Page 10 of Saved By Noel
Come on, man!I tell myself.You never act like this around women. Stop being an idiot!
Clearing my throat, I turn to survey the door. The top hinge has come undone, the door hanging lopsidedly from the frame. But overall, I don’t think it’s badly damaged.
“Sorry about the door,” I say, as though it was my fault that it acted up in the first place. “Should be an easy fix though—you won’t have to replace it.”
She finally speaks, and her voice is even more adorably sweet than the muffled sound through the door had let on. “Thanks for the rescue. I was really starting to panic about living out the rest of my days in a bathroom. The thought spiral was getting grim.”
I huff a laugh, which causes her to smile shyly. Which does not help the “Clark-acting-like-an-idiot” matter at hand. I’m suddenly very unsure of what to do with my hands, awkwardly shifting them from my pockets to crossing my arms to leaning one hand against the counter like a moron. I stand up straight and let them drop to my sides.
“I can replace the hinges on the door tomorrow. But I should take it off the frame in the meantime so it doesn’t cause more damage hanging there,” I finally say.
“Okay,” she responds. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go to the bedroom and change while you take the door down.”
I do mind. But I can’t very well admit that I’d like to continue staring at her in her robe. To her or to myself. “No problem.”
I hear the bedroom door click shut as I make quick work of the still-attached hinge, safely removing the door and propping it against the wall. The woman is still in the bedroom, so I move to the living room to wait for her. I give my head a shake, trying to dislodge the invisible string pulling me to her.
She enters a minute later, but her new outfit is somehow worse than the robe. Navy blue leggings stretch like a second skin across her long, long legs. My eyes follow the lines of her legs up to her fitted, pale blue t-shirt that reads,Botany Plants Lately?I’m a sucker for bad puns and, apparently, for this stunning woman.
Once again, the connection between my brain and hands misfires. I clasp them in front of me briefly before feeling like I’mstanding in church. I settle on crossing my arms across my chest as casually as possible, which is minimally casual.
“Thanks again for the help,” she says. “I know it’s late, so I appreciate you coming out quickly. The door opened and closed just fine earlier today—I’m not sure what happened.”
“The combination of steam from the bath and heat from the lamp may have caused the wood to expand. And the doorknob and hinges aren’t exactly new. It was the perfect storm of unfortunate coincidences,” I say. “What time should I come back tomorrow to install the new hinges and doorknob?”
She shrugs. “I don’t have much going on other than unpacking boxes. Whenever fits into your schedule is fine with me. I don’t want to cause you any extra trouble—I’m just grateful for the help.”
“It’s no trouble,” I shrug back. My impulses want to announce that I have all day for her, but instead I reply, “9:00 work?”
When she nods an affirmative response, I decide I’d better get out of here before Idiot Clark puts his foot in his mouth. I’m not sure what kind of spell this woman has conjured, because I’m generally a confident, prefers-to-be-left-alone man who’s not flustered by women. And I definitely never feel the draw to get trulycloseto a woman. Which is exactly what her pheromone vibes are doing to me right now. I need to get out of here, fast.
I open the front door, but turn back and hold my hand out to shake hers. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning—?”
“Clara,” she says with a small smile as she places her hand in mine. “I’m Clara.”
Chapter nine
Clara
Ipushbrewon my single-serve coffee maker, inhaling the scent of caffeine. This machine was one of the first items unpacked because I wasn’t about to miss my morning cup of coffee. I stir in two vanilla creamer singles and take a sip. My brain appreciates the liquid energy, but my taste buds are missing the fancier machine at my apartment that makes mochas.
This will have to do, especially considering how little sleep I got last night. I thought I might have a hard time falling asleep in a new place, particularly being all alone. But that wasn’t the problem.
Handyman Clark was the problem.
I barely spoke to the man, but somehow every detail of my fifteen minutes in his presence seared themselves into core memories. Even though half of those minutes were spent with a door between us.
It’s not just that he’s good-looking, though he certainly has all sorts of handsome features going for him. The full but perfectly trimmed beard. The bits of sandy brown hair poking out fromunder his baseball cap. The broad shoulders and tall stature that made even a taller-than-average woman like me feel short. It was too dark for me to get a good view of his eye color under the rim of his baseball hat. My imagination had a heyday filling in the blank with various shades last night.
But what really kept my mind racing was the deep timbre of his voice checking in with me through the door. Asking permission to break it down. Ensuring my safety by making sure I backed away first. Having the presence of mind to check that I was clothed prior to shoving the door open.
The firm chest muscles my hands inadvertently pressed against when he toppled into me may have also contributed to the insomnia.
I didnotspend extra time in front of the mirror fixing my curls and applying light makeup in anticipation of Clark coming back over this morning. That was time spent in the name of having a productive day unpacking. Dress for success, you know.
Shoving a handful of Cocoa Puffs straight from the box into my mouth, I survey my new home in the morning light. I’m torn between the need to unpack and the itch to sit in the sunroom and write.
The foreign sound of the doorbell jolts me, coffee sloshing out of my cup and dripping down my arm. “Ouch!” I yelp, then quickly drop to my knees behind the kitchen counter, out of sight from the front windows. My watch reads 8:47 a.m. Apparently, Clark is the early type.
