Page 47 of Rising Heat
He wipes his hands on a rag hanging from the cabinet door, movements calm and efficient, and when he speaks his voice seems to settle into the room before the words do.
“You’re dripping.”
That’s an understatement.
I clear my throat.
“That somehow explains even less.”
He glances toward the sink then back at me.
“Had to fix the drain.”
“You can’t just come into my apartment.”
“No?”
“No.”
One dark brow lifts. Like he’s trying to figure out whether I’m serious and the possibility that I might argue genuinely hadn’t occurred to him.
He nods toward the spoon.
“That for me?”
I cross my arms in defense, spoon still in hand.
“This was all I had.”
His mouth twitches again.
“Good to know.”
I should be embarrassed. Instead I’m annoyed, mostly because he’s making my body do things it shouldn’t do when confronted with a stranger in your apartment, and that feels like a flaw in survival instincts.
“How did you even know about the sink?”
He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, close enough that most people probably would’ve taken a step back. For most of my life, I would’ve been one of them.
I stay where I am just to make a point.
“That drain’s been temperamental since before you moved in.”
“You knew about it?”
“I was planning to replace the trap. You signed the lease faster than my brother makes bad decisions. Couldn’t get to it in time.”
I narrow my eyes.
“That still doesn’t explain why you couldn’t tell me.”
His expression doesn’t change.
“I fixed your sink.”
“You appeared in my bathroom.”
“I had a key.”
