Max Duchene squinted at the crumpled piece of paper in his palm and the near illegible address scribble in the center of it. Damn it all to hell. Was that a three or a five in the final digit of the address? Maybe a nine? The last number was smudged beyond all recognition.
He needed to know and didn't want to waste time screwing around knocking on the wrong doors. His cousin's wife, Angie, said her dear friend was having an emergency and with a few well-chosen phrases like "water everywhere,", "flooded bathroom" and "what does a water main shut off valve look like?" Max knew he'd better hurry.
He wasn't an official licensed plumber in his current day job, but he'd put himself through college doing some handy work and as a consequence was often able to fix things around the house.
Plus, he'd been foolish enough to answer the phone on a Saturday night when Angie called. Caller ID hadn't mattered. With his cousin Roger out of town, he couldn't very well ignore Angie's call as much as he'd wanted to ignore any and all interruptions during his night off. Thus, Max became the emergency contact support for Angie and now apparently for one of her entourage of "dear" friends.
Max hadn't hit it off very well with Angie early on in their relationship. It had gotten worse after Roger and Angie's quickie Vegas wedding six months ago.
At the impromptu wedding reception upon their return, and after several beers, Max told his cousin Roger he was crazy to fall in love and marry so fast. He further shoved his foot into his mouth by unwisely offering a wager that the marriage would only last three months.
Angie, unfortunately, overheard the conversation. That singular event likely contributed to the continued silent treatment she bestowed upon him even after his repeated and profuse apologies.
Only in the last few weeks had Angie softened her attitude.
Roger was his favorite cousin and this fact alone made Max try harder and go out of his way when Angie called on the rare occasion to ask for favors. The poor choice of words in the prediction regarding the length of their marriage also had a hand in his decision. Penitence guided his actions.
The cell phone in his pocket buzzed, startling him out of his urgent abode search.
"Hello?"
"Max. Where are you?" Angie's signature perturbed tone came through along with a crackly bad connection. There was some static and burbles over the line before it cleared and Angie added, "My friend is totally freaking out. Are you almost there?"
"I think so. What's the house number again?"
"Blurb…rib…art…" Her garbled response didn't make any sense, and then the line went dead.
Damn it.
Max checked the small screen to see how many bars he had in the way of service in this area and realized his battery had died and it didn't matter. He glanced at the wad of paper, shook his head in frustration again and shoved the scrap into his jeans front pocket.
Foot resting on the bottom step of the long flight of outdoor stairs, Max paused and looked up at the home perched on top of a small rise. If he had to climb these stairs, he hoped the address was the correct one.
Located in an older section of town, the house before him had been cut up into smaller apartments. The only reason he was called instead of the landlord had something to do with past due rent and a security deposit in jeopardy.
Max didn't know or care at this point. He just wanted to get this "favor" over with as soon as possible. At the top of the flight of stairs was the first of three possibilities for the water-logged apartment he sought. He straightened his shirt beneath the tool belt he'd quickly fastened around his hips before leaving his truck and hurried up the flight of stairs.
Pushing out a long breath, he knocked on the first door he came to hoping his luck would materialize in the way of the right apartment on his first try.
The door was snatched open after a short pause and a gorgeous brunette with long hair, wearing a fuck-me-senseless, low-cut silk robe and spiked high heels appeared, making him wish he'd dressed better.
* * * *
Lynda popped open the door and sucked in a breath of surprise. Her friend had told her the man she'd be spending the night with was a gorgeous hunk and sheer pleasure to watch.
At first glance, she totally agreed. Her second glance made her almost swoon in visual pleasure. The authentic-looking tool belt resting on his hips made a little rush of moisture shoot into her barely there panties.
During the transaction phase of this fantasy date, she'd been told there would be a "theme" involved with each of the escorts, but Lynda hadn't known exactly what to expect.
A handyman was the perfect choice.
Piercing hazel eyes glanced down her body once quickly, and then focused in on her face. He smiled. "Hi. I'm not sure I'm in the right place. Are you by any chance waiting for an emergency plumber?"
Lynda, mesmerized by his rich, sexy voice that hinted at a southern upbringing, stared transfixed and without speaking for several moments. She studied him from head to toes and back again.
Streaky, dark-blond hair, in a haphazard style just a little too long, covered his head. He had a square-faced, masculine bone structure, including high cheekbones with about a day's growth of stubble gracing his lean jaw. He was tall and his wide shoulders were evident beneath his shirt. She resisted the feral urge to check out his "package," chickening out by sending her focus to his feet.
He wore tan suede, leather work boots. She stifled a sigh at the sexiness of his footwear.
Starting at his booted feet a little too long, she mentally shook her head and allowed her gaze to travel back up his denim-clad legs. She got as far as his waist before she zeroed in on the tool belt slung around his hips. She couldn't tell about the size of his most impressive "tool," not just yet. But soon, very soon.
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