Nobody Does It Better(28)

“Looks like it to me. But how exactly did the shower hit you in the face?”

“When the door fell.” She says it so matter-of-factly.

I blink, trying to process the enormity of everything that could have gone wrong. “I don’t know if I should be impressed you tried to fix a shower door without any fix-it skills, or impressed with your good luck in surviving the incident. Because those things are heavy.”

“Hey! How do you know I don’t have any fix-it skills?”

I grin. “Lucky guess?”

“Fine. You’re right. But what else was I to do?” She shrugs, her tone light and breezy. “It wouldn’t close all the way. And that was getting me down because I like to take really hot showers. We’re talking sauna temperature. You know the type? Imagine you walk into the bathroom, and steam is everywhere, and you can barely even see the other person in the shower. Just a silhouette. Can you picture that?”

Can I picture it? Hell, I can feel that. In my pants. “Yep,” I answer, and it comes out a little dry, a little gravelly. Because painting crazy-hot images is playing below the belt, and I bet she doesn't even realize it. Hot women shouldn’t use the word “shower” in casual conversation. It’s wholly unnecessary, along with “yoga pants” and “strawberries.”

“So you tried to fix it?” I ask, forcing myself to focus on the project in front of me, rather than on images of steam rising, which lead to other things rising.

“Yup. And then that shower door showed me who was boss.” She holds up her forearm vertically then lets it fall as she makes a kaboom sound.

I can’t help but laugh. “And whacked you on its way down?”

“Completely whacked. It’s kind of a miracle I’m alive, come to think of it.”

“I’m glad you survived the shower whacking. What happened with the door though?”

“I called my friend Andy. He fixed it for me. It works like a steamy, dreamy charm now.” She takes a sip of her coffee, smiling happily.

I stop and take a drink of espresso.

“Andy? So he’s Handy Andy?” I kind of hate him already. Wait. That’s dumb. I don’t feel a thing for Handy Andy who was in McKenna’s shower, that lucky bastard.

“That’s a good one. Can you rhyme my name?”

“Henna McKenna?” I toss out.

“And you’ll be Chris who brings me bliss by fixing the hard drive,” she says, and I just smile at her.

“You’re a bundle of energy,” I say as I return to my project, moving to the right side of the case.

“And you’re a bundle of skills. What do you do when you’re not rescuing hard drives from evil cats?”

“Admittedly, that does occupy a large portion of my day. But in the few hours I can eke out, I host a show.”

“Like radio show or a podcast?”

I twist the screwdriver a notch. “It’s a TV show. On WebFlix. It’s called Geeking Out.”

She narrows her eyes and points at me, circling her finger. “You’re a geek?”

“You say that like it doesn't compute, and yet here I am, fixing your tech in a coffee shop. I’d say that makes me a geek.”

“You definitely don’t look like a geek.”

I meet her eyes. They’re sparking with a glint of playfulness. “And what does a geek look like?”

“Not like a surfer. You look like you’re going to go hang ten.”

“I do that too. For fun.”

She pumps a fist. “Nailed it. You totally have that vibe about you. Not that I’m pigeonholing you based on your looks. But with the Nor Cal T-shirt, it wasn’t the hardest round of Jeopardy! to play.” She imitates Alex Trebek. “What is the most likely profession of a guy with floppy hair, a not-from-a-salon tan, and casual charm?”

I quirk up the corner of my lips. “You think I’m charming?”

She blushes, but it disappears quickly. “You charmed my hard drive out of my hands.”

I screw the final piece of the case back together, set down the tiny tool, drag a hand through my hair, and gesture to the repaired device. “Good as new.”

“Wow,” she says appreciatively, picking up the drive and gazing at it in admiration. “Thank you so much. You are Mr. Fix It.”

I puff out my chest playfully. “Why, thank you very much. I’m having T-shirts made with that saying. Want one?”

“I do. I want one to sleep in at night.”

And there she goes again.

I’d love to linger in this zone, but I’m not getting the vibe that she wants to hang there with me. She’s just friendly, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I focus on the practical. “It should work perfectly. If it doesn’t, call me.”

We exchange numbers, and when she puts her phone down, she strokes the hard drive lovingly. “Now I can access my archives when I need to. You’re my hero.”

She leans forward in her chair and wraps her arms around me, and whoa.

Her hair curtains my cheek. Holy hell. She smells delicious, like strawberry shampoo, and it makes me want to nibble on her neck. Kiss her throat. Lick my way up to her ear. Strawberries are my weakness, and so are friendly, outgoing women who are prettier than they realize. That’s the kind of woman she is. I bet she has no idea of the effect of her looks. She doesn’t play into them one bit.