The Blonde Theory (12 page)

“Wow,” I said, blinking hard. “That took you like two seconds. I could have done that myself.”

“Like I said, happens all the time. Those toilets are tricky little bastards. Excuse the language, ma’am.”

Damn it. He’d
ma’am
ed me. Again. I hated that. Come to think of it, he did actually look a few years younger than me—maybe twenty-nine or thirty—and without my makeup, I’m sure I looked like quite the old bat to him. Not that it mattered anyhow. He was just the handyman whom I’d never see again. I was thankful for that, because I didn’t want word to leak out that I was such a hopeless idiot, I couldn’t even fix my own toilet. Although that kind of rumor would certainly do wonders for my dumb-blonde image.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Anyhow, thanks. I appreciate it. I’ll let you out.” I started to head into my bedroom, where I hoped to find a ten-dollar bill in my wallet to tip him for his time. Of course, this was in addition to the hundred-dollar up-front fee and the hourly charge that would appear on my credit card for a job I could have done in under a minute if I’d known how.

“Hold on a second, ma’am,” the handyman said, following me into the bedroom, which made me blush, just a bit, for no apparent reason. I guess it was that whole unfamiliar-cute-male-in-the-vicinity-of-my-bed thing again. I was more than a bit rusty. “Let’s get some towels first and try to salvage this floor.”

I looked at him, surprised and a bit confused.

“No, I’m fine,” I said, shaking my head and peering at him carefully. “Thanks for your help. But
this
I know how to do.”

“I’m sure you do, ma’am,” he said with a polite nod. “No disrespect intended. It’s just that you’re paying the company for an hour of my time anyhow, so. I might as well help you while I’m here.”

I hesitated.

“Are you sure?” I asked finally. It sure looked like it would take a lot of effort to sop up all the water by myself. Not exactly my idea of an ideal way to spend a morning. And I suspected I’d be nearly as hopeless at sopping up water as I had been at stopping the leak in the first place. I had been blessed with neither the home-repair nor the home-maintenance gene.

“Ay, I’m sure,” Sean the handyman said with a grin. “I’ve got nothin’ else to do at the moment. I’m happy to help ya out. Just point me in the direction of your towels and we’ll get to work right away.”

“Okay,” I mumbled finally, embarrassed to need a stranger’s help and surprised that he was offering it. “Thank you.” I grabbed my entire stack of spare towels from the linen closet in the bathroom and handed him half. We lay them down on the wet floor in silence and watched as they sopped up less than a third of the standing water. We wrung the towels out in the tub and went back to try again, but they were already saturated and barely picked up more water.

“You’re going to need more dry towels than this, it looks like,” he said, looking concerned, once we had thoroughly used up my admittedly meager stack of towels. “I’ll go get some more from my apartment, okay? I just live about five minutes away.”

“You do?” I asked, surprised, before realizing that the question had probably sounded immensely rude. I knew he could read in my face exactly what I was thinking:
How does a handyman afford the Upper East Side?
I instantly felt like a snob and blushed again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...” My voice trailed off as he shook his head.

“Not to worry,” he said, looking rather amused. “No offense taken. It’s actually not my place anyhow. I just moved here from Ireland a few weeks ago and one of the lads from back home is being kind enough to let me stay on his couch till I get on my feet.” He smiled at me. “That’s the great thing about we Irish. We stick together. He came over here three years ago and has made it as a big-shot banker. So his couch is a bit nicer than you might expect.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling terrible for inadvertently insulting him. But he didn’t seem bothered.

“Anyhow, I’ll be back with some towels in ten minutes, all right?” He started toward the door, his stride long and purposeful.

“But you don’t have to...,” I began.

“I know I don’t,” he interrupted firmly. “But I’m happy to help. Seems crazy for you to pay the company for an hour when I’m only doing five minutes of work. Besides, what kind of a gentleman would I be if I let ya drown in a pool of yer own toilet water? Me ma would kill me. So unless you have an objection, I’ll let myself out and see you in a few minutes.”

I stared after him as he walked down my front hall and disappeared out my front door, closing it gently behind him. I looked down and realized he’d left his toolbox here. He really
was
planning to come back. I wasn’t exactly sure why that made my stomach swim uneasily.

Ten minutes later, I had thrown my discarded undergarments and dirty clothes into the hamper, quickly made the bed, changed into a Newcastle T-shirt (with a bra underneath, thank you very much) and jeans, and had combed my hair back into a ponytail and applied some mascara, a bit of pink Tarte lip gloss, and some concealer to hide the ubiquitous dark circles under my eyes. Not that I cared what some random handyman thought of me. I just didn’t want to look like a total mess. The doorbell rang and I hurried out in the hall to answer it.

“Newcastle is shite,” the handyman said by way of greeting when I opened the door. His arms were piled so high with folded towels that I could barely see his face.

“What?” I asked blankly. Clearly I was not the only one who appeared to have gone insane this morning. Then he nodded toward my chest, his chin squishing into the top of the towel stack as he did so.

“Your shirt, Newcastle beer. It’s shite.”

“It is not,” I said, vaguely insulted and more indignant than I should have been. “It happens to be my favorite beer.”

“Then ya clearly haven’t tried enough beers,” he said simply. He grinned at me and I rolled my eyes.

“I suppose you’re going to tell me that Guinness is the only way to go,” I said, placing my hands obstinately on my hips.

He shook his head. “No, Guinness is shite too,” he said. “I’m a Murphy’s man. You haven’t had a beer till you’ve had a Murphy’s.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” I said sourly.

“Well then, you can’t call yourself a beer drinker,” he said promptly. “Murphy’s is the best. I’ll be drinkin’ it all the way to the grave, I will. Anyhow, are you goin’ to invite me in? Or do you want me to just stand here with my arms full o’ towels?”

“Oh,” I said, stepping aside and trying to conceal the flush that had once again spread up my cheeks for no apparent reason. “Sorry. Thanks for bringing the towels over.”

“Not a problem,” he said. I shut the door and followed him down the hall. “I’m not sure the lad whose couch I’m sleepin’ on would be so thrilled that I’m using his towels this way. But if we get ’em washed and dried, he’ll never know the difference, will he?”

I shook my head, and he passed me half the towels. Silently, we each went to work, me sopping up the water that had spilled into the bedroom, the handyman concentrating on the water pooled on the bathroom floor. Feeling guilty for needing his help, I struggled to think of something to talk about while we sopped.

“So what brought you over to the States?” I asked. The handyman looked up and smiled, his well-defined cheekbones rising as he did so and his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Ay, you want to know my story, do ya?” he asked. “Well, here’s the condensed version, then.” He bent and put down more towels, scrubbing and sopping up water as he spoke, his back turned to me. “I’m from Cork, in the southwest of Ireland, the second largest city in our great nation, third largest if you count Belfast, which I do. After I finished with school, I stayed there in town and supported me ma. I’m all she had.” He was looking at the floor, sopping as he spoke.

“It was a decent life,” he continued. I worked slowly while I listened to him. “All me mates were there. I had lots of friends, lots of good times, lots of great nights at the pubs. But I was never really happy, you know? I had never traveled much. I couldn’t afford to, not with me ma to support there, you know.”

“Wow,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say. Sean shrugged and continued, his back still to me.

“Anyhow, me ma got real sick last year,” he said, his shoulders slumping a bit. “Cancer, you know. I had to sell the house to help pay for her care. And when she passed away this spring, I couldn’t stay there. Too many memories, and no kin, no ties keepin’ me in Ireland. I wanted to see the world. So a couple o’ months ago, I bought a one-way ticket to the States. And here I am.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your mother,” I murmured, straightening and looking in his direction.

He shrugged his broad shoulders and continued sopping the water up. “?’Tis all right,” he said. “?’Tis the natural course of life. I miss her, but she’s not in pain anymore. And she’s with me every day, in my heart at least. You know, I wasn’t happy in Cork. Not with my job there, not with my life there. I’d realized that some time ago. But the time was never right to leave until after she was gone. I know me ma would want me to be happy. I’m trying to find that happiness now.”

“As a handyman?” I asked before I could stop myself. I clamped my hand over my mouth the moment the words were out, fearing that I had offended him again. But he just laughed.

“Not really,” he said. He turned to me, and his face looked friendly. “This is the means to an end, so.”

I nodded, chastised. I was afraid to ask more, because apparently I had lost all control of my manners. What was wrong with me? Talk about putting my foot in my mouth. I’d basically just inserted it up to my shin.

“I really am sorry about your mother,” I said softly.

“And I appreciate that,” Sean said with a smile before turning back to the towels and the bathroom floor, which was finally looking drier. “So what’s your story, then? You live by yourself in this big apartment?”

I hesitated, not sure what to say. Of course, common sense dictated that a single woman wasn’t supposed to tell a man she didn’t know that she lived alone. But there was something that stopped me from lying to Sean.

“Yes,” I said simply. “I do.”

“Ay, that’s class!” he exclaimed. “Good for you, then. What is it you do that lets you afford such a place?”

I sighed. Here we go. If stockbrokers and doctors freaked out as soon as they heard what I did, revealing the truth would probably have Sean the handyman racing out the door in record time. Even though sopping up toilet water before 10 am didn’t exactly constitute anything remotely resembling a date. Not that I could ever imagine myself dating the guy who came to fix broken toilets. Even though he was gorgeous.

“I’m an attorney,” I sighed finally, turning off the crazy voice in my head and bracing myself for whatever response was to come.

“Oh, class!” Sean exclaimed immediately. I turned to stare at him, shocked. “Good for you, then! You must be good at what you do. I love the law, you know. Fascinatin’ field.”

I couldn’t believe it, but my words hadn’t scared him off. He didn’t seem to notice my gaping mouth and impolite stare. He stood up, his arms full of wet towels.

“Well, I’m just about done in your bathroom,” he said. He heaped the towels into the bathtub, then stepped out into the bedroom. “All the water’s come up. How’re you doin’ in the bedroom, then?”

“Um, okay,” I stammered. He joined me on the hardwood floor and helped me sop up the rest of the moisture. Then he bent to look closely at the floor, lying on his stomach and looking at the hardwood at eye level.

“Not to worry,” he said finally, straightening back up. “I don’t think the water was there long enough to cause significant damage. Let it dry a day or two and then layer on some Thompson’s Water Seal, and you should be as good as new.”

“Thank you,” I said, looking from the floor to him.

“Not a problem,” he said cheerfully. “You might want to give your floors a good clean, then. Not sure what’s swimmin’ around in water from the loo, you know.”

I laughed and nodded. “I’ll mop it today,” I assured him.

“Ay, I figured as much,” he said with a nod. “Well then, I’ll be on my way. It looks like you can take it from here.”

I glanced toward the bathroom. “I’ll wash and dry the towels for you today, okay?” I said, feeling guilty that he’d brought so many.

Sean shook his head. “Nah, that’s fine. I can take ’em home and wash ’em myself.”

“No, I insist,” I said firmly. “It’s the least I can do. Besides, I have to wash mine anyhow. Just leave them in the bathtub, and I’ll have them done for you by tomorrow. I can even bring them by your place.”

Sean laughed. “Now you make house calls, too, eh? All right, then, I’ll let ya wash them if you insist. I appreciate it. But I’ll come back and get them myself tomorrow, if that’s okay. Say six pm? No need for you to come by my place.”

I nodded, assuming he didn’t want some client of the handyman service seeing the apartment he lived in with a friend. I didn’t want to push.

“Thanks again,” I said. Sean nodded and ducked into the bathroom to scrub his hands with soap and water. When he finished, he glanced around for a towel, then, apparently remembering that there were no clean or dry ones available, simply dried his hands on his jeans and shrugged.

“No problem,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Miss Harper Roberts. Call us again if you ever need anything else, so.”

“I will,” I said, meaning it, although I hoped that I wouldn’t be such an imbecile in the future that I’d need to pay a hundred dollars to have some guy come over and fix my home-maintenance problems in under five minutes. Not that it had been an unpleasant way to spend the morning, all things considered. “Thanks again.”

“No problem,” Sean said again. I walked him to the front door, where he picked up his toolbox. “I’ll be seein’ ya then. Slán.”

“What?” I asked.

“Slán,” he repeated. “It’s Irish for good-bye and good luck. It’s me wishin’ you the luck o’ the Irish, so.”

“Oh,” I said. “Slán to you, too, then.”

Sean grinned and waved as I shut the door behind him. Little did he know that I’d be needing more than the luck of the Irish to make it through the next week and a half of this dumb-blonde experiment.