Page 16 of Knot on the Market

She's standing in front of the kitchen sink, soaked from head to toe, both hands pressed against the base of the faucet like she's trying to stop a dam from bursting. Water sprays around her fingers, soaking everything and creating a spreading lake across the kitchen floor.

But it's not just that she's wet.

It's how the water has turned her clothes into a second skin.

Blood rushes south before I can stop it, my body responding in ways I haven't felt in years.

Her shirt is plastered to her back, outlining every curve. Even from behind, I can see how the water has turned the fabric nearly transparent, and I have to grip the doorframe to keep from moving closer.

"I said don't come in!" she says without turning around. "I can handle this!"

"Looks like it," I manage, my voice rougher than it should be.

She spins around, and suddenly I'm getting the full impact of what water has done to her shirt. The fabric clings to her chest, outlining the swell of her breasts, the delicate lace pattern of her bra visible underneath. Water trails down her throat, and her jeans are molded to her hips and thighs.

My pulse pounds and I have to fight every instinct that's screaming at me to close the distance between us.

"The handle came off in my hand," she says, water still dripping from her hair. "And now it won't stop and I can't figure out how to turn it off."

Her voice cracks on the last word, and I can see her shoulders shaking, from cold, from frustration, maybe both.

Focus.Fix the problem.

"Water main's under the sink," I say, closing the distance between us. "Need to shut it off at the source."

I drop to my knees beside her legs, close enough that her scent—green apples and clean water—wraps around me like a physical thing. The main supply valve is corroded but functional. I give it a hard turn, and the spraying stops immediately.

The sudden silence is deafening.

"Oh," she says in a small voice. "It was that easy?"

I stand up, and suddenly we're very close in the small kitchen. So close I can see water droplets caught in her eyelashes, so close that when she breathes, her chest rises and falls in ways that make it impossible to think about anything else.

She's shivering now, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to do something about it. Wrap her in something warm, pull her against my chest until she stops shaking.

Instead, I force myself to look at her face. "You're soaked."

"Yeah, I noticed." She pushes wet hair out of her eyes, the gesture making her shirt pull tighter. "I was trying to tighten the handle because it was loose, and then it came completely off."

"Old faucets do that. Packing nut probably gave way."

She's looking up at me with those wide green eyes, water still dripping from her hair, and electricity arcs between us that has nothing to do with plumbing.

I should step back. Give her space, maintain professional distance.

Instead, I reach out.

My hand moves without conscious thought, fingers lifting to brush a drop of water from her cheek. Her skin is soft and coldunder my callused fingertips, and when I touch her, she goes completely still.

The contact sends heat straight through me, and I realize I'm harder than I've been in years from nothing more than touching her face.

For a heartbeat, we're frozen like that. My hand against her face, her eyes wide and startled, the kitchen quiet except for water dripping from her hair to the floor.

Then she draws in a sharp breath, and I realize what I'm doing.

I drop my hand and step back. "You should get changed before you catch cold."

"Right." Her voice comes out slightly breathless. "I should… yes. Change."

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