Page 10 of Forget Me Not

It’s also the same time Mr. I hate cats decides it’s time to go, too.

Without a word, he slowly rises from the bar, pulling out his wallet. I have half a mind to apologize for the way I acted— I don’t speak to people that way, but with an amused smirk he tosses a couple twenties down on the bar, tips his hat and makes his way towards the exit.

I want to say something, but Katelyn interrupts to tell me the old washer in the basement is on the fritz again.

So, I just stare as he walks away like a crazed maniac.That is, until he pauses at the doorway of the bar, turning back to throw a wink at me over his shoulder before disappearing out to the inn.

“God, he is hot,” Katelyn murmurs, her cheeks as flushed as mine.

He is. He’s also an ass.

“You alright, Nova?” she asks, narrowing her eyes on me when I don’t respond.

“Yeah,” I murmur, brushing off the lingering feeling near heat stroke from that single wink. “I’m going to check the washer.”

I make my way into the inn’s old basement, complete with creepy crawlies and a portal to hell, but it’s not the darkness of the back corner that stops me. It’s the strange, eerie lightness in my stomach making my veins feel like they’re strapped to an electric fence.

The mysterious fisherman. I don’t even know his name. Something about that is amusing.

Whoever said fixing drywall was easy is an asshole.

It’s not easy.

In fact, it sucks and I hate it.

I mix the goop, slather it on the wall, only it just falls right through the hole in one of our bedrooms on the second floor. It’s been unoccupied since a family stayed back in May because their kids threw something at the wall and the drywall crumbled.

“I need a damned maintenance man,” I grumble, searching for the instructions I printed off this morning to read them over for the hundredth time.

Yep. Mix, slather, repeat.

“I did that,” I grit, tossing the paper aside.

“That’s not going to work.”

I practically jump through the ceiling when the voice chimes behind me. I whip around fast enough to make myself dizzy to see the mysterious cat-food hero standing in the doorway.

He’s got that same look on his face—indifference, but he’s also looking at me like I’m an idiot.

I certainly feel like one right now.

“I can handle it.”

He shakes his head, stepping forward and ignoring my scowl. He steps up to the hole, swiping his finger through the leftover gray slop that didn’t fall through the hole as if it’s icing on a cake.

“You need sheetrock. You’re wasting your time.”

I cross my arms over my chest. He may be hot, but he’s not very polite.

Jokes on him, I don’t even know what sheetrock is. “Excuse me?”

“Drywall. A sheet of drywall?” He looks at me like I’m from another planet.

Maybe it’s the way his shirt hugs his shoulders or maybe it’s the dark look in his eyes. Maybe I’m just crazy, but there’s something about this man that sets me on edge. Like a fairground ride you’re not sure is completely safe to ride, but you do it anyway because it draws you in with its hot butt and impeccable face scruff.

Okay, I’m getting off track.

With a deep, disappointed sigh, he steps over, mixing around my concoction with the scraper.

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