Mr. Fixer Upper

by Lucy Score

  Of course, Gannon would never let Paige know he liked doing these segments. He preferred to keep everyone thinking that he hated everything about filming. It was better if there were some things no one else knew. Though after tonight, he and Paige would know each other a whole lot better.

  He felt his blood immediately leave his brain. Tonight.

  His impatience was probably translating to the camera loud and clear, and if he chose to watch this episode when it aired, he’d remember exactly what he’d been thinking in this moment. Paige.

  Rocco shut off the torch and flipped his visor up to admire the weld.

  “That looks great, man,” Gannon said, clapping the man on his back.

  Rocco’s lips twitched under his mustache in a shy grin, his earlier nervousness about the camera long forgotten. “Not too shabby,” he agreed.

  “Can we take a look at the final design?” Gannon asked.

  “Sure, sure.”

  Rocco led the way over to a workstation designed purely for function with no regards for form. Three flat screen monitors squatted on a heavy, paint-splattered work table. He pulled the design program up, and Louis sidled up behind them to get a look at the screen.

  “I took the sketch you sent me and then put some finishing touches on it here and here,” he said pointing to the corners of the canopy. Gannon listened as Rocco walked him through the finer points of the design until Mel laid a hand on Gannon’s shoulder.

  He took one look at her unusually pale face and knew something was wrong. Gannon rose, his stomach sinking as the wheeled stool under him skidded out from under him. “What? What is it?”

  She took a shaky breath. “There was an accident on set. Paige—”

  He grabbed Mel by the shoulders. “Is she okay?”

  Her eyes watered, and his heart stuttered.

  “I don’t know.” Mel shook her head, a tear slipping out from the corner of her eye. “Andy texted, and he’s not answering his phone. ‘It’s bad’ is all he said.”

  Gannon didn’t wait for anything else. “Keys!” he yelled and caught the van’s keys out of midair when Louis chucked them. “I’ll send a ride for you,” he called over his shoulder.

  He was peeling out of the lot and dialing Andy’s number and then Cat’s. Neither of them answered. He slammed his palm down on the steering wheel. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Gannon tossed his phone on the passenger seat and floored the gas pedal. The van sluggishly lumbered up to speed.

  She had to be okay. Had to be. What if she wasn’t? What if “bad” was the worst that could happen? Goddamn it.

  He let the fear plague him until he felt like he could crawl out of his own skin and then picked up his phone and started dialing again.

  ––—

  Paige let the water drum against her skin trying to feel something other than pain. Every inch of her hurt. She wasn’t supposed to get her dressings wet, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to bed still wearing blood and grit.

  She had promised the well-meaning, helicoptering Cat that she was heading straight to bed to get rid of her friend so she could blatantly ignore doctor’s orders alone. The hospital had been an exhausting blur. Ashton was fine, thank God. He’d sustained a scraped elbow and lost a ducky shoe but had been otherwise unscathed. Tony, hero cameraman and child saver, had needed stitches in his arm. The details were still foggy, but Paige thought she’d heard he’d tucked Regina under his arm like a football and sprinted for the house where one of Brunelli’s crew grabbed her. Tony had dumped his camera on the porch and ran back trying to dig her out of the tent that had fallen on her.

  Both her phone and mic had been destroyed. The phone cracked when a falling tent pole landed on her like a piñata, and water damage had taken care of the rest. She’d been pissed about the phone and not the least bit upset about the mic. But now she was just tired. Exhausted. Everything hurt. It felt as though a truck, not a tent, had leveled her. Thank God she hadn’t been under one of the woodworking pop-ups with two by fours and sharp tools.

  No one would tell her anything about the set or the shooting schedule. She could only imagine that it was a chaotic mess. Andy had just repeatedly assured her via Cat’s phone that there was nothing to worry about and to get some rest.

  It was bullshit. She hadn’t broken anything, although her face still felt a little wonky where one of the camera equipment cases had smashed into it. She’d hardly needed any stitches, yet they were treating her like an invalid. Cat had shot alternating dirty and then worried looks at her the whole way back to the hotel from the hospital where Paige had refused to stay for observation.

  She just needed a shower and some sleep. Maybe a solid eight hours of sleep. Then she’d be back on her feet and everything could go back to normal. Thank God she’d scheduled an extra two days for this shoot. The cleanup alone would probably take a full day.

  The warm water soothed her aching muscles, and she rested her forehead against the cool tile. The only thing she hadn’t anticipated was her inability to lift her arms. She couldn’t seem to get them past shoulder height, which left her hair a damp, dirty tangle of dried blood and who knows what else. Paige shifted her feet and winced as pain shot like electricity through her system.

  How was she going to get out of the tub?

  Great. She was going to drown in the shower. This was the way her life would end. Not with a peaceful passing in her sleep at age ninety-seven. No, she’d just slide down this ivory tile and drown.

  The door to the bathroom flew open and bounced off the wall. “Jeez, Cat!” Paige groaned pitifully. “What the hell?” Annoyed that her friend had ignored her wish for privacy, she was a little relieved that Cat could help her out of the tub.

  But it wasn’t Cat ripping open the shower curtain and glaring at her.

  It was Gannon.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  She stood with her hands braced against the tile water cascading down her bruised and bandaged body. But she was alive. The part of him that had clenched into panic with Mel’s announcement finally released.

  When she didn’t attempt to yell at him or shield herself from his gaze, a new worry bloomed. She was every color of purple across most of her back, and he cringed at the patches of gauze and tape that looked as though they were holding her together. Steam billowed around his head.

  “I can’t wash my hair,” she said finally. Paige’s voice had none of its usual authority, just exhaustion and that jagged edge of pain that hurt him to hear.

  He wanted to scoop her up and lecture her on set safety. But that wasn’t what she needed. She needed comfort.

  Gannon studied her, hands on hips, for almost a full minute and then sighed. He started to work the laces of his boots loose. Toeing them off, he tugged his t-shirt over his head.

  “Oh my God. What are you doing?” Paige’s voice barely rose above the spray from the showerhead.

  “I’m washing your damn hair.”

  His jeans came next, and as his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his boxer briefs, Gannon noted that Paige’s head spun back to face the shower wall. The last thing she needed was to add whiplash to her ailments.

  He stepped in behind her and pulled the shower curtain back in place.

  “Gannon—”

  “Save it. We’ll argue about this later.” He guided her head under the spray and brushed her hair back from her face.

  “This isn’t happening.” She murmured it so faintly he wasn’t sure if she knew she said it out loud.

  Gannon squirted a puddle of her shampoo into his callused hand. It smelled like coconuts. No wonder he always had visions of her on a beach in a tiny bikini—

  He derailed that train of thought as soon as he felt the blood start to leave his head. Now was not the time.

  He lowered the spray away from her face and worked his fingers through her hair in slow, gentle circles. A sigh escaped her lips and brought a lift to his.

  The crown of suds grew with his ministrations until bubbles
floated down between their bodies. He assumed that meant her hair was clean and adjusted the showerhead to rinse it clean.

  The warm water swept the lather from her hair, sending it streaming down her bare back and lower still over the round curves of her—

  Gannon clenched his jaw. She was hurt. A damn tent had clobbered her. This wasn’t the time to let his flag fly. Since he was in there with her, he sudsed up his own hair with her shampoo and quickly rinsed.

  “Now what?” he said quietly in her ear.

  “Conditioner,” she pointed weakly toward the skinny blue bottle perched in the corner. He reached around her, wet skin skimming wet skin and went instantly hard.

  “Fuck,” he muttered and grabbed the bottle. So much for self-control.

  He knew she felt him against her. Goddamn it. When had he lost complete control of his body? Suddenly he was fourteen again and getting hard-ons with a slight breeze.

  She cleared her throat, and Gannon gritted his teeth. He poured the conditioner into his hand and put the bottle down behind him where he wouldn’t risk contact with her. But now she had goose bumps on her skin. Again, he reached around her this time to adjust the hot water. And again his cock brushed the smooth, wet curves of her ass.

  “Sorry.” He gritted out the word. The woman was in no condition to be poked and prodded with an erection that had a mind of its own, he chastised himself.

  Gannon began to work the conditioner through her hair. He had to force himself to slow down, to be more gentle.

  “This isn’t how I thought tonight would go… or how I thought I’d see you naked for the first time,” she admitted.

  Gannon’s fingers paused in her hair. “So you have thought of it before today?”

  He could hear her roll her eyes.

  “Shut up. I’m delirious and don’t know what I’m saying.”

  Gannon made a tail with her hair and worked the conditioner through it to the ends. “Just so you know, I’m choosing to be a gentleman now. But eventually you’re going to have face the music and tell me how you did think you’d see me naked.”

  Before she could answer, he pushed her face under the stream of water.

  “Stop trying to drown me,” she sputtered.

  “Princess, drowning you is not what I have on my mind right now. What’s next?”

  “I’m not having you shave my legs.”

  “Agreed.” His cock wouldn’t be able to take it. “Soap?”

  “Body wash,” she corrected. Paige pointed to yet another bottle and the weird fluffy loofa on a string that all women seemed to own.

  Gannon squeezed the thankfully unscented wash onto the ball. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he said gruffly.

  And since she was already aware that he was hard, Gannon wrapped an arm around her slim waist from behind to hold her steady and worked his way down from her shoulders, avoiding bandages.

  Her goose bumps reappeared when he got to her lower back. “Are you cold?” he asked, slowing his circles.

  She shook her head but didn’t answer.

  “Keep your hands on the wall, okay?” He knelt down to focus on the lower half of her body. She had a bruise blooming from her hip all the way around to cover most of her right ass cheek. But even with the contusion, he could see the perfection in her curves. He swirled a soapy path over it gently and worked his way down the backs of her thighs and her shapely calves, skipping the one that was bandaged with already blood-soaked gauze.

  He took a deep breath. “Okay, turn around.”

  Paige paused, and Gannon thought that she might be working up a refusal. But she gingerly shifted her weight and carefully turned to face him. Her knees buckled slightly, and she instinctively reached out and held on to his shoulders.

  “You okay?” Gannon’s voice felt like sandpaper in his throat.

  She nodded, eyes closed tight.

  He started with her feet and ankles and worked his way up. The iodine used by the doctors had stained parts of her sexy as hell bronze skin orange. Her fingers clenched reflexively on his shoulders when he swept the soapy ball higher, skimming over knees and thighs. Those mile-long legs guided his hands up and up.

  She gave a little gasp when his hand skimmed over the flat of her stomach and her ribs. Gannon got to his feet. He was surprised when Paige kept her hands on his shoulders. To keep her steady, he slid an arm back around her waist. When he ran the soapy sponge over her breasts he tried not to notice how full they were or how her nipples hardened under the glide of his hand.

  Tried and failed. His throbbing dick noticed and jerked against her slick stomach in response. “Almost done,” he whispered, streaking a soapy swath around the borders of bandages on her arm and ribs.

  She was watching him now, her eyes heavy, lips parted. The steam from the shower slowly fogged the room. He wanted to lean in. To taste that mouth. To learn all of the secrets her body had to tell. But more than that, he wanted to take her pain.

  Gannon reached behind her and turned off the water. He swept open the curtain and watched the flush on Paige’s cheeks spread. “Can you get out?”

  She nodded but didn’t move. He gave her three seconds, and when she still hadn’t made the attempt, he scooped her up and stepped out. He had her sitting on the lid of the toilet and was wrapping her in a towel before she could even bluster at him. The way she was eyeing his monster hard-on had him yanking a second towel off of the metal shelf and putting a terrycloth barrier between them.

  Working quickly, he dried her skin as gently as he could and dragged his t-shirt over her head. Okay, not staring at her gorgeous, bare breasts helped him relax a little.

  “What’s next?” he asked, his voice gruffer than he intended. He could tell she was running through her post-shower ritual in her head and trying to figure out if there was anything she’d allow him do. He hoped to God she didn’t need lotion applied to every inch. There was no way he’d survive that.

  She looked up at the top of his head. “I don’t suppose you know how to use a hair dryer?”

  He searched the bathroom and found the hotel dryer stashed in a vanity drawer.

  “I was just kidding. You don’t have to do that,” Paige said, eyes wide as he plugged the cord into the outlet.

  “You’re just afraid I’m going to fuck it up.”

  “You can probably catch hair on fire with one of those if used incorrectly,” Paige predicted, eyeing the dryer in his hand with apprehension.

  “Relax. I grew up with Cat. She made me help her with her hair sometimes, and if you ever repeat that to anyone,” he said, wielding the dryer like a weapon, “I will have you dismembered.”

  “My lips are sealed,” she said, a hint of a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “Can you French braid?”

  “Better than Cat can,” he snorted. “She made me learn to French braid. I made her a paintball warrior.”

  “You are a man of many talents.”

  He had talents he was looking forward to her discovering.

  “Do you have any…” he mimed squirting something into his hands.

  “Product?” Paige asked.

  “Yeah, like mousse stuff?”

  She pointed at a silver can on the corner of the vanity. “Do you know how to use that?”

  “I build fine furniture and houses and host a TV show for a living. I think I can handle squirting shit out of a can.” Still, he paused long enough to read the directions before squeezing a dollop into his palm. He rubbed his hands together and worked them through her hair.

  She closed her eyes, and he used the opportunity to study the bruising on her face. Purple and mottled, the goose egg rose proudly just under her temple. She winced when he got too close to the bump, and he gentled his hands.

  Paige sighed as he worked the white stuff into her roots, rubbing gently with the pads of his fingers. He felt the tension in her begin to give and loosen. It physically hurt him to see her like this.

  “Concussion?” he asked.
/>   She shook her head slowly. “Hard head.”

  He turned the dryer on low and worked his hand through her hair, holding up strands, and when he was done Paige shoved her hands through the roots and sighed. “Do I want to know how I look?”

  “Princess, you’ve got bigger problems than a hairdo,” Gannon said glibly.

  Paige groaned. “I was trying to forget about that. How bad is my face?” she asked, prodding the bruising with her fingers.

  Gannon pulled her hand away from her face. “I’ve seen worse,” he promised. He’d seen a few mixed martial arts matches that outdid Paige’s damage, but damn if those injuries had affected him in the slightest. It was seeing Paige scraped, bloodied, and bruised that wrecked him.

  He tugged at the hem of the t-shirt she wore. “We’re going to have to get you naked again.”

  She slapped his hand away weakly. “We’re not having sex tonight, Gannon!”

  “You are a piece of work, you know that Paige? I’m changing your damn dressings that you probably weren’t supposed to get wet.”

  She looked guilty. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “You must really be looking forward to sleeping in wet bandages all night?” She was already shivering though the steam from their shower still hung heavy in the thick air. Paige shook her head.

  “Good girl.”

  “But I’m not comfortable with you—”

  “I’m your only option right now. So let’s get this over with and get you to bed.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Her resistance faded as quickly as it had risen. “The stuff’s out on the table,” she said, her teeth starting to chatter.

  “Okay, come on. We’ll do this on the bed so you can lay down.” It was brief, but he saw the look of gratitude cross her face. Exhaustion was setting in, and he needed to get her comfortable. He helped her out of the bathroom, taking most of her weight and guiding her onto the bed.