Page 9 of Jingle Bell Jilt
I flop onto my back as memories of the last few days tumble through my mind. Orlando. I’m on my not-honeymoon.
A drop plops onto my forehead again. Why is water dropping on me? Where is it coming from?
I reach for my phone and turn on the flashlight. Shining the light upwards, I gasp. A huge paint bubble has formed on the ceiling, and water is dripping from the lowest point. “Oh, this can’t be good.” I say aloud.
I throw my legs over the side of the bed and stand up, water seeping through my socks and between my toes. I stop the gag in my throat at the thought of everything that might be in that water.
I take another step and my eyes widen as the water seeps up again. The whole floor seems to be wet. I had not ventured upstairs since arriving. Ice cream and crying had seemed more important. But I knew there were several bathrooms upstairs. What if one of the toilets is overflowing?
I throw up in my mouth. I could be standing in toilet water. I hurry up the soaking stairs, already planning the Clorox bath these clothes will be taking. Or maybe I’ll just throw them away. I’m not sure I can ever wear them again.
I check both bathrooms, but I can’t find where the water’s coming from. As much as I hate to wake up the manager, I know the water won’t stop until the main line to the house is shut off.
I check my phone. 4:47. I don’t know what else to do. In the time it takes me to locate the main water valve, there could be another inch or two of water on the floor.
I slosh down the stairs and out the door, high stepping through the flowerbed dividing the two driveways. My wet socks are now wet and muddy. Great. I knock three firm times on the door. Then I ring the doorbell twice, just in case he’s a heavy sleeper.
I wait, looking up and down at the quiet street. Nothing.
I knock again.
As I lift my hand to ring the doorbell again, I hear muffled noises on the other side of the door.
The front door opens and the manager stares at me. His hair is disheveled and he’s standing in front of me in basketball shorts. I suck in a breath. That’s it. Just basketball shorts. His bare chest—his very tan and defined bare chest—is just staring back at me. Or perhaps I’m the one staring. I can’t be certain.
His irritated voice pulls me out of my trance. “Do you know what time it is?”
I nod. “Of course I know what time it is. It’s the first thing I checked.”
He growls and it kind of just adds to the hot vibe he has going on.
“What do you want?”
I pull my gaze back up from his chest. “I need to know where the main water shut-off is in the house.”
His brows shoot up. “Why do you need that?”
“To turn off the water, obviously.” Were all men in Orlando so dense that you had to spell everything out? Or maybe the manager and the car rental guy are related. Although, the manager has been much nicer.
He steps out of his house and moves toward mine. “But why do you need to do that?”
“There’s a water leak somewhere. I thought it best to turn off the water before the place floats away.” Again, I try to push the thought of the toilet water out of my head. It isn’t helping anyone right now. Instead, I focus on his back. Which I’m happy to report is just as muscular as his chest. Only he can’t see me when I stare at it.
“There’s a leak? How ba—” He opens the door and his mouth drops. “What the h—,” he swears. Not that I blame him. If I was the swearing type, I would’ve probably already said a whole slew of them. He looks back at me. “What did you do?”
I frown at him. “I didn’t do anything. I just woke up to water dripping on my head.”
He peeks into the room I’d been sleeping in and swears again when he sees the paint bubble. Moving with grace I would not have guessed he had, he flies toward the stairs. “It’s coming from upstairs. Did you leave a sink running or something?” He shouts back at me.
I put my hands on my hips. “I already told you, I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even go upstairs until just before I came and got you. But I think you should turn off the water and then you can come back to accusing me.” I stay standing just outside the front door. I don’t need any more exposure to fecal matter (those are literally the worst words ever) than I’ve possibly already had.
His head is shaking as he bolts down the stairs two at a time, water sloshing up onto his legs, the water droplets clinging to his leg hair. It’s both sexy and revolting.
He rushes down the small hallway toward the kitchen and ducks into the closet under the stairs. Even from the porch, I can hear the pipes hiss as the water stops flowing through them. He comes out of the closet and just stands there. As if he doesn’t know what to do next.
Truthfully, I don’t blame him. This is a huge mess and is going to cost the owner a fortune. And that’s just in repairs. I have no idea what it will be in lost rental income.
He runs his hands through his hair and swears again. It isn’t a terrible one as far as swears go. No f-bomb or anything. Nothing that makes me think less of him.
