Dirty Work: A Bad Boy Romance (2 page)

“But what exactly was the fight about?” Bree’s voice tugged me back to the present.
 

“You know … regular stuff,” I said. And I wasn’t trying to be evasive. I honestly didn’t know exactly what that one had been about. We’d fought often over household chores, paying bills, spending money. The normal things that couples fight about. In romance movies, there was always a clear reason for a breakup. The guy stayed out all night drinking with his buddies. The girl lied about her past. One of them cheated. There was always a reason. But in real life it wasn’t that simple. Or at least it hadn’t been for us.
 

“Well, hang in there,” Bree said. “It’ll get easier as time passes. Don’t make it harder on yourself. Do whatever it takes to avoid him. When a guy looks like that—probably out of sight, out of mind is the best way to go.”

* * *

A week later, the situation was dire at my house. “Come on, come on, you can do it.” But the garbage disposal was having none of that. It clearly couldn’t do it, judging by the three inches of water in the sink. Spinach, cheese, and grape tomatoes floated in it. Yuck. I’d dredged up lots of gross stuff when I stuck a wooden spoon down there, and all I’d gotten for my trouble was a sick groaning sound from the disposal. And now I needed a new wooden spoon.
 

To top it all off, it was Friday evening. Even if I could afford a plumber, there was no way I could swing for the weekend or evening rates. And I couldn’t go all weekend with no kitchen sink. I had to eat—assuming my appetite ever returned after seeing that unappealing mess. In order to eat, I needed to cook. And that required a lot of things, including the kitchen sink.
 

With a sigh, I called Jake, only realizing after the phone was ringing that he might be out tonight. On a date. With Stacie.
 

But he answered on the fourth ring, and it was quiet in the background. He sounded like he was probably in his new apartment.
 

I explained the problem and even did a pretty spot-on impersonation of the grinding noise the garbage disposal was making.
 

Jake was somewhat less than sympathetic. “Red, it’s Friday night. I worked over fifty hours this week. Yesterday I hauled hundred-pound bags of cement. Every muscle in my body aches. I’m guessing that laying on your kitchen floor with my head under the sink is not going to improve that.”
 

Probably not. I knew Jake truly was tired. He was a general contractor, and he ended up doing a lot of the work himself at the building sites he supervised. I felt guilty for asking, but I didn’t have any other choice. “Please, Jake. I need to be able to use the sink. I need to be able to cook.” Suddenly, inspiration struck. “Without the sink, I can’t make yummy things like that macaroni ‘n’ cheese you love.”
 

“The one with the bacon and toasted bread crumbs on top?” He moaned a little as he said it, and even out of context the sound turned me on.
 

“If you fix the sink, I’ll make you a huge pan and bring it over. And some of those chocolate chip cookies with walnuts.” From his silence, I could tell that I had his attention. I used to wonder if those cookies were the only thing he liked better than sex.

“You’re killing me,” he said. “Can’t you just once call someone else? Like, say, a professional?” He paused, and I let the silence ride. At last he sighed and spoke again. “If you want me to drag my tired ass over, I want more than mac ‘n’ cheese.”
 

“I said I’d bake cookies, too.”
 

“No, that’s not what I mean. I want a different kind of payment.”
 

My breath hitched. My brain wasn’t entirely sure where he was going with this, but my quickening pulse showed that my body was already anticipating something dirty.
 

“I want a back rub.”
 

I froze, but I kept my voice light. “Sure, I can rub your shoulders, make those sore muscles feel better.”

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about. If I wanted a few minutes of mindless kneading, I’d put a dollar in the massage chair at the mall. I want a Fiona’s Finest.”
 

I tried—and failed—to stifle a small gasp. After a moment, I mustered a brisk tone. “We’re broken up. We don’t do things like that anymore.”
 

“Yeah, but it’s also quite common when people break up for the gal to stop asking the guy to do a bunch of home repairs. Yet you keep calling me. C’mon. It’s not like I’m asking you to bang me and my five best buddies. I’m only asking for a back rub. It’s the most amazing back rub in the world, but it’s still just a back rub.”
 

“You can’t ask for that,” I said feebly.
 

“Actually, I can. As an independent contractor, I set the rate. You, the customer, get to decide whether you want to accept my services and pay that rate.”
 

“But I don’t have any other choice!”
 

“Yes, you do. You could hire someone else who charges rates you’re willing to pay. You could look online and try to fix it yourself. You could ignore the sink and eat a lot of take out. You have choices, so make one.”
 

Damn him and his stupid, self-serving logic. We were still friends, weren’t we? Friends helped each other out. And this time, I was the one who needed his help. As I had been the time before. And the time before that. Okay, maybe he had a point. A small point.
 

This was definitely a bad idea, but … “Deal.”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” he said, all traces of fatigue gone from his voice.
 

What had I gotten myself into?
 

* * *

As he’d anticipated, Jake was on his back on the kitchen floor. What
I
hadn’t anticipated was that every time he reached his hands up to work on the disposal, his t-shirt would ride up, revealing a flat patch of tan abs, complete with dusty brown hairs leading under his jeans. I willed myself not to think about where that happy trail led.
 

I’d spent the time until he’d arrived arguing with myself about what to wear. Part of me wanted to throw on sweats, remove my makeup, and mess up my hair. If I looked scary enough, maybe he wouldn’t make me keep my end of the bargain. Another part of me wanted to dress up in a teeny skirt and top to remind him of what he was missing. I settled for keeping what I had on—jean shorts and a yellow scoop-neck t shirt—but I spent some time on my hair and makeup.
 

While Jake worked, and while I reminded myself not to stare at his abs, I paced around the kitchen.
 

“Stop it.” Jake peered out at me from under the sink.

“Stop what?”
 

“Pacing. Every time you walk across the floor, I can feel the vibrations. Relax, Red. I don’t bite. Not anymore.”
 

I rolled my eyes at that last part, but it was a wasted gesture because his upper body had already disappeared under the sink again. After a few moments he said, “Hand me that big wrench from my toolbox.”
 

I located it and bent down to give it to him. His long fingers clasped both the wrench and my hand, and he gave a small tug. “Sit down. Talk to me while I’m doing this. What happened to that new position you said was opening up at the library?”
 

I let go of the wrench and sank onto the floor. It felt strange sitting so close to him, but since I couldn’t see his face, I relaxed a little. I explained how the library was still trying to get the funding. “If this one grant comes through, it might start in August.”

“And you’re still going to apply, right?”

“Definitely.” I told him about the online class I was taking, trying to increase my skills. He suggested a couple of things I could do to beef up my résumé. And as we talked, it hit me how well he knew me. Even though we were broken up, he still knew my life better than pretty much anyone else. He knew me almost as well as Bree did, and that was saying something since she was my twin.
 

“Anyway, I think the only other person who has a real shot at it is Martha. She’s got a lot of experience, but she can get really nervous. I know I’ll do better at the interview.”
 

“That’s my girl,” he said, and then there was an awkward silence. We both knew I wasn’t his girl anymore. Jake moved on, trying to cover the moment. “You’re still the best librarian outside of the Music Man.” I smiled. He knew I loved the song about the librarian from that musical.
 

After that, he told me about the latest construction site he was working on. We exchanged news about our families. He asked about my sister, and I asked about him about his parents. “What are you getting your mom for her birthday?”

“Her birthday?”
 

“It’s next Thursday, Jake. Surely you didn’t forget?”
 

“I set a reminder on my phone. I think,” he said. Boy, it sure was easier to talk to ex-boyfriends when their deep blue eyes were hidden from view. And also when they were doing the ‘cute and clueless male’ routine.
 

“So, what are you getting her?”

“Dunno. Any ideas?”
 

“Actually, yes. You know how she loves anything with hot air balloons on it?” All I got for my effort was baffled silence. “Seriously, Jake, her guest bathroom has a hot air balloon shower curtain and soap dispenser. Don’t you ever look at anything besides that porcelain bowl you aim at?”
 

He laughed. “Apparently not.”
 

“Anyway, I saw a couple of framed prints of hot air balloons at a store on Market Street. I was thinking of getting them for her myself, but, you know.” I paused, wondering if I’d ever see his mom again. She was a sweet woman. “I’ll text you the store’s address if you want to get them.”
 

“Thanks, that would be great.” And he sounded like he really meant it.
 

Finally, he slid out and sat up, wincing as he did. I felt a stab of guilt. That couldn’t have been comfortable, lying there like that.
 

“Good as new,” he said, getting to his feet. “Which makes it in better shape than any other sink in this house.” I stood up next to him, turned on the water, and tried the garbage disposal. The water flowed down the drain perfectly. I hadn’t ever realized those machines could make such a healthy sound.
 

Jake leaned across me to flip off the disposal, and then he washed the grease off his hands. When he was done, he dried them on his shirt, even though a hand towel was right next to the sink, just like it always was. Same old Jake. And now he even had the same old look in his eye—one I was quite familiar with. One that said he wanted to play.
 

It was really hard to ignore the knowing gleam in those magnificent baby blues, but I made a valiant attempt. After all, we weren’t a couple anymore.
 

“Thanks so much, Jake. Are you sure I can’t make you some mac ‘n’ cheese?”
 

“Very sure,” he said. He leaned toward me. “That’s not the payment we agreed on.”
 

“Oh, that?” With effort, I overcame the urge to take a nervous step away. “I thought you were joking about that.”

He put one hand on the counter to my right and placed the other on my left. I was pinned. He looked me in the eye. “No, you didn’t.”
 

I could see wisps of honey brown chest hair through the v-neck in his shirt, and I did my best to ignore the shivers running through me. He was doing the opposite of the ‘cute and clueless’ act he’d done a few minutes ago. This was his dominant side, which had made more than one very memorable appearance when we were together.
 

I knew from experience that it was very hard to resist him when he was like this—especially since part of me didn’t want to resist. I pulled my gaze upward where it settled on his lips. That didn’t help.
 

Amused, he said, “Where do you want me?”

“What?” Alarm and excitement punched through my body.
 

“For my payment. A Fiona’s Finest. Seems like the bed would be the most comfortable.”

“No!” I practically shouted. No way I was strong enough to resist the temptation of him in a bed, especially the bed we used to share. I needed to move this conversation to safer grounds. “I mean ... come on, Jake, be serious. We’re friends. You can’t demand physical contact as payment.”
 

“I think we already had the discussion about a contractor setting his own rates. But you’re right, we’re friends. So even though we had an agreement, if you want to back out, I understand. I’ll just check the going rate for plumbing house calls. Let’s see ... it’s Friday evening, that has to be at least time and a half ...”
 

“Don’t be an ass. You know I can’t afford that. The house payments are killing me.”
 

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have kicked me out.”
 

And you shouldn’t have left at the first sign of trouble, I wanted to say. But I didn’t want to have that conversation right now. Or ever. Anything was better than that, including—