Ben Carlson’s life was already in the shitter, and that was before his sister’s ex-boyfriend Conner Jaxon moved in next door. Home for the summer after dropping out of Seabreeze State, Ben is stuck doing dog sitting duty while his mom is touring Napa Valley with her latest beau of the month.
Conner is rehabbing the rundown cottage next to Ben’s in order to flip it, but after a costly mishap with the water heater makes Connor question his technical skills, he hires a crew to do the work for him. The decision leaves Conner with plenty of time to pester poor Ben, who does his best to avoid the guy who broke his sister’s heart. Or did he? When a runaway pooch sets the two on a rescue mission to find it, Ben learns Conner’s not so bad after all.
But there’s still the past to consider, long-buried feelings to confront, and when a secret confession leads to a smoldering kiss, the only thing that can stand in the way of a sizzling summer love story are a few simple rules. Rule Number One? There are no rules in love!
Ben shrugged, jerking a thumb back toward Watson, the exhausted Beagle panting in the summer sun, his leash tied to my Jeep door handle. “I thought it was just your hose running when I first walked by,” he said. “Then I came back from walking Watson around the block and, well ... it’s all out into the street.”
I followed his gaze, wincing at the gush of unsightly, copper-stained water cascading down my drive and into the sewer grate at the curb. “Fuck, bro, what do I do?”
Ben smirked as if he was enjoying himself. I would have socked him right in the nose if he hadn’t looked so damn cute doing it. “Turn off the water, dumbass.”
“Call me that again,” I huffed all the same, sloshing through the puddle to find the cutoff valve and seeing only beige painted cinderblock wall as far as the eye could see. “And see what happens.”
“Sure thing, stud,” Ben huffed, sloshing in the opposite direction and finding it immediately next to the washing machine. “You looking for this, dumbass?”
I glanced up, admiring the smirk on his face and his big, veiny hand on the valve. “Do it already,” I hissed, watching money literally pour down the drain as the hissing continued unabated.
“Only if I can call you dumbass one more time,” he teased, winking before he did just that. “Dumbass.”
He twisted the rusty valve, the hissing slowed to one final screech and then wheezed to a full and most satisfying stop. “Fucking hell, man,” I growled, surveying the damage as Ben stood there, glistening from a mid-afternoon walk and barely clothed in another of his favorite sleeveless rock band T-shirts and a clingy pair of gym shorts. “Thanks.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “I mean, are you sure you wanna do this yourself?”
I was about to bluster, about to boast, the same way I had to my dad when I’d promised him I could handle this project all by myself. Then thought better of it.
“I thought I was,” I admitted, glancing at the insulation that had been delivered that week, half the rolls sopping wet with rusty old water heater water, to say nothing of the vinyl sheeting I’d been planning to floor the back patio with. “But shit, man, I may be over my head.”
Dripping water filled the awkward silence as Ben surveyed the scene. When he spoke again, his tone was slightly less sarcastic. “There are people who do this kind of thing. For a living, I mean?”
I frowned, already calculating the cost of six bundles of wasted insulation and half a pallet of already curling, soon to be rendered utterly useless vinyl flooring. “I only have so much left on the budget, you know?”
He was backing away, as if suddenly remembering he hated me. “That may be so,” he sighed, sneakers squishing as he reached the driveway and unleashed poor Watson, panting so heavily I could hear him from beside the washer and dryer. “But if you run over budget, can’t you just ... add that to the cost of the house?”
I started to argue, then simply nodded. “It’s not unheard of, but the competitive rates in the neighborhood still have to align with mine.”
Ben was still backing away, Watson hot on his heels. “Sounds like a you problem, my man.”
I followed, not quite ready to let him go just yet. “Honestly? Don’t you know anyone in town who could help?”
“You grew up here,” Ben spat back. “Don’t you?”
“It’s been seven years, kid. Things change.”
Ben nodded. “And some things don’t, Conner.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He chuffed. “Only that you’re the same spoiled brat you were when you dated my sister, expecting everyone to get you out of jams. Good luck with everything, though.”
“This shit again?” I clapped back, Ben already crossing the thin strip of lawn between our houses. “You don’t know the whole story, kid.”
“I know enough,” he mumbled, letting Watson in the house and unclasping the leash.
We stood facing each other, Ben on his front stoop, me in the rust-stained driveway. Our eyes met, clashing in the midday sun. “I’m not going anywhere,” I reminded him. “Whether I do this work myself or hire a crew, I’ll still be around. It’s silly to let old wounds get in the way of --”
The door slammed, mid-explanation. Slammed so hard, in fact, it bounced back open. Not wide open, but just enough to not be shut. There was some satisfaction in that, I suppose. I mean, at least the little shit wasn’t as cool as he thought he was, right?
Still, I should have said something. Amberjack Avenue was a quiet street, and presumably safe as well, but a cracked door? I’d seen enough episodes of 48-Hour Forensic Case Files to know that’s how a lot of true crimes started. But I suppose I was just mad enough at the petty little shit to be petty back.
I mean, what’s the worst that could happen, right?
