Page 2 of The Contractor's Rose
Oh.
Oh, no.
I felt that somewhere deep.
Then he added, “And you don’t need to hold it together with me. Let it go.”
And somehow … I did.
I didn’t even care that my clothes were soaked or that my eyes probably looked like I’d just lost the love of my life. I leaned into him—into Gavin—and he didn’t flinch or pull away. His arm came around my back instead, big and warm, anchoring me like I wasn’t a total disaster.
I had a million thoughts fighting for space in my head: the ruined inventory, insurance claims, how much money I was about to lose. The logistics. The panic. But all I could really feel was him.Solid. Present. Unshakable.
“I should call my parents,” I mumbled against his flannel shirt, which, unfortunately for me, smelled amazing.
“They already called me,” he said. “Soon as your dad saw the alert that the flood alarm had tripped at the shop, he sent me to check it out and turn off the water. Said he and your mom were tied up showing a house in Greystone.”
Of course they were. My parents were alwaystied upwith something. Not maliciously—they were just the kind of people who were always doing five things at once. Too busybuilding someone else’s dream home to see mine falling apart.
“I know it’s just a bookstore,” I whispered.
“It’s notjustanything,” Gavin cut in. “It’s yours. That makes it important.”
That shouldn’t have made me tear up again, but it did. I bit my bottom lip, trying to hold it in. I couldn’t let Gavin see me full-on ugly cry again.
He must’ve sensed it, because he gently squeezed my shoulder. “C’mon, Rose. Let’s get you upstairs before you catch a cold sitting in all this water. You’re shaking.”
“I have books I need to save?—”
He stood, reaching down to take my hand. “And you’ll do that. But not right now. Right now, you need dry clothes, hot chocolate, and maybe a grilled cheese if you’re lucky.”
That made me look up at him, brows lifting. “You cook?”
He smirked. “I’m a contractor. I build kitchens for a living. You think I don’t know how to use one?”
Well, okay then.
I took his hand.
His palm was rough and warm, his grip firm. And as he helped me up, I couldn’t help but notice how close he was. How good he looked with pipe water dripping from his silver-streaked hair, jaw set in that way that said he could fix just about anything—including, apparently, broken bookstore owners.
When we got to the stairs, he hesitated.
“Want me to wait down here?” he asked, suddenly more formal. “Give you space first to change out of your wet clothes?”
I shook my head before I could overthink it. “No. Come up. Please. Plus, you promised me a grilled cheese.”
His eyes darkened just a fraction. But he nodded and followed me upstairs.
The apartment smelled like lemon cleaner and old paperbacks. I loved it just as much as the shop below. It was my hideaway, my safe space. The kind of place where I lit candles for no reason and organized bookshelves by vibe, not title. A little chaotic. A little cozy. Entirely me.
Gavin stood awkwardly in the middle of my tiny kitchen while I peeled off my soaked flats and stepped into my bedroom to change from my drenched clothing into a comfortable sundress. When I returned, his eyes dropped low and made their way quickly and politely back to mine—but I saw a flash of tension in his jaw.
I grabbed a throw blanket off the couch and wrapped it around myself, comforted by its weight and the familiarity of home.
He cleared his throat. “Are you warm enough?”
“I will be.” I nodded toward the kettle on the stovetop. “Are you still making good on that hot chocolate and grilled cheese offer?”
