Page 13 of Biggest Player (Not Yours #2)

Margot

Question: Why do I get the feeling that Dex has no freaking clue what he’s doing?

Answer: Because it’s obvious he has no idea what he’s doing.

For all his grunting, it doesn’t seem as if he’s done much of anything, short of asking whether I have duct tape handy ... and other items one should never need while repairing things at home.

“What do you need duct tape for?”

I’m bending over his body, doing my best not to ogle his bare midriff, but my eyes linger far too long on his torso. His flat stomach. The happy trail disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans, which are a tad too big.

He has an innie belly button.

A cherry birthmark just above it.

His broad shoulders are lodged in my dinky cabinet, and the coif he walked in with, which was perfectly styled, has been a chaotic mess the few times he’s lifted his head to address me.

Deep frown lines are etched across his forehead.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I ask for what has to be the third time, and not to sound doubtful—’cause I have absolute faith that he does not in fact know what he’s doing. I make a half-assed attempt to keep the laughter out of my voice.

“Absolutely,” he grunts, hand fumbling around in front of him, reaching for another tool from those that have been scattered on the floor. “I’ve watched a bunch of tutorials, plus my buddy’s buddy told me how. How hard can it be?”

How hard can it be, indeed ...

Famous last words.

I shift my weight as I hover, enjoying the sight of him out of his element. From what I know about him, Dex is confident, somewhat arrogant, and in control.

Seeing him like this—struggling and flailing—not only has me giggling at him but also has butterflies wakening in the pit of my stomach.

“Let me know if you need anything. I’m right here.”

His legs shift as he makes room for his huge body.

A loud clunk echoes from the sink, followed by a muttered curse. “Are you sure everything’s okay down there?”

Everything is not okay down there, and I need for him to admit it before the faucet or pipes explode.

I nibble on my thumbnail nervously.

“Yep, I think this is what my buddy said to do.” His deep voice mutters with strain, though he will not admit defeat. I hear him twist a wrench, watch as his biceps flex under his T-shirt as he cranks. “Lefty loosey, righty tighty.”

“This isn’t the worst view,” I mumble to myself, unable to stop staring at his midriff. I mean, the man is harmless while he’s under my sink; I can ogle him all I want, yeah? Once he’s standing in front of me, though, that’s a whole other story.

I only pretend to be brave and put on a happy face, but deep down inside I’m a confused, mushy mess when it comes to men.

I take the glass of wine from the counter and down a mouthful, admiring Dex’s handiwork. And his stomach.

“Maybe you should take a break,” I suggest, after he utters yet another curse. “It’s not too late to call a professional.” It’s not too late for his plumber friend to come by and fix what Dex obviously cannot.

He adjusts himself inside my cabinet, leaning on his elbows so he can look up at me, blue eyes filled with determination. “No way am I calling a professional. Winners don’t quit.”

Winners don’t quit?

Oh Jesus.

“This isn’t football.”

Dex grunts.

Returns to his back, determined to figure this out on his own.

I raise a brow but decide not to say another peep about the time he’s been below the sink. Shouldn’t he have a grasp on this by now? Shouldn’t he kind of already have this figured out?

I press my lips together.

Actually, now that I think about it ... maybe I should be filming him. So when everything does inevitably implode, I have it on my phone for posterity and I can watch it again and again. Or show Wyatt. She would think it’s hilarious.

Or maybe my time is better served going to the bathroom and grabbing a stack of towels. Just in case.

It’s endearing, this desire he has to fix my problem.

Me, a practical stranger.

Me, a random woman he met on a dating app and has no interest in dating.

Makes him seem human, not this larger-than-life figure I had to read about on the internet.

Minutes tick by, and he is still grunting and making a big stink beneath the counter.

I can’t see his frustration, but I can feel it simmering. I can hear it with every turn of a wrench or screwdriver or whatever tools he’s using that I can’t see because it’s dark down there.

I’m too scared to look, honestly.

He wipes his hands on a dingy rag I handed him earlier.

“Everything all right?”

“Just fine,” Dex grumbles, his tone far less confident than it was before. “Almost there.”

Sure it is.

I stifle a giggle, my attraction for him growing. His determination is charming, even if it is slightly misguided.

Don’t quit your day job, Dex.

“Okay, I definitely think I’ve got it now,” he declares triumphantly, beginning the slow shimmy out of his spot. He uncurls himself, emerging at last from under the sink, his hair tousled, face flushed.

He doesn’t look any less hot than he did when he got here.

More so, if I’m being honest.

“Moment of truth. Let’s test it out.” He reaches to turn the faucet, and my breath hitches, caught in my throat.

Nothing.

For a brief, glorious second, nothing happens. Nothing at all.

No water, no gush, no explosion.

My shoulders relax, thinking maybe he has actually managed to fix the—

A burst of air emerges from the faucet.

Whoosh!

Water shoots out of the faucet like a geyser. I don’t know how, but it arches through the air, drenching Dex and me and spraying water all over the kitchen. This way, that way—all the ways!

Water is everywhere.

I scream, “Oh my God!”

Frantically fumbling for a towel, I toss it over the nozzle to stop the outpour of water from spraying everything in sight. “Holy shit!”

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!

We are both soaked.

Water covers me from head to toe, my white T-shirt drenched.

My clothes cling to me as I stand here, dripping water onto the tile floor, shivering as Dex stares at me, wide eyed and horrified, droplets of water dribbling from his hair.

“Dex!” I sputter. “I ... this ...” I have no words.

“Oh my dude, I’m so sorry!” He scrambles to turn the water off, but that only seems to make the spray worse if that were possible.

“What is happening!” I shout with a laugh, the situation too ridiculous to do anything but. If I don’t laugh, I may cry.

This was inevitable; let’s be real here. Dex is a pretty football star, not a handyman.

Side by side we stand in stunned silence, the hissing of my pipes the only sound in the air. That and the mini waterfall cascading down the front of my cabinet, pooling on the floor.

“That was not supposed to happen.”

“Ya think?” I move, water at my feet dripping from the countertops.

What a freaking mess!

A knot forms in my stomach, nerves and hysteria creating a bubble that rises in my throat and threatens to erupt like my pipes.

I burst out laughing.

“This isn’t funny!” he protests, though a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“No, it’s not. It’s a mess. But also, it kind of is.” I wipe water from my eyes, almost positive I’m crying too. “I told you we should have called a pro.”

“I am a pro.”

“Do not compare yourself to a skilled tradesman. You play sports.” Not even close to being the same thing.

He shakes his wet head. “All right, fine. You were right—we should have called my buddy.”

I grab another nearby towel and hand it to him, still chuckling. “I think it’s safe to say you need to retire your borrowed tool belt.”

He sighs, using the towel to wipe his face. “You didn’t happen to film that, did you?” He looks so sheepish, standing there dripping wet, that I feel a pang of sympathy.

“No. But I thought about it,” I admit, stepping closer and putting a hand on his arm. “I appreciate you trying. Really. It means a lot to me.”

He glances down at me, eyes roaming down the center of my chest. “Are you wearing one of those nipple bras?”

“What? No!” I laugh, batting at him. “Why would you say that?”

“’Cause I can totally see your nips through your shirt.”

I look down. Sure enough, not only are my areolas on full display because of the cheap, threadbare bra I’m wearing, but my nipples are determined to escape.

“Oh shit.” I cross my arms. “I feel like I’ve entered a wet T-shirt contest I have no business entering.”

Dex reaches forward, his big hands unfolding my arms and holding them out so he can look at me. “What the hell are you talking about? Look at these boobs. They’re amazing.”

I feel myself blushing despite the fact that I’m cold.

“Aw, gosh. I’m flattered you th-think so,” I stutter. It’s been ages since a grown man has blatantly gawked at my tits, T-shirt impeding his view or not.

“You’re the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, all soaked to the skin and dripping wet.”

I’ll never forget the way he said and dripping wet ...

Dumbly, I nod.

Let him walk me backward until my ass bumps the cabinets.

His hands on my hips—I have no protest, only curiosity. What’s he going to do with me once he has me where he wants me?