Page 11 of Forever Wild
“Shut the hell up.”
“Tsk, tsk. Not a very nice way to talk to your boss.” She smirks and now I really want to slam my lips to hers, if only to keep her from talking.
“Why don’t you get dressed so we can get to work? The sooner I’m done with your projects, the better.”
“So grumpy…”
“So annoying…”
We stare each other down for a long second, then Trix flounces back to the bathroom to change.
It’s gonna be a long day…
“So—what’s first?” Trix stands in the downstairs doorway, hands on hips, surveying the space.
“We definitely have our work cut out for us.”
“We?” She tips her head at me.
“Uh, yeah. You’re going to help, right? The faster we work, the sooner you can open your shop. Unless you want to pay to hire another handyman.”
“No, thanks. Not enough funds for that. I’ll pitch in.” She glides around the room, peeking under the occasional sheet at the abandoned furniture.
“Anything worth keeping?”
She shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t see any sort of couch worth sleeping on, I can tell you that much.”
“Oh, right. Ms. Dottie did say there was possibly a couch down here.”
“Well, she was mistaken. There’s a table and chairs, a desk, but no couch.”
“Guess you can either stay with your brother or keep shacking up in the bed with me.”
“No way am I staying with my brother.”
“We’re going to keep shacking up then, huh?” I grin at her from across the room and she rolls her eyes, a stray lock of dark hair falling over her forehead.
“Maybe you can try the couch tonight. See how you like it.”
“Pass.”
“You’re a real jerk, Wild, you know that?” She spins and stalks away, throwing open a door on the far side of the room and peering in. “You know anything about plumbing?”
“A little. You might have to call in a real pro if it’s anything complicated. Why?”
“It looks like we may have an issue with the toilet.”
Well, shit.
“What kind of issue?” I join her in the bathroom, both of us squeezed into the small room. The smell isn’t wonderful, a mixture of mildew and rotting eggs hitting me straight in the nostrils.
“That.” Trix points at the porcelain toilet, the lid lifted to reveal brown water.
Not great.
Somehow, I manage to hold in a gag.
“Run upstairs and grab the dish soap from the kitchen. Oh—and a pot from the cabinet.”