“Can you call me when they get here?” I gave her my best sad, needy puppy face.
She let out a sound that was halfway between sigh and laugh. “No can do. I’m not calling anybody because I don’t have the time to make over a hundred calls.”
“That’s fair.” I nodded, although I was slightly disappointed that she wouldn’t make an exception for me. Wasn’t I her favorite rocker? “Thanks anyway.”
At least the store had wine and whiskey. But it wasn’t the same. I could drink regular wine and whiskey anywhere. I could only have Bouncing Cows and Hop Hop Hooray in Kingstree.
Fortunately, I’d run into Jenny at the cash register again. She offered to make an exception and call or text me, while looking around to make sure nobody else would catch her doing me this illicit favor. So I gave her my public number, the one that I gave out to people who weren’t in my closest circle of friends and family. Now all I had to do was wait.
But I should’ve known that three days of peace was all I would get. The trouble started on the fourth day.
I rolled out of bed at six. Went out to run for an hour, since the town didn’t have a gym and I’d go stir crazy if I didn’t exercise several times a week. It was peaceful outside, and the sky was beautiful as the sun rose and changed it from black to deep navy to the gold-infused blue of early morning.
I went home, chugged a cup of black coffee—real men didn’t do cream and sugar—and ate a bowl of cereal. Then I dragged myself into the shower, luxuriating under the hot water spewing out of the faucet with the perfect pressure. Aaaah. Heaven. I considered myself a tough guy, but I’d also accepted a long time ago that I’d prefer to die if there was some dystopian apocalypse. Not because I couldn’t hunt or cook or fix cars. But because I couldn’t stand a cold shower. Cold showers were right up there with sociopathic groupies and fame-hungry exes.
I shampooed my hair, lathering it until there was a huge mushroom of suds. I moved, positioning myself under the shower head.
Was it me…or did the water actually feel a little cool?
I moved away from the spray and stuck my hand out. Shit. Now it was outright cold. I twisted the faucet to the point where the cold-water tap was cut off. But it remained frigid.
Fuck.
Me.
I stepped out, suds still clinging to my hair. Some were sliding down my body, making a mess. After wrapping a towel around my waist, I went over to the bedroom, grabbed my phone and strode to the kitchen. Grandma’s emergency phone number list was on the fridge.
“Come on. Water heater… Water heater…” I muttered, going down the list.
There. Billy’s Plumbing and All Things Water.
I called. It should be open. Today was only Thursday. This Billy person—or his minion—should be able to fix it today. Preferably within the next hour. This was an emergency!
“Billy’s Plumbing and All Things Water,” a bored female said. “How can I help you?”
“My water heater isn’t working anymore.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. What seems to be the problem?”
Could she sound any more uninterested? “Water heaters have only one job.”
“Right. So…”
I sighed, running my hand impatiently over my forehead to get the water off. It ended up covered in white, foamy froth, which I wiped off on the towel. “The water. It’s cold.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
You think? Also couldn’t she come up with something better than “Oh, that’s too bad”?
“Where are you?”
“Two fifty-two Oak Street, Kingstree. Can you come now?” I decided to make the direness of the situation crystal clear. “I’m not getting any hot water at all. Nada. Zip. Can’t even shower.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. But it’s going to be two weeks.”
No way I’d heard that right. “How long?”
“Two weeks,” she repeated in a tone a high school senior must use to read Moby-Dick out loud in class.
“Two weeks! Didn’t you hear what I said?”
She didn’t bother to answer my question. She probably hadn’t heard anything. “Billy’s busy, and so is Junior. They’re booked solid.”
“I’ll pay extra.”
“All the after-hour slots are booked, too.”
Fuck this. “Can you tell me if there’s another company I can call?”
“Far as I know, we’re the only one serving Kingstree. You want to set up an appointment?”
Jesus. She was droning like she was fighting to stay awake. Or couldn’t even bother to fake some interest. This was what happened when you let an evil monopoly dominate an entire local area. But I needed them more than they needed me, so I kept that to myself. “Yes!”
“Okay. Thursday the twenty-first good?”
“I guess.”
“You’re all set.”
“Wait, what time are you coming?”
She paused, then sighed. “Whenever Billy gets over to you. Just be home.” She hung up.
“You gotta be shitting me!” I yelled at the phone like she was still on the line. “I’m not doing cold showers for two freakin’ weeks!”
Nor was I going to forgo showering for two weeks. That would be disgusting.
And what was I going to do about my current shower interruptus? I still hadn’t washed my body. And I could feel the suds fizzing in my hair.
There was a simple solution to my problem. If you could borrow sugar from a neighbor—I’d never done that, but it happens all the time on TV shows and in porn—surely you could borrow a little hot water as well. And luckily, my neighbor lived within walking distance.
My mind made up, I strode out of Grandma’s and walked over to Emily’s pink-roofed buttercream house, one hand on the towel around my waist.
Chapter Seven
Emily
Killian wasn’t just an asshole, I decided as I glared at the Word document. Its cursor blinked mutely. He was a Class A asshole. If he were a romance hero, he would’ve been beyond redemption—the type of hero who would earn your book half a million one-star reviews.
I hadn’t been able to finish writing the dirty sex scene for Molly and Ryan. Not when Killian started banging on the damned drums and cymbals again like the fate of the galaxy depended on it. Then he also spent some time on an electric guitar and a piano that badly needed tuning. I hadn’t realized until then that music could actually induce a person to want to commit murder. If I thought I could get away with it, I would have. But I knew the cops were too damned good at catching half-assed amateur murderers, based on numerous late-night chats with romantic suspense writers at bars in conference hotels. Goddamn advances in forensic science…
I hadn’t been able to escape to a café to write, either. There was only one café in town, and the owner had refused to let me monopolize one of its four tables. Said it wouldn’t be fair. I even offered to buy a latte every hour, but that hadn’t persuaded her.
“Other people have the right to sit and enjoy our café, too.”
She hadn’t cared that other people didn’t have to endure excruciating noise pollution from Killian Axelrod. Just like the dispatcher lady, everyone I encountered seemed to think I was lucky—lucky!—to listen to an obnoxious ruckus that not even a noise-canceling headset could block out for the entire day.