Page 1 of The Contractor's Rose
ONE
ROSEMARIE
The sound hitme like a gunshot—loud, violent, and completely out of place.
I dropped the romance novel I’d been “shelving,” my heart now pounding like I’d been caught doing something wicked. Which, I guess, in a way I had. I’d been reading instead of shelving the new releases, but I didn’t think the universe would punish methisswiftly.
Water was flowing—no, pouring—from the ceiling, down the walls, like the building itself was crying. A steady roar echoed off the wooden floors and bookcases, a cruel mockery of rain in a place that was supposed to feel safe and warm and mine.
“My books!” I choked out, sloshing through water that was already nearly ankle-deep. It was icy, soaking through my flats instantly, and the hem of my favorite skirt dragged heavily around me like an anchor. The whole back section—memoir, poetry, and new adult—was getting annihilated.
I froze. My heart raced so hard it felt like it would crack my ribs. Water damage was one thing, but this? This wasruin. My entire store. My dream. My grandmother’s dream that she trusted me with after she passed. Drenched in pipe water that, judging by the color, probably smelled like rust and regret.
Ink was bleeding from the pages, curling the corners of beautiful paperbacks into wet, defeated frowns. Shelf labels were peeling, dripping like they were crying too. I felt like I was underwater. Like everything was pressing in, suffocating me with a loss I couldn’t stop or even begin to slow.
Rationally, I knew the smart thing to do would have been to call a plumber and watch a YouTube tutorial on how to shut off the water. But, no. I just sank to the wet floor and cried.
It wasn’t the graceful movie-type crying, either. It was the ugly kind—hiccuping sobs and snot and the growing weight ofwhat now?
I didn’t hear the door open over the roar of the water and my gasps for air, but I felt the shift in the air. Cold and damp and then… warmth. Heavy steps echoed faintly over the rush of water, followed by a deep, gravel-smooth voice, grounding and unexpected.
“Rosie?”
My head snapped up.
Standing in the doorway like some tall, broad-shouldered, rugged vision in a dark flannel and worn jeans was Gavin Miller. My parents’ business partner. Fifty-two. A contractor with calloused hands and silver-streaked hair that somehow made him hotter, not older.
Also my father’s best friend.
And my childhood crush. Not that anyone knew that. God, I’d have died if that ever got out.
He looked around the destroyed store, then at me—soaked to the skin and crying on the floor. His expression softened, the tension in his jaw slackening as he continued inside without hesitation. The water sloshed around his boots with each step, but he didn’t flinch.
He walked past me to the back room with the confidence of a man who fixed broken things for a living. I heard some muffled words, a “there you are,” and then a loudclang. The water was no longer coming out of, well,everywhereat the speed of Niagara Falls free-flowing into the store. Just a sluggish trickle now. He must have shut the water off.
He came out dusting his hands on his pants and placed them back in his pockets like it was any normal Tuesday.
“Jesus, sweetheart. What happened?”
Sweetheart.
I hated how my body reacted. I was twenty-seven. I owned a business. I wore dainty sundresses and flowy skirts, and used phrases like “a delightful read.” I had no business getting weak-kneed because some older man with a rough voice called me “sweetheart.”
But this wasn’t justsomeolder man.
“I—” My voice cracked. I pushed my wet hair out of my face, strands sticking to my cheek. “A pipe burst or something. I don’t know. I just heard it and then … and then … everything was wet.”
I started crying again, because there was no controlling it now. The dam had burst.Pun intended.Gavin crouched down beside me, close enough for me to smell sawdust and aftershave and something else—something warm and masculine and distinctly him.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just placed one big steady hand on my shoulder. Solid. Reassuring.
“You’re okay, Rose.”
I blinked at him.
“Rose?” I echoed stupidly. No one called me that. Not even my parents, and I was named after my dad’s mom. Everyone called me Rosie.
He smiled, just a little. “Yeah. Rosie’s the girl next door who reads nice books and minds her manners. ButRose… that’s the woman sitting here trying not to fall apart, even while her whole damn world’s flooding.”
