But I don't.
That would be rude.
"Can I help you?" he murmurs, scratching the scruff on his chin where the dark shadow of a few days' growth can be clearly seen.
It's most definitely ready for a shave, but it's also kind of hot. It only makes him look broodier.
"I'm sorry to bother you," I begin, and then roll my eyes at my own statement before continuing. "But, I, ah, need some help."
He stares at me.
I wait.
He looks up to the ceiling, then back to me. "You going to tell me what you need help with, or are you going to stand there and just stare at me?"
Right. Dammit.
"I was waiting for you to answer."
I cross my arms.
He crosses his.
Our eyes lock.
"Lady, I'm tired. I have a bed waitin' for me that I would much rather be in then standing here dealing with you. Now, I repeat, are you going to tell me what you need help with, or are you going to just stand there?"
That kind of hurts, and hits me right in the chest. I didn't want to bother him for this very reason. Embarrassment floods me, and then anger quickly takes its place.
"You know what?" I mutter. "I'll deal with it myself. Sorry to bother you."
I turn and rush off back down the hall, shutting my apartment door. I make a frustrated sound in my throat, and then sigh and make my way back to the bathroom. I'll put a towel underneath the now heavily leaking tap, at least that might stop the noise enough for me to be able to get some sleep. I feel slightly stupid for reacting the way I just did, because it probably would have been easier if I had just come out and said it.
But Ace gets me hot under the collar. Dammit.
"Out of the way."
I flinch and squeal at the masculine voice behind me, and spin around to see Ace standing in my doorway, wearing a black shirt now, and looking more than a little pissed off. Obviously I didn't lock my door. Obviously he didn't take me storming off as a hint that I no longer want his help.
"It's uncouth to enter someone's house without knocking."
I just said "uncouth." Kill me now. I'm digging this hole deeper and deeper with every passing second.
"I knocked," he mutters, walking over, taking me by the shoulders and quite literally lifting me out of the way. I try to hide the flush in my cheeks as his big arms move me with little to no effort. "You were too busy muttering about me to hear."
Was I muttering about him?
Probably.
"Right," I murmur. "Sorry, about, ah, yelling at you."
My cheeks burn, but I did overreact … just a little.
He ignores me, fiddling with the tap, before leaning down and glancing under the sink and fumbling around there for a few minutes, too. Then he straightens, turns, and doesn't look at me as he says, "I'll be back in a few minutes with some things to fix this. Don't lock the door or I will kick it down."
I flip him off as he walks out of the bathroom.
"I saw that," he mutters, before disappearing down the hall.
Surely he didn't see that. I grin, and I'd nearly bet he's grinning too.
The second he's gone, I go into the bathroom and move any unmentionables out of the way, like the lacy panties hanging from the towel rack and the tampons on the sink. That is a little too much for the detective to see, I think.
He returns a few minutes later with a tool set and some clear plastic packet filled with tiny little black rubber things. I step out of his way, and watch as he places it all down and starts messing around with the tap. My eyes slide to his arms as he moves, watching those biceps flex. Oh boy. That's hot. It should be illegal for men to have arms like that.
Especially jerky men.
After about half an hour, he steps away from the sink, turns both taps on and off, and then glances at me in the mirror. I'm still standing by the door, and when our eyes meet, I feel it right down to my toes. God, he's intense. Far too intense for my liking. Okay, that's a little bit of a lie. Maybe if he were nicer, I wouldn't be so taken aback by his intensity. I might even like it.
///
"It's fixed," he says, still staring at me. "Anything else you need while I'm here?"
"No, thank you."
His jaw tics a little, maybe out of surprise that I didn't throw some sarcastic comment his way. "If that starts leaking again, let me know."
He turns around, picking up his things and striding right past me and into the hall. I turn, rolling my eyes, and follow him out. He places his tools down onto my kitchen counter, and washes his hands in my sink.
Sure, make yourself right at home. I wonder if I should offer him a drink? I mean, he did fix my sink, and I'm always telling him he has no manners. Besides, he'd never say yes. The man can't stand me.