Page 9 of Fighting for You
Margot
My eyes blink open to the bright December morning. I forgot to close my blackout shades again. It’s my day off, and though I’d love to sleep in, I have so many chores to get done and errands to run today.
Sitting up, I stretch my arms over my head and roll out my neck. Mentally, I’m compiling my to-dos for the day: laundry, trip to the grocery store, stopping by Dad’s again, and baking cupcakes for the residents at Saint Stephen’s for their monthly bingo night are the top priorities. If I can squeeze in an hour of self-care before bed—typically consisting of a face mask and a glass of sweet tea—I’ll consider myself lucky.
Goosebumps pepper my skin as soon as I peel back the covers and place my feet on the floor. I guess it’s time to turn on the heat. I consider grabbing a sweatshirt to throw on over the oversized shirt and sleep shorts I’m wearing but decide I’ll just hop in the shower to warm up.
As soon as I step into the bathroom, I know something is wrong—mainly because the floor is wet, and it’s not just damp but flooded.
“What in the world…” I say to myself.
I flick on the light and find the entire floor of the bathroom covered in water. I look first to the bath, then the toilet, and lastly the sink. Nothing seems to be running.
Bending down, I open the cabinet under the sink and see it’s wet inside as well.
I know very little about plumbing, but from what I can tell, the water appears to be coming from the back of the cabinet where the hose bit connects with the wall thing—yes, those are the technical terms.
I reach in and grasp the knob above the connection where the water is leaking, reciting “righty-tighty, lefty-loosey” in my head. A small spark of hope lights within me as it turns easily but is quickly extinguished as the knob breaks from the mechanism and comes away in my hand.
“Oh no, no, no!” I hold it closer to my face and see it’s rusted and heavily corroded—there’s not a chance I can reattach it. Thankfully, it doesn’t look like the leak is any worse, just a constant trickle, continuing to spread.
I rush back into the bedroom, tracking wet footprints behind me. Grabbing my phone, I hit my brother’s name on my Favorites list, the line connects after just two rings.
“Booger,” his deep, gruff voice answers.
I cringe. I hate his nickname for me, and he knows it. “Please, stop calling me that,” I beg even though I know it’s a lost cause. “I need your help. My sink is leaking, and the bathroom is flooding.”
“Did you try turning it off?”
“Yes! The knob thingy broke; I can’t turn it off.”
There’s a huff on the line followed by a beat of silence. “Put a bucket under it. I’ll get someone out there.”
“You can’t come?” I try to hide the slight panic in my voice, uncomfortable with the idea of strangers being in my space.
“My whole day’s booked, and with the new shop opening up in town, I can’t start canceling on people,” he replies. “Look, I have to make some calls. Someone will be out there today.”
“Thanks. Still on for lunch tomorrow?” I ask. I miss him. Moving back to my hometown means I live and work twenty minutes from my brother, but somehow I still rarely see him. He works nonstop in his tattoo studio one town over.
Recent rumors of a new shop opening up in Indigo Hill became hard to dispute when the “Opening Soon” sign appeared last week on an empty storefront just across the town square from his space. Though he has a devoted client list, I know competition—especially so close—is causing him stress.
“Sure thing, see ya.” The call ends, and I’m left staring at the blank screen in my hands.
“Guess I’m not showering just yet,” I say to myself. Throwing my unruly curls into a bun on top of my head, I grab a mop bucket and a bunch of towels from the hall closet.
After setting up the bucket in the cabinet, I mop up the floor using the towels. The whole time, my mind wanders to all the chores I had planned. Unfortunately, going to visit my dad will have to be pushed to tomorrow since I have to wait for a plumber now.
Thirty minutes after I hang up with my brother, there’s a loud knock at the front door. I had just enough time to toss the wet towels into the washing machine and throw on an oversized sweater and my favorite pair of cable-knit thigh-high stockings—my usual look when I’m lounging at home.
I look through the peephole, but the sun glare makes it impossible to make out the man standing on the other side. It takes a few moments for me to unlock the door since I installed the chain lock and two extra deadbolts shortly after moving in. I suck in a deep breath before swinging the door open. I miss the days when I used to be excited for visitors.
Once my eyes focus on the man standing on my front stoop, I’m immediately confused. I look around behind him and then take in his six-foot-something frame, buzz cut, nose ring, and the sharp blue eyes staring at me—correction, his eyes are roaming up and down my body, snagging on my legs. Despite having most of my skin covered by the large sweater and fluffy thigh-highs, I feel naked in front of him, and my cheeks flame from his perusal.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Brooks mumbles under his breath before letting out a small groan I don’t think I was supposed to hear. He shifts on his feet and runs his hand down his face. As if the movement flipped a switch in him, his face transforms into his usual smug look, a devilish smirk now in place. “You going to invite me in?”
“What are you doing here?” Genuine concern flits through me for a split second. “Are you stalking me?”
“Uhh, no,” he draws out, eyebrows furrowing. “This is your place? Hayes gave me this address and told me to come fix a leak.”
