Small Town Girl (3 page)

“A
NYBODY
H
OME?”
A D
EEP
voice called out as the screen door slammed behind her.

Lauren nearly jumped out of her skin. “Oh! You scared me!” She whirled around to face the intruder.

He stood just inside the kitchen door, not the least bit apologetic. “I thought you called with a furnace problem.”

“I did,” she responded.

“Well, here I am. What’s the problem?”

He couldn’t have been in the house for more than a minute and already he was irritating her. It was annoying enough to discover the problem in the first place. She didn’t need some smart-ass plumber to compound the situation.

Lauren scowled at him, trying to decide on the best way to handle him. He stood there, easy and relaxed. She had to admit he wasn’t exactly what she had been expecting when she called the Cochran Plumbing and Heating Company.

Automatically, she assessed him. He wasn’t that much older than herself, probably between thirty-five and forty. About six feet tall, he was dressed in scuffed work boots and jeans, belted low around trim hips. Lauren couldn’t help noticing the jeans were tight enough to betray muscular thighs underneath. A snug fitting black T-shirt with the obligatory company logo printed on it sheathed well-developed biceps, strong shoulders, and a broad, hard, muscled chest. His dark brown hair was cut short, but not so short Lauren didn’t notice it would be thick and quite wavy if allowed to grow out. And only his obviously overt masculinity kept his full lips from seeming almost too soft.

He waited, watching her. He blinked twice. His eyes brought Lauren up short. They were hazel with flecks of green in them, set off by bristly black lashes and accentuated by dark, slightly arched brows. There was a visible sparkle to them almost as if those flecks of green were small dancing lights.
Not unpleasant
, thought Lauren.
Not at all
.

“Well?” he said again.

Lauren realized she had been staring, and she blushed. “I can’t get the hot water to run,” she said, turning around hastily to the sink. “It’s cold.” She was suddenly aware that perhaps the old white cotton shirt she had thrown on before leaving the city was opened one button too many.

“Shut the water off, and we’ll see what the problem is,” the plumber said, picking up a red tool chest. With his free right hand, he reached out to her. “I’m Caleb Cochran,” he said.

Hesitantly, Lauren shook his hand. It was a strong hand with a firm but gentle grip. Her heart beat a little faster.
I must be overtired,
she thought, annoyed at her inexplicable attraction to this stranger.
It’s the plumber, for crying out loud!

“I’m Lauren Smith,” she replied. He stepped past her in two graceful strides and shut the water off himself.

“Hi, Lauren. I’m going to have to get into the cellar. That all right with you?”

“Of course. It’s this way,” she said, but Caleb Cochran seemed to know just where the cellar door was. “Have you been here before?” Lauren asked.

“Oh yeah, a long time ago. When Old Lady Hamilton lived here. It’s been vacant for a while now. What’d you do, buy it?” The cellar door made a god-awful creak when he opened it.

“No,” Lauren said, suddenly irritated again. “Old Lady Hamilton, as you put it, was my grandmother. I’m here to get it ready to sell. My parents live on the West Coast, and I live in New York. I’m an only child; when my grandmother died, she left me the house.
Hence
,” and here Lauren accentuated her words snottily, “
Hence
, the responsibility falls to me. I have no use for it, so I’m selling it. Is that enough information for you?”

He didn’t turn to look at her, but as he started down the stairs, he said simply, “No disrespect meant.” He flipped the light switch, and she followed him into the dimly lit basement, unable to keep from noticing how his muscles rippled under the cotton of his T-shirt. “Shouldn’t have trouble selling this place. It’s a nice old house with plenty of land. I always liked it. All it needs is a little fixing up.”

Nice?
Lauren looked around.
Maybe after a crew spent a year here.
She thought of Charles’s apartment on Central Park West. The four-thousand-square-foot penthouse apartment with its long, regal windows overlooking the vista of the brilliant city. The apartment that would become her home in just a few short weeks.

“It was nice when my grandmother was alive. I actually stayed here quite a bit during the summers with her. It’s neglected now. I’m just going to sell it as is,” Lauren found herself babbling. Caleb made no reply as he descended the stairs.

The cellar was typical of the old houses in the area. It was damp with a stone foundation. The floor was dirt except for the poured cement slab where the furnace, water pump, and water heater sat. Caleb went over to the furnace, seemingly unaware of her presence behind him.

“What is it?” she asked. He didn’t answer her, but flipped a switch on the wall instead. The furnace kicked on, in spite of the warm temperature outside. It rattled for about thirty seconds and then shut down. Caleb repeated the motion with the same results.

“Well?” she prodded.

“Well, what?” He didn’t look at her, engrossed as he was in the workings of the furnace.

“What the hell is wrong with it?” she protested impatiently. “Why can’t I get any hot water?”

This time he turned to her. “Keep your shirt on,” he said with a friendly smile, and as he said it, his gaze dropped to her breasts. Lauren was once again uncomfortably aware of the undone buttons. And maybe her khaki shorts were too short. “The water’s heated off the furnace,” he explained. “There seems to be enough fuel in the tank. For some reason, these pipes here are hot, but the water in the tank is cold.”

“These pipes here?” Lauren reached up to touch the copper pipes attached to the low ceiling of the cellar. Instantly, Caleb had his hand over hers.

“Careful!” he commanded sharply. “This is oil-fired forced hot water heat. Those pipes are red hot. You’ll burn yourself!”

She did not pull back from his hand. Instead, she was aware of a moment, a moment of pure physical contact in which something passed between them. Something warm, something pleasant. Something
intimate.
Lauren was sure Caleb was aware of it, too. It was as if she was suddenly off balance, and now she was slightly confused. Why did this man, this plumber, have such an effect on her? She looked at him. His eyes searched her own for just a second, then Caleb slowly opened his hand and released her. He looked away quickly. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I’m not scared of you,” she said, bristling, making an effort to ban her confusion. “Hey, maybe it’s this valve here.” She reached up toward an overhead valve.

“Please, just stand out of the way,” he reiterated, leaning forward in a gesture to move her back a safe distance. His eyes were on her so he didn’t see the pipe wrench until he stepped on it. He was thrown off balance, stumbling backward. In an instinctive effort to right himself, Caleb threw up his hand. His forearm smacked loudly against the red hot copper pipe. “Arggh!” he cried, clapping his scalded arm to his side.

Caleb doubled over, clutching the burn. Lauren rushed to him, mortified. It had been her fault! “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she cried. “I didn’t mean to get in your way! Are you all right? Caleb, are you okay?” She was suddenly aware she had used his first name.

He held up his forearm. A red blotch was forming where the pipe had burned him.

Lauren took over. “You’re burned,” she said, reaching out and taking his wrist in her small hand. “Come upstairs. We have to look at that.” She led him by the hand, and he obediently followed. Her heart was beating hard in her chest. She was embarrassed. Embarrassed that her inexplicable attraction to this man had caused him to be hurt. Embarrassed at how much of a fool she must seem to him now. And yet, she was aware of his immediate capitulation. He was following her up the stairs, like some powerful animal struggling to keep his innate wildness under control for her sake. She shook the thoughts from her mind to tend to the business at hand.

Once they were back in the kitchen, she pulled one of the old chairs away from the table. “Sit down,” she ordered. He seemed rather amused, but he sat and watched her as she went to the sink and ran a clean dishtowel under the cold water. She rung it out, then crossed the room back to the table. She pulled out another chair and placed it facing him. She sat down and gently took his arm. Suddenly, she was all business. She pressed the cold compress to the burn. He flinched.

“I’m so sorry if I’m hurting you, but we have to get cold water on that burn.” She leaned forward, forgetting about the buttons on her shirt. She was intent on her task until she looked up instinctively to judge his pain threshold, and saw his gaze. Caleb’s eyes had traveled to the round swell of her breasts, tipped toward him, encased in a snowy white lace bra. Lauren could feel the heat of a blush pushing its way up her neck, flushing her cheeks. “Here,” she said hurriedly, straightening in the chair. “Hold this on it for a while. I’ll wet another cloth. There might be some ice left in the freezer. I’ll look.” She stood quickly and opened the freezer compartment of the old refrigerator. Thank goodness there was ice in the blue plastic trays.

Lauren was agitated, blaming herself for the mishap. She popped the ice cubes out of one of the trays and wrapped them in the damp dishcloth, holding it out to him. “Thanks,” he said with a smile.

“Does it feel better?” she asked. Suddenly, reality set in, and she thought of the possibility of getting sued. You never knew about these locals, be they attractive or not. Her Mercedes was parked in the yard. If they thought they could get something out of a wealthy New Yorker, anything might happen. She decided to make an effort to tone down the attitude. At least try to be nice.

“I’m fine, thanks.” He gingerly held the cold towel to his burn. Lauren found herself watching the muscles in his arms ripple as he applied the compress, ministering to himself. Under the T-shirt, she could see his chest knit with muscle. Again, he reminded her of some kind of wild animal struggling with the pain. Lauren had an unbidden impulse to reach out, to stroke him, to comfort him. She fought the feeling by turning back toward the refrigerator and nervously opening the door. There was no denying it. He had a magnetism that pulled her in.

“I don’t have much in here. I’m only here for a couple of days. I just brought the basics with me. Would you like some iced tea or water?”

“No, thanks,” he said. He looked around. “Are you here alone? Is your husband with you?”

“I’m not married.”

“Then what’s that rock on your finger?” He pointed to the two carat diamond solitaire nestled in its platinum setting, surrounded by more baguette cut diamonds.

“I’m engaged,” explained Lauren.

“What’s he do for a living? Bet he’s not a plumber!” Caleb flashed white teeth in a broad smile.

Lauren smiled in spite of herself. “No, he’s not a plumber. He’s a businessman in New York. He has a tech company, does international tech trade.”

“Like iPhones and stuff like that?”

“Yeah, something like that. To tell you the truth, I’m not exactly sure. It’s a lot of different things. Very complicated.”

“And very lucrative,” Caleb replied with a snort.

Lauren’s ire was aroused again. She had been babbling with too much information. “And what’s wrong with that? Jealous?”

“Hell, no. I don’t begrudge anybody the right to do the best they can for themselves. I do just fine. I’ve got my own company. I provide jobs for eleven people. I got my own home. You couldn’t pay me enough to live in New York City. I’m where I want to be. Hope he is, too.” Caleb paused and looked at her. His eyes wandered over her face, as if searching for something. “And you?”

“I am most definitely where I want to be,” she said, indignant at the question. “And anyway, it’s none of your business.” She forgot her fear of being sued. This man was annoying, with his muscles and white teeth and palpable virility.

“No need to get so prickly. What do you do? Or are you one of those kept women?” he said. Instantly, his regret showed in his face. It was obvious to Lauren that he hadn’t meant it to come out the way it did, but her temper flared anyway.

“That was rude! That was very, very rude!”

He put the compress down on the old enamel-topped table and held up both hands in a placating gesture. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it.” His voice softened. “Please. I didn’t mean it. I misspoke. Really, what do you do?”

Lauren paused before she answered, looking into his eyes, but he seemed sincere. She regained her composure and answered him. “I’m a curator at the Thompson Museum for the Arts in New York City,” she said. “I majored in Antiquities in college.”

Caleb Cochran didn’t seem impressed. “It’s weird you don’t know what your fiancé does.”

“I know what he does.”

“Apparently not really.”

“It’s complicated business.”