Page 10 of Flaunt
“How do I not? This thing is massive.”
I swat his shoulder, making him chuckle.
He plucks the perpetrator from the depths and presents it to me on his palm.
The sight of my purple peach in Banks Carmichael’s large, calloused hand does something to me. Lots of things. To a lot of parts.Dear lord.
“Toss it in the trash,” I say, unwilling to make contact with him and it at the same time.
“Are you sure? You went to a lot of trouble to rescue it.”
“I went to a lot of trouble to get my deposit back.”
He wraps his fingers over the silicone, dropping his hand to the side.
It’s virtually impossible to think of many things other than the fact thatmy vibrator is in Banks’s hand.
“How’d it get all the way back in there like that?” he asks nonchalantly.
Put it in the trash, Banks. “I don’t know. I plunged it for almost an hour before I called Ashley. I couldn’t get it to come up.”
“You probably pushed it down.”
His eyes lock with mine.
“That’s funny,” I say, holding his gaze. “I never have a problem getting things to go up.”
He grins. “I bet you don’t.” He turns and tosses the device in the trash.
I blow out a breath in relief.
“How much do we care about this toilet?” he asks.
“In what way?”
“Technically speaking, we need to put a new wax ring down to make sure it doesn’t leak all over the floor when I turn the water back on.”
I wave a hand through the air. “I don’t give a crap about that. Pun intended. Can we just set it back on there and call it a day?”
“Yup. Grab your side, muscle woman.”
I groan as we get it lifted in the air and placed back over the hole. I’m not sure Banks really needs me for this because I don’t think I’m doing much in terms of assistance, but I don’t let go until he tells me to.
I hand him the nuts before I pick up the towel and toss it in the trash.
“You can wash that, you know?” Banks asks.
“Yeah, but where do I have to put it? Everything I own is in my dad’s garage except the bag I’m taking to Ashley’s.”
He turns on the water to the toilet. “Why don’t you just stay at your dad’s?”
My heart pulls in my chest. I squirt enough soap on my hands to be overkill and then turn on the water in the sink.
“Because my dad doesn’t live there,” I say. “He passed away a few years ago. My stepmother lives there with my little sister.”
Banks stands shoulder to shoulder with me. His eyes catch mine in the mirror. In his blue irises is a genuine sympathy that he doesn’t try to hide. It’s the counterpoint to his lackadaisical approach to just about everything else. He may not always act like he cares—but he cares.
It’s the main reason you can’t really dislike Banks Carmichael.
