Page 30 of Absolutely Not in Love
Gracie exhales behind me. “How did you do that?”
I step out of the way so she can see the valve. “See the knob right there? With the blue handle? That turns off the water to your entire apartment. Useful if you ever have plumbing repairs—”
“Or an exploding pipe?” she says, cutting me off.
I nod. “That, too.”
She walks past me to her bedroom, pausing in the doorway, hands propped on her hips. She’s barefoot, wearing black leggings and a blue tank top, both of which are soaking wet and clinging to her like a second skin, revealing every single one of her curves.
I cast my eyes to the ceiling, not needing that particular distraction amid my first crisis as a landlord. Especially since Gracie still has no idea that the phone number I never gave her ismine.
I definitely meant to have the conversation with her, to give her my number and find out what’s wrong with her stove, we just haven’t had the chance. Or maybe I just haven’t known how to bring it up.Surprise! I own your apartment. Now about that stove…
It’s not like I was trying to keep it a secret. But generally, if I can avoid talking about my money, or my family’s money, I will. And owning a newly renovated building, especially when my hockey salary is barely a livable wage, is an excellent way to advertise some level of hidden wealth.
I step to the bedroom door, stopping next to Gracie as I survey the damage. There’sa lotof it. The exposed pipes and ductwork that I left in both apartments give the place a very modern, cool feel, but I wonder if, in this case, drywall might have minimized some of the mess. Gracie’s bed is soaked, and there’s at least an inch of water pooled on the floor. The dresser sitting just under the ruptured pipe has water dripping from every corner, and the open closet on the other side of the dresser looks like someone sprayed it down with a garden hose.
My brain is a jumble of emotions. Guilt that this happened in the first place. Worry that Gracie will never forgive me when she discovers I’m to blame. Not to mention the stress over what it’s going to cost to handle the repairs.
“I think every article of clothing I own is wet,” Gracie says, her voice small. She turns and looks up at me. “Tell me what to do here, Felix. I haveno ideawhat to do.”
I don’t know what to do either. My first impulse is to scoop her into my arms, carry her away from this mess, and never look back. But that’s neither practical nor logical.
I have to fix this. I have to make this right for her.
And even though I may not know where or how to start, I know someone who will.
He’s the last person I want to call right now, but at this point, I’m not sure I have any other choice.
I pull out my phone to call my dad, but before I can hit send, Gracie shivers beside me.
I look over, immediately noticing the goosebumps all over her exposed shoulders and arms. She has to be getting cold wearing clothes that are soaking wet.
I pocket my phone.
At least this part of the problem, I can solve on my own.
“Okay, first things first,” I say. “You need to get warm and dry.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “In an apartment full of water, with no dry clothes?”
“Come to my place. You can shower. I’ll lend you something to wear until we sort this out.”
She looks me up and down, like the idea of wearing my clothes is laughable. But what other choice does she have? She wraps her arms around herself. “I should probably call the landlord first though, right?”
“Yeah, about that.” I run a hand through my hair, nerves tightening my gut. “I actuallyamyour landlord.” I look up and meet her gaze. “I own the building.”
“You?” she says, her brow furrowed. “But you’re a hockey player.”
“In the minor leagues, making a less-than-impressive salary,” I say. “I’m not the only guy on the team with other stuff going on. Part-time jobs. Off-season side hustles. It’s hard to make it work, otherwise.” It’s not the full truth. But I don’t exactly want to launch into the details of my unusual financial situation right here, in the middle of her waterlogged apartment.
She lets out a little chuckle. “Sounds like the life of a musician.” She shivers again, and I quickly unzip my hoodie, shrugging it off and draping it around her shoulders. “Felix, no,” she says, trying to shrug out from under it. “I’ll get it wet. I’m soaked.”
“You’re also shivering,” I say. “Just take it. I insist.”
She sniffs, then lifts her hands to grasp either side of the hoodie. Her fingers brush against mine, and they’re icy cold.
Acting on instinct, I grab her hands, holding them inside mine, rubbing my palms over the backs of her hands to warm them up. I hate that my remodeling decisions landed her in this situation in the first place, but I’m not sorry to have an excuse to touch her. Or sorry that she isn’t complaining or pulling away.
