Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

GABBY

“I’m jealous that you get to work out on the beach,” Bower says through FaceTime as I fill up my water bottle with more water.

“You should be. It’s amazing. Seriously, you need to move here. We can share the apartment, really cut down on rent costs, and we can live out our Golden Girls era.”

“We are thirty. I’m not ready to shack up with my friend for life yet.”

“Then don’t live with me. Just come live here. We can work out together on the beach. While I’m at school teaching, you can do what you do, and then at night, we can meet up and troll the streets, looking for the next hot ticket.”

“Hot ticket?”

“You know, penis to ride.”

She lets out a heap of a laugh. “Are you really that horny?”

“I’m always that horny,” I say. “You know that. I have an appetite for orgasms.” Well, I have since Ryland Rowley showed me that they were more than a fairy tale. Certainly never found them when I was with...him.

God, don’t think about him, Gabby. Those days are over.

“If that’s the case, just wander next door.”

I give her a look as I remove my makeup with a wipe. “That’s not going to happen. We already discussed this.”

“I know, but how great would it be if it did happen?”

“We’re not even going to talk about it because it’s not going to happen.”

“Fine,” she groans.

“But you can still move here, you know?”

“Let’s see how it goes first when you tell your landlord that you’re his assistant coach as well. Because chances are high that you might not have a job after that conversation.”

“He can’t fire me.”

Can he?

“Maybe not, but he can make your life miserable.”

I scoff at her as I toss my makeup wipe in the trash. “Please, my entire life has been miserable. Do you think I’m going to let some coach take me down? Never.”

“He isn’t just some coach. He’s the man who made you sing to the angels while he was deep inside you.”

“Dear God. Can you not phrase it like that?”

She chuckles. “I kind of liked it.”

“Either way, orgasm or not, I can handle him.”

“You know, you’re scrappy, one of the many things I like about you. You could take him.”

“Thank you.”

“Also, if he does give you grief, you can always let Bennett give him a talking-to.”

I shake my head. “I take care of Bennett. Bennett doesn’t take care of me.”

“That seems rather . . . one-sided. What happens when he goes up to the big leagues and he’s making millions a year? Are you going to let him take care of you then, or are you going to continue to live in squalor?”

“I wouldn’t call this squalor,” I say as I move to the shower and turn it on. “This is a nice place.”

I say that as the pipes behind the wall rumble.

The faucet to the tub rattles.

And when no water appears, I question the very sentence I just spoke.

“Why do you have that look on your face?” Bower asks.

“I turned on the shower, and nothing’s happening.” I turn it off and make sure the plug that you pull up to get the water to come out of the showerhead is down.

I try again, this time waiting for the water to come out of the tub faucet, but when it rattles and rumbles all over, fear creeps up the back of my neck.

Uh-oh.

“You know, from where I’m sitting, it seems like you’re not too happy about what’s happening.”

“No water is coming out.”

“Is there water coming out of the sink?” she asks.

I turn the knob for the sink, and water drips out, just enough to wash my hands and brush my teeth, but it’s not a steady flow.

“Uh, a little.”

“What about the toilet? When you flush it, does water move?”

When did Bower become a plumber?

I flush the toilet and watch it refill.

“Yeah, that’s working.”

“What about the kitchen?”

I head out of the bathroom and straight to the kitchen, where I turn on the water and watch it flow slowly.

“Yeah, that’s working. So what does that mean?”

She shrugs. “How the hell should I know? I’m not a plumber.”

“Jesus, Bower. I thought you knew what you were doing.”

“Nope, just interested if there is water coming out of places. Which makes me wonder, can you see water coming out of any walls?”

Hell, I didn’t even think about that. I look around in a quick panic. When everything comes up dry, I let out a deep breath and shake my head. “No.”

“Fascinating. Well, good luck with that. I’m sure you smell great after that long workout immersed in the briny salt air.”

“Bower, you can’t just check out.”

“Why not? This isn’t my problem. I can’t do anything from afar other than annoy you with suggestions as to what you might smell like right now.”

She’s right about the annoying part.

“You need to help me problem solve.”

“Okay,” she says. “How about this? You walk over to your landlord, tell him your shower isn’t working, and make him fix it.”

“I can’t do that,” I say as I lean against my kitchen counter, feeling defeated.

“Um, you realize that’s what landlords are for, right? They fix things in your place when they’re broken.”

“He just moved in today, Bower. Also . . . I sort of told him that I wasn’t going to need him for anything.”

“Well, that was dumb.”

I roll my eyes. “How did I know the shower wasn’t going to work?” It was of course working fine before I spouted off about not ever needing Ryland . . . for anything.

“That’s what they call karma. You say you don’t need him, then bam, you now have to go up to Daddy Landlord and ask him for help.”

“Do not call him that.”

“Sorry . . . Daddy Coach? Or Coach Daddy?”

“No daddy!” I shout, then drag my hand over my face. “You were right. You are not the person to be talking to right now.”

“Told you.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Go talk to him—” She’s able to get those words out before I disconnect.

I set my phone on the counter and glance at the bathroom. Come on, I’m a smart, independent woman who has been on my own forever. I can figure this out.

I just need a better look.

Heading back into the bathroom, I cinch my robe tighter and throw my hair up into a clip. I get down on my knees to lean over the tub and inspect the shower faucet.

I study it for a few seconds, taking in the workings to make sure I’m not missing anything. You know, sometimes there’s a secret button to make the shower work that not all showers have, just the annoying ones where people thought they would be different with the type of faucet system they chose.

Here’s what I think: if I ever became president, I would make it mandatory for all showers to be the same. None of these pull ups and pull downs and press the button and swivel the toggle. No, they would all work the same so we don’t have issues like this.

After examining it for a few more seconds, I turn the shower back on and wait for the water to come out . . .

The pipes groan.

They moan.

They act like they’re on the brink of orgasm ready to squirt . . .

But nothing happens.

Maybe the pipes need some . . . stimulation.

I knock on the white tiled wall above the faucet to see if that helps.

But nothing.

I knock a little harder . . . because maybe this bitch likes it hard like I do.

But nothing happens.

I sit back on my heels, growing infinitely more frustrated. With one last effort, I slam my fist against the wall, only for the faucet to groan so loud that I fear it might blow right off.

That’s not good.

The last thing I need is for the faucet to pop off and for water to flood the apartment because then what would happen? Can’t live in a watery, mildewy apartment.

I quickly turn off the water and then lean against the tub.

Fuck.

Maybe . . . maybe I can take a bath in the sink?

I lift from the floor and stare at the minuscule sink in front of me.

I don’t even think my arm could get a good rinse. Nor would I be able to wash my hair.

Mother . . . fucker.

I look up at the mirror, staring at my reflection. What are my options?

Well . . . I saw a hose out back. That’s one way to make my nipples freeze off. Not to mention, if Daddy Landlord—don’t tell Bower I used that term—saw me hosing down, he might evict me.

I could go stay at the inn, but that place is pricey. Very pricey.

There is a truck stop about forty-five minutes away that I know has showers because I saw them once and thought, what an unpleasant place to shower given how grubby it was.

There’s always the opportunity of sneaking into the school locker rooms and showering there. Then again, if someone caught me, that might not be a good look. Nor do I think a naked teacher in the high school locker rooms is a smart idea.

Can’t afford a gym membership right now, hence the beach workouts.

Ughhhh . . . fuck.

That leaves me with one option—talking to Ryland.

I groan even louder, then reluctantly head to my front door, where my shoes and sandals are lined up.

“Of all the freaking days the shower has to stop working. It was working fine before, but then he goes and moves in, and now I need to ask him for something. Why . . . why me?”

I slip my sandals on, fling my door open, then stomp down my stairs, hating every second of this.

I’m not going to need anything . . . why did I say that? It’s like when someone says there isn’t a cloud in the sky, and then out of nowhere, it pours.

Stopping in the driveway, I study which door I should use. I could knock on the back door that leads to the kitchen—I know this because I secretly peeked through the windows before he moved in, you know, just to assess.

Then there’s the front door, which is far more formal.

If we were friends, I’d go to the back door, but since he’s my landlord, it looks like I’ll be going to the front.

Thankfully, the streets are quiet as I walk around the house. I keep my arms pinned down to my side because I know I don’t smell like roses as I head up the porch steps to the dark purple door. I take a deep breath, then knock three times.

I shift on my feet, looking anywhere but at the door, and when no one answers after a few moments, I question if I should ring the doorbell. It’s late, though. What if his niece—Mac, right?—is sleeping? I don’t want to wake her up.

Anxiety prickles at the nape of my neck as I try to figure out what to do. Maybe . . . maybe I should knock again.

So I do. I knock again, a touch louder this time, and then I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Nothing.

Dammit.

Do I have his phone number? I don’t think I do. Maybe it’s on some paperwork that I stuffed away in a drawer.

Resolving that he won’t answer, I head back down the porch steps toward the garage. As I ascend the stairs, I glance over my shoulder at the kitchen just in time to see him move by the window.

Okay, so he’s in there.

Did he just not hear my knock?

Only one way to find out. I head over to the back door and knock again, really making sure it’s noticeable this time. I wait a few seconds, and when there is still no answer, I grow extremely irritated.

What the hell is going on?

Is he ignoring me on purpose?

I know I said I wouldn’t need anything from him, but he’s taking this to an extreme. And with how ripe I feel right now, in need of a shower, I’m going to make sure he knows I need him.

Taking a chance, I twist the doorknob, and to my surprise, it opens. Full of courage, ire, and stink, I push the door open just in time for him to look up from where he’s doing the dishes.

The look of shock and fear greets me right before he throws a plastic plate right at my head.

I scream and duck, letting it hit the door behind me.

“Jesus fuck, what are you doing?” he says as he pulls out his earbuds, and I rise back up and look him in the eyes.

“You threw a plate at my head.” I grip my heaving chest, trying to catch my breath from the onslaught of tableware.

“Because I thought you were an intruder. Just be happy it wasn’t the knife in my hand.” He sets down the cutlery and dries off his hands. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I was knocking, and you didn’t hear me.”

“I was listening to a podcast.” He lets out a deep breath. “Jesus, my heart is racing.”

“You’re not the one who almost got nailed in the head by a plate.” I pick it up and toss it on the counter before shutting the door.

“Why were you knocking?”

“Because I need help.”

He lifts a brow. “I thought you weren’t going to need anything from me.”

How did I know he was going to say that?

He would be the kind of man with so much pride that he would use my words against me.

“Trust me, it’s painful to even be here, but I don’t have an option.”

“I can see the pain in your face, like you’re melting on the spot by just being near me.”

“I don’t need the play-by-play. I’m feeling it, thank you.”

The slightest of smirks crosses his face before he says, “What do you need?”

“My shower, it’s not working. And I tried everything I could, but it seems like my plumbing skills are as terrible as I thought they would be.”

“Was your shower working before?”

“Yes,” I answer. “And if I wasn’t in such dire need to bathe, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

His nose crinkles. “You trying to tell me you stink?”

I clutch at my robe. “That’s a little personal, don’t you think?”

“For someone who has licked your pussy, I would say nothing is too personal at this point.”

And just like that, my cheeks heat.

He nods toward the door. “Let’s go check it out.”

“Want me to stay here . . . because of your niece?”

He shakes his head and holds up his phone. “I have a monitor app on my phone.”

“You have a monitor in her room?” I ask. I thought those were just for babies.

“Yeah, I like to make sure she’s okay at all times. Got a problem with that?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. Wow, the playfulness in his voice immediately escaped. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone change that quickly. Note to self: he takes his guardianship very seriously.

“Then let’s go to your apartment.” We head out of the house and then up the stairs to my apartment. He walks in first, and from behind, I catch him taking in the space I’ve made my own. All the furniture is in place, centered by a rug in the living area. Curtains are hung as well as pictures. Fake plants are scattered throughout, offering some greenery without the responsibility, and a bookcase full of my favorite books sits in the corner next to my reading chair and lamp.

But he moves past all of that and heads straight to the bathroom, where I see my discarded red thong in the middle of the floor.

Jesus, Gabby.

“Uh, sorry about that,” I say, snagging my clothes and tossing them outside in the bedroom.

“Not a problem,” he says as he examines the faucet. He reaches to turn it on, and I swear to the plumbing gods if water comes out, I’m going to wish hemorrhoids on all plumbers. Because that would just be my luck.

Oh dear Daddy Landlord, my water isn’t working, please come help me.

Flicks water on.

It works.

I will freaking scream!

Thankfully, as I wait on bated breath with my ass clenched, nothing happens. No water. He feels around and pulls on a few things . . . again, no water.

That’s right, you be a droughting motherfucker.

He does a few more things, checks the toilet and the sink like I did, and then stands up and scratches the top of his head. “This was working before?”

“Yeah. I showered this morning.”

“Did you do anything weird to it?”

“Like what?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know . . . shove something up there?”

I purse my lips together as he turns toward me. “Do you really think I would shove something up there and then play dumb as to not knowing why the water isn’t working? Don’t you think I would have retrieved the thing I supposedly shoved up there?”

Another shrug. “Could have done it for attention.”

My eyes narrow. “Do you think that’s the kind of person I am?”

“I don’t really know you at all. I’m just trying to check all of the boxes here.”

“Well, check the box of nothing was shoved up the faucet .”

He slowly nods. “Then I think I need to call a plumber.”

“Yeah, I could have told you that.” I fold my arms across my chest.

“Janet, the plumber, won’t be able to come over until tomorrow if we’re lucky,” he says.

“Tomorrow?” I ask. “She doesn’t make emergency calls?”

“No, and this is not an emergency. This is you being unable to shower.”

“Not that you need to know this, but I worked out like a beast right before this. I need a shower . . . bad. What am I supposed to do?”

He thinks about it for a second. “Have you ever showered in a sink?”

“You can’t be serious.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, didn’t think that was going to be the solution.” He glances around. “Well, I guess you could use the downstairs shower in my house for now.”

“Your shower? You don’t think that’s going to be awkward?”

“Once again, I’ve gone down on you. Nothing is awkward at this point.”

“Everything is awkward because you keep bringing up that night,” I counter.

“Because you’re acting like we’re strangers.”

“We are strangers.” I hold up my finger. “Tell me one thing you know about me.”

“You like your nipples played with,” he says with a know-it-all lift of his chin.

“Oh my God!” I shout. “Something that’s not sexual.”

“Okay, fine.” He pauses for a moment. “You used to do travel work and now you don’t.”

“Is that factoid supposed to prove a point?”

“I don’t know.” He sighs heavily. “Fuck, I don’t know how to navigate this situation, okay? The last thing I expected to see when I was showing Mac the house I put an offer on was you, and I’ve been . . . I’ve been trying to navigate how to handle this from that moment.”

“There’s nothing to handle,” I say.

I can see him warring with himself because I might say there’s nothing to handle, but oh my God, there is so much to handle. Especially when he finds out that I’m his new assistant coach.

“If there’s nothing to handle, then why do you think it’s going to be awkward to take a shower in my house?” he asks.

Good point.

Got you there, Gabby.

Not wanting him to best me, I hold my chin high and say, “You’re right, it won’t be awkward . . . after all, you did go down on me, and if anything, oral satisfaction speaks for something.”

“I guess it does.” His eyes travel the length of my body, the heat coming off him immediately palpable.

I wet my lips.

His eyes fall to them.

I shift on my feet.

His hands clench at his sides.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says, but his voice betrays him as it’s laced with unspoken words.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” he asks.

I roll my teeth over the corner of my mouth, and he immediately attaches his gaze to it.

“Like . . . like you want to do something to me.”

“And what would that be, Gabby?” His eyes meet mine now, and the intensity of green nearly splits me in half. He went from frustrated to intense in a few short seconds. He takes a step forward and adds, “What do I want to do to you?”

God.

I can practically feel his lips on me even though there’s distance between us.

I can feel his body between my legs.

I can sense the tension in his shoulders as his orgasm takes over.

That night, it’s not even close to a distant memory. No, it sits in my head daily. I’m constantly reminded about the way he owned me that night, the way he gave me everything I wanted, everything I needed. And now that I’m in a room with him, so close to his body, I can practically taste it.

“I . . . I don’t think we should be talking about this.” I start to move past him, but his hand grips mine, keeping my shoulder up against his. He’s so close that I can smell the distinct scent of his cologne. The same cologne that imprinted in my mind as he drove into me, thrust after thrust that one night.

When my eyes meet his, he says, “And this is why I can’t have you here . . . you’re a fucking distraction.”

I swallow the saliva building up in my mouth before saying, “Well, you’re going to have to find a way to deal with it because I’m not going anywhere.”

He wets his lips. “And what’s your suggestion for how to deal with it?”

Fuck me.

Again.

And again.

And again until it’s out of our systems.

Take me up against the wall.

Bend me over the couch.

Make me scream your name until my voice is hoarse.

Give me everything you did to me that night until you have nothing left to give.

I clear my throat and say, “Act like an adult.” And with that, I pull away and add, “If you don’t mind, I need to grab a few things, and then I’ll be over to shower.”

He steps back, irritation written all over his face, but also understanding. He sticks his hands in his pockets and slowly nods. “Sure. You can just walk in. No need to knock.”

And with that, he heads out of my apartment, leaving me hot and bothered, and my body begging him to come back.

It’s for the best.

That was the right thing to do despite the hunger in his eyes.

And the itchiness in my body to have him close.

It’s one of the things I hate about being a sexually charged individual.

I love sex. I love fucking. I love everything about the rapturous feel of being brought to the apex of pleasure and then having it ripple through your body.

And sure, getting off on my own is fine. It fulfills a need.

But God, getting off with someone else, especially Ryland Rowley, that’s an experience I crave.

Sighing heavily, I move around my bathroom and grab my toiletries. Hands full, I go to the kitchen where I snag a large Tupperware bin and place everything inside, using it as a temporary shower caddy. With my towel draped over my shoulder, I walk out of my apartment and down the stairs again to Ryland’s back door. I walk right in, body tingling and aware when I see him at the kitchen sink, washing dishes again.

His corded back muscles tug against the fabric of his shirt as his large hands rinse the plates and stack them in the dishwasher.

I find the entire thing overtly sexy, and I know it’s because I’m horny and I want him. And now that he gave me that one look, that is all I’ll think about.

But I will not give in.

Clearing my throat, I ask, “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Right over here,” he says while turning off the faucet. He turns to face me, and once again, he gives me a slow once-over, taking in every inch of my body.

He pushes off the counter, and my stomach shivers from the thought of him removing my clothes.

But instead of touching me, bringing me up against the wall, and pressing his strong, hard-as-a-rock body up against mine, he leads me down a short hallway.

“We don’t plan on using this shower since we have bathrooms upstairs, so feel free to leave your stuff until the shower is fixed.”

“No need to worry about that. The shower will be fixed tomorrow.” I smile and open the shower curtain, which is just a plain white sheet. I stare at the faucet. “Do you know how this works?”

“Not really,” he replies. He turns on the water, and unlike my shower, this water is flowing. Then he tugs on a toggle, and it shuts the drain. Not the right thing. He undoes that and then looks under the faucet and pulls on a ring. The showerhead fires up and starts raining down on the tub.

“Hate to admit it, but I never would have figured that out.” I try to lighten the tension between us, but it does absolutely nothing.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” he says in a gruff tone. “Use the shower as much as you want.”

I can see that he’s mad at himself, more subdued than the man who almost threw me up against the couch and took what he wanted.

I think that realization has set in, and now he’s possibly regretting what he said.

And oddly, I don’t want him to regret it. Because I’m apparently deranged and like this slow form of torture. I enjoy the idea of him wanting me but denying himself.

But despite all of that, I have to admit, given our circumstances, Ryland Rowley is a nice guy. To offer me access to his shower is actually pretty kind. But I need to remember that he doesn’t have the full picture here, and I’m in no rush for him to know it. So...

“No need,” I reply. “The shower will be fixed tomorrow.”