“Darling, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” Her head snaps up and our eyes catch. “I don’t do repairs.”
A wicked smile blinks across her full lips. “Darling—you’re the landlord, I think you do. I can go grab you my lease if you’d like to take a look.” The smug expression on her face would be cute if it weren’t so irritating. I feel the beginnings of trepidation taking root in my veins. Uh-oh…
When I accepted Ethel’s offer, I didn’t realize I’d be exchanging my crown for a blue collar. The old woman told me this would be an easy gig. That I'd only have to worry about swinging by the tenants' apartments to pick up the rent. But I've been here less than twenty-four hours and I’m already expected to deal with faulty plumbing valves and broken air conditioners and a crazy tenant who's whacking a sledgehammer against my resolve without even realizing it.
I scrub the palm of my hand across the creases on my forehead in frustration.
What have I gotten myself into?
And Sadie isn’t even done laying down her demands. “The most urgent thing on the list is the water, though. You can come down to my apartment and fix it now.” She makes a come on gesture with her hand, causing the scrap of paper to flutter between her fingers. With a purposeful stride, she pivots to the front door like I’m supposed to follow her.
I jab a thumb into my chest and snort nervously. “Me?” I’ve never opened a toolbox in my life. I’m a prince, not some contestant on a home renovation TV competition. Gimme a gemstone-encrusted sceptre and I’ll wield that thing like a pro. But what the hell am I supposed to do with a hammer?
She stops and glances over her shoulder. Her whole expression sags when she realizes I haven’t budged an inch. “Yes, you,” she volleys back with no mirth at all in her voice.
Hell to the no! “I don’t think so, love.”
The little spitfire faces me. Her brow lifts in challenge. “What? You’re not man enough to roll up your sleeves and use your hammer?” The half-smile on her face tells me she smells my fear.
Bloody hell…It might be time to up the ante.
“I’m man enough for just about anything,” I tell her, deliberately letting my gaze drag suggestively down the length of her spectacular body just to make a point.
But apparently, two can play that game.
“Oooh, secure in your masculinity, huh?” she teases, letting her eyes trawl down my body just the same. I fight the urge to squirm when her eyes linger on the bulge at the crotch of my jeans.
“Very secure in my masculinity.” I ease off of the edge of the table and take a step closer.
She has to tip her head back to meet my eyes. Something about that is fantastically hot. And I’m very much enjoying the fluttering pulse at the base of her slender throat as I steal yet another inch closer.
I’m close enough that my breath brushes the shell of her ear when I speak. “I'll send a plumber over first thing in the morning,” I say. My voice goes low and gritty. “But for future reference, questioning my manliness is never the right strategy if want to see my hammer in action. There are much nicer—more satisfying—ways to ask…”
My mouth waters. I have to deliberately restrain myself from licking her neck.
But she’s not affected. She can definitely hold her own. She puts a hand on her hip and finally takes a step back. She’s all business now, signs of playfulness completely gone from her demeanour. "I work in the morning,” she informs me. “How am I supposed to get ready if I have no water?"
"What time?"
"Four a.m."
"Jesus, woman. What do you do? Are you a newspaper boy or something?"
She rolls her eyes and glares. "I work at the Broken Cupcake bakery. I’m the interim general manager.” A glint of pride strikes deep in her pretty irises. “When there are problems, I take care of them. Immediately. Because nothing's worse for business than unhappy customers."
Her mean-mug would intimidate a lesser man but I happen to be royalty. I can handle it. "Good thing you're not a customer, then."
She stomps a foot, causing more purple water to drip from her hair. "I'm a tenant. I have rights."
Scratching the back of my head, I search for a solution because it's obvious this girl isn't going anywhere until she's good and satisfied. And this back and forth bickering was sort of fun about a minute ago but it’s already starting to wear me down. "How about a compromise? Hang on..." I stalk off into the kitchen and return a few seconds later with my key ring. I pull a key off the bunch and stretch it to her. "I can't fix your water problem tonight but you're welcome to come in here in the morning and get ready for work."
She gives me a wary expression. Not scared. Just cautious. "I don't know you."
A frustrated exhale breezes past my lips as I pick up the discarded pea packet and brush the water droplets from the expensive wood. "Look—I'm not a serial killer."
“I don’t know that.”
"Yes, you do. You've been standing here in nothing but a bath towel, giving me shit for the past ten minutes. If you've seen any horror movie ever made, you'll know that things never end well for the girl in the bath towel. If I were a serial killer, you’d know it by now."
I give her an exaggerated look of unadulterated innocence. She tries to hold her stone-face but eventually, one corner of her mouth goes up in an involuntary smile.
"I'll have a plumber over here first thing in the morning," I promise softly. I nod toward the key in my hand. "This is only temporary. Please..."
Please don't make me jump through hoops. Please don't make my life any more difficult than it is already. Please don't make me beg you to go easy on me. Cut me some slack.
She studies me again, eyes focused and calculating. It's almost as if she reads the desperation in my face…And she shows mercy.
Sadie grabs the key from my fingers. "Fine. Just don't walk in on me while I'm in the bathroom. Because I'll have my baseball bat. And I'll use it. Readily."
"I won't give you a reason to use it." Crossing my pointer around my middle finger, I grin. Again.
Just a few minutes with this peculiar woman and I've already surpassed my smiling quota for the week. This is kind of alarming.
Her shoulders loosen a bit and she lets out an exhale. "I should get going." She tightens the towel around her then sticks her wishlist out to me. When I refuse to take it, she wiggles it annoyingly. “Here,” she insists.
Reluctantly, I snatch the piece of paper from that adorably infuriating woman’s tattooed hand. I sneer. “Fine. I’ll take care of the repairs.”
She smiles victoriously. “Thank you, Xavier.”
I feel an odd sense of loss as she starts down the stairs, leaving a trail of purple water behind her. For some reason, I’m not quite ready for her to leave yet. I lean a shoulder on the doorframe and call out after her, a playful lilt in my voice. “Hey—that’s my towel. Come here and give it back.”
Soft, pretty laughter dances on her breath. Over her shoulder, she flips me her middle finger. And I smile as she walks away.
Longing mixes with regret. This girl could be so much fun to play with.
If I were here under different circumstances…
3
Sadie
There’s something people should know about me.
I love rock and roll music. The old school stuff—AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, Guns N’ Roses, stuff my dad used to blast around the house—and when it comes over the speakers, it really doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing, I’m gonna have to shake my ass. At least a little bit.
So, that’s exactly what I’m doing when Natalie comes out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of fresh raspberry jelly cupcakes to refill the display.
“Stop it!” she hisses anxiously then glances around to see if anyone’s watching. “You know how Viv gets when she sees you goofing off in front of the customers.” As she bends to pop the first cupcake onto the display rack, her gaze stutters on my legs. She grunts, annoyed. “And are those
my Bermuda shorts you’re wearing?”
They are her Bermuda shorts. (I haven’t done laundry in ages.) But I think I’ll ignore that part of the conversation.
I strut on over to where she’s standing and bump my hip into hers, matching the kick of the drum. “Oh, lighten up. It’s not like the customers are paying me attention anyway.”
As usual, the Broken Cupcake is bustling.
Over on the rustic bench by the large picture window, Sophia looks weary, stealing sips of her extra large black coffee while trying to shepherd the sugar-drunk toddlers from her daycare as they smear lemon-cream frosting in each other’s hair.
The horny teenaged couple in the overstuffed beanie chairs in the corner have abandoned their iced coffees in favour of dry-humping and devouring each other’s faces like it’s something straight off the lunch menu.
There’s a senior couple in the pink armchairs at the back. The old man has nodded off after a half dozen donuts but his wife sits quietly finishing her vanilla cupcake and crossword puzzle.
The regulars are accustomed to my jam sessions. Nobody’s paying me any mind.
Still dancing, I grab a rag and wipe crumbs from the counter. “Besides, Vivian isn’t here,” I remind my friend. “That means I’m the boss.” Feeling pretty proud of my new interim general manager position, I pop my collar exaggeratedly.
With quick, efficient movements, Nat finishes arranging the cupcakes. She giggles despite herself. “You’re power-tripping,” she says over her shoulder, wiping her free hand on her apron as she takes the empty tray back in the direction of the kitchen.
“It comes with the title,” I retort facetiously right before she slips around the bend, her fiery red ponytail swishing behind her.
Joking around comes as second nature to me but I know Nat is right. I glance around at the bakery’s busy bee workforce, bustling about behind the counter, dutifully replenishing the stock depleted at the height of the morning rush. I need to set a good example for them. I need to be professional in front of the customers. I need to take my position seriously.
I started here as a part-time cashier a few months ago, picking up the odd shift between classes but I recently got upgraded big time. It was pure luck. Vivian and Reese, the two sisters who own the bakery, both wound up falling in love and getting knocked up at the same time. Between their morning sickness and their swollen ankles—and let’s not forget their disgustingly, overactive libidos—the ladies seem to spend most of their time in bed with their sexy fiancés these days. So, they were desperately in need of help running the shop.
The sisters’ offer came right around the time that I realized I’d have to take yet another semester off from business school because I wasn’t going to be able to come up with my tuition money by the deadline. So the promotion was a godsend.
Managing the shop is an incredible opportunity for me to gain hands-on business experience while I’m taking this sabbatical from school. Reese and Viv put a tremendous amount of trust in me, giving me this position. I don’t want to screw it up.
I straighten the apron around my hips and tuck my uniform shirt neatly into the waistband of my borrowed (...stolen?) Bermuda pants even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing right now. Adulting sucks hairy balls. On a heavy sigh, I spin around to start a fresh pot of coffee. That’s when I catch a glimpse of myself in the glimmering stainless steel panel of the industrial coffee machine.
I literally jolt.
Fuck—I’d forgotten that is what my face looks like.
Today is a low point for my face. Despite my best efforts, I’m exhibiting all the classic signs of hot mess syndrome. I usually go bareface but right now, I have a pound of makeup caked onto my wounded eye. The skin still looks puffy and sickly green beneath the many layers of concealer. Thanks to the moustache removal gone wrong, I look like I have a sunburn circling my mouth.
And then, there’s my hair…I’m learning that the beauty about using dollar store hair dye is that it’s not strong enough to do any real damage. So, even though I left it in way longer than is safe according to the instructions on the box, I’m glad to report that my hair is not falling out in chunks.
At least not yet.
Instead, my mane has inexplicably mutated from bleach blonde into a drab shade of brown that falls somewhere between sewer water and garden compost on the color spectrum. My natural hair color. Yuck!
I’ve been actively trying to suppress the memory of last night, and for the most part, it’s been working. Except for when I happen to bump into my reflection in any of the numerous reflective surfaces in the shop—why does everything around here have to be so damn shiny?—or when the smug, chiseled face of my new landlord floats across my thoughts.
I still can’t get over how much of a moron I was last night, when I rushed through his apartment door—practically naked aside from the plastic shower cap on my head—and nearly knocked him to the ground as I charged for his bathroom like a one-woman buffalo stampede.
I cringe from top to bottom when I think of the range of emotions his face displayed when he looked at me in my wet-chicken, post-rinse state. Shock. Pity. Amusement. It’s clear that the guy thinks I’m a joke.
It’s not like I’ve never dealt with people thinking they’re better than me. I’ve dealt with that a whole lot and I usually don’t give a fuck about their opinions.
The problem is, for the first time in my life, I care. I care that I looked like an absolute fool in front of him, I care that I made a terrible first impression, I care that he probably has a pretty unflattering conception about me.
And I can’t figure out why I care.
God knows I’m not perfect but I’ve never had a problem with my confidence before. I know who I am and I’m okay with me. I don’t let society’s norms and expectations get me down. I just don’t understand what it was about the guy that had me second-guessing myself.
I was unnerved. Me. Sadie Nichols. Unnerved.
Yes, I tried to play it off, hiding behind my sassy remarks and my catty comebacks, acting like I wasn't completely fumbling to keep my footing as I stood there in front of him in nothing but a bath towel. Meanwhile, I was a fluttery mess on the inside.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. It’s not like I really stood a chance against him. He’s a charming bastard with an intoxicating accent, a potent smile and bulging muscles. I’m human. I can only withstand so much.
In any case, I don’t like this feeling. It’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable. That’s why I’ve made the decision to stay away from him. For the next eighty-nine days, I’m just going to steer clear of his path, until he goes back to wherever the hell it is he says he came from. That shouldn’t be as difficult as it sounds.
Luckily, he was fast asleep when I used his bathroom this morning. When I snuck out after my shower, I left the key on the hallway table. And by the time I get home from work tonight, my water problem should be resolved so I won't need to face him then. As for the other repairs, I’m willing to bet he’s going to hire a handyman to take care of them because there’s no way he’s gonna risk getting those neatly-groomed fingernails dirty. Plus, I work strange hours, leaving the house at the crack of dawn, long before the rest of the world rolls out of bed, so there's only a slim chance of running into him on my way out the door. My free time, I’ll spend at Nat’s house.
So, there. That’s my eighty-nine-day plan of avoidance. Sounds pretty solid to me.
I turn my attention to the rotund mid-twenties red-head with the frantic eyes and the stiff business suit as she approaches the cash register with her cell phone in a death grip. She's been eating her feelings all morning—chocolate-espresso cupcakes being her poison of choice—as she waits for a callback about a job she interviewed for earlier today. Poor thing. I feel for her. I’ll keep serving up the moral support, no problem, as long as she keeps paying for these cupcakes.
"Hey Susan," I greet her solemnly. "Any news?"
She shakes her
head and promptly launches into another anxious rambling stream about how much she needs this job and how great she'd be at it and how that company would be crazy not to hire her.
Natalie finishes up arranging another tray of pastries in the display case and leans on the counter to join in the conversation. We both uh-huh and ah-hah in unison, empathizing with the woman's professional woes.
At the sound of the bell above the entrance, I look over that way. And it's like a nightmare come true, moving in slow motion through the front door of the cupcake shop.
I freeze.
Xavier.
Dressed in navy blue cargo shorts and a short-sleeved white T-shirt straining against the powerful bulge of his arms. My throat goes dry when he lifts the sunglasses from his eyes and drags his sinewy forearm across his hairline to chase away beads of sweat.
I watch him close his eyes briefly and draw in a deep breath. His broad chest expands and his plush lips curl with delight as he indulges in the rich, delicious scents of the bakery. My attention hooks on the movement of his tongue as it slides along his bottom lip.
Something goes tight in the hollow of my belly. The back of my scalp tingles. It must be a delayed reaction to the cheap hair dye.
“Holy crap!” Susan mutters. “Who is that walking sex doll?” Her appreciative stare is hooked on the spot where the man is standing.
"It's him," I croak past the knot in my throat.
Natalie looks dumbfounded, fanning her flushed cheeks with both hands. "You know that guy?"
"Don't look! Don’t look!" I whisper-shout frantically, hunching my shoulders and ducking down a little as if that will somehow make me smaller. I grit out through my teeth. "That's my new landlord."
“Oooh!” I gave my best friend a rundown of last night’s events as we were prepping to open the shop this morning. Now, she can put a face to the humiliating story. "You definitely did not tell me he was that hot." She glares at me, her eyes telegraphing her disappointment in me.
Rich Boy: A Royal Landlord Romance (Blue Collar Bachelors Book 5) Page 4