Page 14 of November's Bad Boy: Kacen
As I lug the flour into the kitchen, I try to ignore the rhythmic drip coming from the back of the house. The leak has gotten worse. I throw a towel down and grab a snack for Hades as a knock sounds on the door.
When I swing it open, Kacen is standing there in jeans and a gray Henley that fits him like a dare. He holds up a red toolbox and shrugs.
“Heard you were about to flood the place.”
I blink at him. “Did Ruby text you?”
“She didn’t have to. You talk louder than you think. And I happened to be at the Merc. Maybe I heard you muttering something about ‘no more men at my house’ on your way out.”
“I didn’t mean you.”
He steps inside, gaze flicking down to my wet feet as I toss Hades his snack. “I figured. Still, I’m already here.”
I let him in, suddenly hyperaware of how my living room looks. There’s a throw blanket half-folded on the couch, a framed photo of my mom and me from when I was twelve, and a sticky note on the fridge reminding me to buy coffee. He pauses just inside the door, eyes flicking across everything as if he’s trying to read me through the furniture.
“This place feels like you,” he says, and I hate how that warms something in my chest.
“The sink’s this way,” I mutter, leading him toward the leak.
While he crouches under the cabinet, muttering about rusted fittings and shoddy sealant, I hover awkwardly nearby, arms crossed, trying not to stare at the way his shirt rides up when he reaches for a wrench.
“I can handle things myself,” I say eventually, more to fill the silence than anything.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” he says, voice calm. “But even capable people need help sometimes.”
I lean against the doorframe. “That what your brother taught you?”
He chuckles, glancing up with a smudge of dirt on his cheek. “Something like that. Kingston always said a real man knows how to say three things: ‘I was wrong,’ ‘I’m sorry,’ and ‘how can I help.’ Took me longer than it should have to get good at any of them.”
I watch him tighten a fitting, hands steady. “And now?”
He looks at me, serious in a way that makes something flutter in my chest. “Now I try not to waste chances to say them.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly, as I busy myself with wiping the countertop.
He crouches under the sink and pulls out his tools. His forearm flexes as he twists the wrench, the muscle shifting under the ink that disappears beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his flannel. There’s a hiss of water, then a quick curse. I grab a towel and drop it on his shoulder.
“I didn’t break it on purpose,” I say.
He glances up, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Would’ve been a good excuse to get me over here.”
“Please. I’d call Hades before I called you.”
He makes a few trips to his truck and even shows me where to turn the water off to the house. When he finishes, the leak is gone, and I feel off balance in my own kitchen. I offer dinner as a thank you, mostly because I feel guilty, but also because I need to sort out what this strange, new version of Kacen is doing to my head.
We end up at that little cafe in town, the one with the booths that squeak and the pie that tastes like summer. The waitress recognizes Kacen immediately and brings us two lemonades without asking.
“Small towns,” I mutter, stirring mine.
He smiles. “Kind of nice though. People remembering.”
“Depends on what they remember.”
Before he can respond, a voice cuts in as we pass the front booth.
“Well, if it isn’t Kacen Raines. Thought I saw a ghost.”
He smiles. “Hey, Slade. You’re still breathing, huh?”
