Page 1 of Texting the Handyman

1

HARVEY

Idrain the last of my coffee as I pull up to the first job of the day, setting the empty takeaway cup back in the cup holder and promising myself I’ll remember to bin it before the end of the day, even though I always forget then curse myself the next morning. I stretch as I get out, my back popping as I inhale the fresh morning air, grabbing my toolbox out the back. This callout should be easy, just fitting a new washer for a new client, and the two other house visits I have booked for the rest of the day are relatively low maintenance, too.

I’m relishing in my excitement of an easy day as I stroll up to the door of a small bungalow that’s as sweetly decorated as the suburbs in a movie scene. The front garden is full of pink and yellow blooms, and there’s a flowery wreath on the front door that matches the pink welcome mat beneath my feet. I can’t help but be impressed at the level of coordination. I don’t think I’ve ever been that organized in my life.

Just as I’m about to raise my hand to knock on the door a second time, it swings open. For a second, all I can do is stare as the world ceases spinning around me. Standing on the otherside of the door is the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever laid eyes upon. Forest green eyes framed by long black lashes stare back at me, blonde waves framing her stunning face, just begging for me to reach out and wind those strands around my fingers. She’s wearing a yellow flowy dress that has my mind spiraling to places I definitely can’t afford to think about if I have any hope of remaining professional.

Trying desperately to shove down my caveman instincts that have suddenly risen to the surface in this woman’s presence, I blink rapidly, as though she’ll stop being so fucking stunning.

The angel in front of me raises her brow and pouts her pink lips, putting a hand on her hip as she takes me in. “So, are you going to stand on my doorstep all day, or are you going to come in and fit my washer?”

That snaps me out of my haze, and I choke on a laugh. “Of course, apologies,” I say, smirking at her spark. God, this girl is something else. “I’m Harvey?—”

“I assumed so, given you’re carrying a toolbox and your van saysHandymanon the side of it,” the woman interrupts, her lips twitching in a barely suppressed, amused smirk. “I’m Hailey.”

Two can play at this game, Hailey, I think as I enter, closing the door behind me. “I assumed so, given you’re the one who hired me. I don’t just turn up at random people’s houses and offer to fit their appliances,” I tease back, catching her smirk breaking through fully before she turns away. I hope I’m not imagining the way her eyes roamed over me before she glanced elsewhere, as though she was checking me out just as much as I’ve been doing to her.

The inside of her home is just as vibrant and bright as the exterior implied, but it doesn’t feel overwhelming or cluttered. Instead, it reminds me of a curated art gallery, with all the colors and trinkets working together to create a space that feels undeniably welcoming. I’ve seen hundreds of houses and hundreds of clients, and none of them come close to the way Hailey shines.

When I turn around from inspecting her home, I find Hailey staring directly at me. I can’t help but smirk, the urge to give her the same sass back that she’s been so keen on giving me rising.

“So, you going to show me the washer, or are you just going to stand there checking me out all day?” I tease, relishing the way her cheeks go bright pink, and her green eyes widen comically.

She spins on her heel and marches off, leaving me to follow behind her, which is absolutely no hardship given how good her ass looks in that dress.

The washer is still in its box in the laundry room, likely where the delivery man left it. All her laundry powders and pods are set out on a shelf in glass bottles with handwritten labels, and I can’t help but chuckle at how different from my laundry room hers is.

“What are you, some sort of influencer or something?” I joke, gesturing to the aesthetic organization as I begin to rip the washer out of its packaging to fit it.

Though I can’t see her, I can hear the pure sass in her tone when she snipes back, “Yes, actually.”

“Damn, well, good for you,” I murmur, looking up at her from where I’m kneeling on the floor and desperately trying not to think about being on my knees for her in another context. “I’d be fucking awful at that job.”

Hailey laughs, and the sound is just as bright as the rest of her. Fuck, what is it about this girl? I can’t get enough of her.

“Well, I’d be awful at yours, so I guess it’s a good thing we’re different, huh?” she says, some sweetness coming through all that sass.

Washer unpacked, I start the task of fitting it, checking the pipes and spacing in the gap where the old one must have been. I expect Hailey to go off and do her own thing like most clients do, but instead, she just leans against the doorway and watches me, supervising.

I try damn hard to ignore the fact she’s there and block her out so I can focus on my job, but fuck, it’s impossible. She’s all I can think about, especially when I know she’s right there, looking like a goddamn angel on earth.

A screwdriver clatters loudly off the floor when it slips from my hand, and Hailey giggles behind me, clearly amused by my clumsiness. I glance over my shoulder, giving her a mock glare.

“Lot of laughing for someone not helping,” I banter, raising a brow at her.

“Oh, my apologies,” she says sarcastically. “Here, let me.” She takes a few steps towards me to close the distance and leans over, her arm brushing mine as she grabs the screwdriver for me. The touch sends sparks shooting through me, and I think I deserve a goddamn medal for not grabbing her and hauling her into my lap right then and there.

She doesn’t move away again, instead hovering beside me, closely inspecting every movement of my hands and occasionally texting on her phone. The whole time, my mind is spinning with excuses I can come up with not to have to leave or to be able tocome back and see her again. The idea of her being just another client that I might see once more for another job, if I’m lucky, is abhorrent.

“Satisfactory enough?” I ask as I sit back, the washer now completely fitted. Hailey looks up from her phone, her eyes wide as though caught doing something she shouldn’t be, and looks between me and the machine.

“Oh, yup! Looks good,” she chirps, making me smile. She hits a button on her phone before hastily setting it down, giving me her full attention.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but checking it would mean breaking eye contact, and there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to do that. It’s probably just a message from my next client, likely mad I’m running late since I’ve stretched out this job twice as long as it needed to be.

Despite the fact that leaving is the last thing I want to do, I don’t really have a choice. Reluctantly, I pack up, my hand brushing Hailey’s when I stand and exit the small laundry room.

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