s under my sink; I can ogle him all I want, yeah? Once he’s standing in front of me, though, that’s a whole other story.
I only pretend to be brave and put on a happy face, but deep down inside I’m a confused, mushy mess when it comes to men.
I take the glass of wine from the counter and down a mouthful, admiring Dex’s handiwork. And his stomach.
“Maybe you should take a break,” I suggest, after he utters yet another curse. “It’s not too late to call a professional.” It’s not too late for his plumber friend to come by and fix what Dex obviously cannot.
He adjusts himself inside my cabinet, leaning on his elbows so he can look up at me, blue eyes filled with determination. “No way am I calling a professional. Winners don’t quit.”
Winners don’t quit?
Oh Jesus.
“This isn’t football.”
