I pull up in front of the house on Ridgeview and cut off my truck. The house is one of those small, modular units, and looks like all the others on the block. This is a young and upcoming section of town, close to the college, so I can already imagine the customer inside. A newly married couple, maybe, or a bunch of frat boys sharing a place, or some rich snobby kid who could afford the BMW Roadster that glistens in the driveway.
With a sigh, I gather up my clipboard with the word order on top and slam the door behind me as I climb out of the truck. Despite the car parked in the drive, the house is too quiet, and I wonder if the prick is even home.
I gotta stop that. I'm getting to be as bad as the girls at the office who deal with the phone calls every day. Out here in the field, the customer is rarely as bad as the customer service reps make him out to be.
I ring the doorbell. It echoes through the house, and I hear the yip yip yip of a tiny dog inside. I hate those toy dogs. For good measure I knock on the door, pounding it with my fist.
The door flies open and oh my God, I can't speak. I can't remember my name, who I work for, what I'm doing here, standing on this porch looking at this man with wavy hair the color of wet sand and glaring eyes as dark as night. He stands before me, an Adonis dressed in nothing but a tiny towel wrapped around his waist that leaves little to the imagination. When I close my eyes I see him in front of me, naked, his body still damp from the shower I obviously interrupted...
Don't go there, Charles.
That's my name. It's written on my shirt above my left breast pocket. I look down to check, and once I'm not staring at him, I can think again. My words tumble out in a rush. "I'm from the cable company? To hook up your cable, Mister..." Judy didn't tell me his name.
"Jackson," he says, a raw edge to his voice that makes my knees weak. He looks me over and the frown is replaced with a slow grin. "They sent you to hook up my cable? Shit."
What's wrong with that? I want to say, but he's looking at me with those intense eyes like indigo ink and I can't form the words.
He glances past me at my truck, and the grin spreads into a sunny smile. If the girls in the office had known what he looked like when they talked to him on the phone, I'm sure he would've gotten anything his heart desired without having to talk to a supervisor.
"Damn," he says, and that smile makes him look so impossibly young. "I didn't think you'd show up this quick."
I shrug and look at the work order, trying to ignore the dusky skin of his flat stomach, the muscles in his chest, the tiny drops of water dripping from his wet hair onto his shoulders to run down the planes of his body. But when I look at the clipboard in my hands I see his legs, covered with whorls of pale hair, twisted and damp, and I wish there was some way I could untuck my shirt from my pants without seeming too obvious. I was hard just standing by him...
"Um," I try. Words have once again escaped me. "You want maybe I should..."
His flawless brow creases and I sigh. Fuck. Let's start all over again. "I'm here to do the install."
"I know." His gaze runs down my body, as palpable as a hand smoothing down my chest, and damned if I can't feel it linger below my belt, as if he knows my dick's crammed into my briefs and aching for his touch. My hands are clumsy, my palms sweaty, my throat dry. After an eternity, he tells me, "Come on inside."
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