Chapter 1
The only warning had been a millisecond of ominous crunching before the kitchen floor collapsed beneath Dylan Gallagher’s feet. He clawed against slippery linoleum, a muffled yelp erupting below.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” There was nothing to grip. His legs bicycled in open air as he tried to keep his body in the flooded kitchen. Rushing water funneled around him, and another section crumbled. Dylan’s climber instincts kicked in. He covered his head and bent his knees, bracing against the coming impact.
He landed in darkness with a painful, lung-rattling thump. Dazed and choking on dusty oxygen, he tested his arms and legs. Everything could move, thankfully. But everything hurt. Jesus Christ, everything really hurt. But it should hurt worse …
A softer than expected surface cushioned his spine. Something even softer was under his neck. Underneath the rubble it felt like a mattress? And a pillow?
Oh god. This meant …
Dylan had fallen through the apartment floor directly into Derek Chang’s bed.
The realization sent him flailing toward a seated position until a slimy wet something dragged over his cheek.
“Gah.” He tried to scoot away, but his head slammed into the wall. A heavy weight pressed down on his chest, squelching his back into soaked fabric beneath him. He wiped drywall sludge from his face and blinked twice, vision still blurred from the eye-watering pain of his landing. A dog the size of a goddamn dire wolf was on top of him. Not good.
Another round of blinking cleared Dylan’s vision enough for a quick scan of the room. It was dim, but not dim enough to prevent Dylan from seeing every exposed and rigid plane of his shocked neighbor’s body. Dylan gave the animal a gentle nudge because the ribs beneath its giant paw were aching.
As the dog turned back to look at Derek, Derek seemed to unfreeze from his panic. He rushed to the hellhound that may have been assessing whether Dylan would make a tasty meal and lifted it off Dylan with almost preternatural strength. He set the dog in the slightly illuminated corner, away from the debris. “Oh my god. Are you okay, buddy?” Derek checked and rechecked the animal’s limbs and joints, running his hands over the black-and-white fur while muttering. Dylan couldn’t make out most of the words, but there was an unexpected catch in Derek’s voice as he uttered each pained “fuck.”
The creature itself appeared unconcerned with having just survived catastrophe. It sauntered away from Derek’s evaluation and again approached the pile of rubble Dylan was still sprawled on top of.
“You’re okay. Thank god.” Again, Derek was speaking to the dog.
Water glistened over Derek. The leak must have happened first, waking Derek up and giving him enough time to get out of the way. Shit. Derek really was lucky he wasn’t underneath when the ceiling collapsed. There wasn’t any dust on his … oh fuck … Derek was only wearing tight black boxer briefs that showed … stuff. Stuff that Dylan, who had just fallen through a ceiling, should absolutely not be noticing. But nobody could completely ignore the outline of a dick when it was right in front of him, even if said dick also belonged to a complete dick. At least Dylan had fallen asleep in his jeans at his computer. He might not be wearing a shirt, but in the shadowy room, it wouldn’t be noticeable that those jeans were suddenly tighter.
No, Dylan, remember this man is not for you.
Dylan had only been staying in the upstairs apartment for a few months, but the several mortifying run-ins he’d already had with Derek Chang had settled Dylan’s opinion of him. And based on the parade of men who had been exiting Derek’s apartment on a regular basis, even a version of Dylan not coated with demolished drywall muck was not Derek’s type.
Whatever muscle responsible for cringing felt as sore and sprained as the rest of Dylan’s body.
Running a hand over his slimy hair, Dylan forced his attention from the man in the corner and up to the gaping ceiling hole.
The lingering shock and exhaustion must have fried his brain because Dylan said the first (and absolutely most asinine) sentence he could have thought to say: “I think there’s an ‘It’s Raining Men’ joke in here somewhere.”
The sound of dripping counted the silent beats passing between them.
A hoarse huff came out of Derek. Wait … was that … a laugh?
But with just the best timing ever, another small section of ceiling collapsed, sending yet another plume of dust into the space between the two men, prompting Derek to shield the dog with his broad torso.
The huff, or almost laugh, or whatever Dylan’s overly optimistic brain had thought it was shifted to become a growl worthy of a morally gray hero in a fantasy novel. Derek straightened, and the small pillar of light from the hallway illuminated an infuriatingly attractive scowl so stormy Dylan was even more sure he’d imagined that initial laugh.
“Dad jokes? Really, dude?” Derek scratched behind his dog’s floppy black ears. “He’s traumatized now. Poor fella.” Derek kneeled beside the beast, mumbling again in the tone an elderly auntie uses on a toddler before booping said toddler’s button nose.
“Traumatized? His monster tail just whacked me in the face because he was wagging it.” Dylan ducked away.
“He’s frail.” Derek slid his hand over the dog’s spine. “Arthritis. And he’s probably just happy he didn’t get crushed to death.”
“That Dalmatian crossed with a polar bear could probably withstand an entire iceberg.”
Scathing. That was the word for the look Derek was giving Dylan.
“He’s a harlequin Great Dane American Bulldog mix.” Derek waited an inscrutable beat before frowning. “And he’s old. And why the hell are we arguing about whether or not my poor, sleeping, elderly dog could have been hurt by half a ceiling and a whole-ass human man falling on top of him?” Derek’s words were more bewildered than furious. “And the ceiling … shit.” His hand kept petting the fur, but he was focused on the tableau of destruction. Every muscle in Derek’s body tensed again.
Damn. How often did this guy go to the gym?
Dylan ignored the stinging, sharp pain that lightninged from his palm and pushed himself off the destroyed mattress. Between his hand and the dull agony around his ribs, he felt lucky to make it upright without actually crying, and he offered himself the manliest sort of mental self-congratulations on that feat. He could almost imagine his two oldest brothers in his ear yelling Shake it off. Shake it off. Man up. Like every time he’d gotten clobbered in peewee hockey by one of the eight-year-olds who looked like they took baby doses of HGH.
Dylan pointed above him. “Wait, I think I know why it…” Slippery warmth dripped from Dylan’s wrist to his forearm. The slice across his palm was leaking much more than he expected—spots sparked in his vision. What he was saying? A rubber band tightened around his sternum. It was so hot all of a sudden.
Nope.
“I—I-I think…” His ears popped like he was too deep underwater. His body vanished beneath him.
Derek’s low voice grumbled, “Oh Jesus Christ.”
Then everything went black.
Chapter 2
Dylan’s chest heaved. Strong arms were wrapped around his waist and shoulders. His cheek was pressed into the crook of a warm neck. A neck that smelled like sandalwood and something sweeter too. The niceness of that scent almost overpowered the damp, moldy smell that was everywhere else … Everywhere else …
Dylan’s awareness jolted. The moldy smell was the destroyed drywall. The large hand braced against the bare skin of his lower back belonged to … Derek Chang.
Dylan froze.
Froze. Like his mouth couldn’t make words and his legs locked up. Yep, contact with a hot man had actually provoked a fight, flight, or freeze response. Fantastic. As his mental operations revved to functioning speed, Dylan yanked himself away, almost tripping over the mammoth dog sniffing his bleeding hand.
Derek tossed a tissue box to … well, at Dylan. “Please don’t bleed on him.”
Dylan covered the cut with a handful of tissues. “I’m so sorry.” He grimaced at the ceiling again. “Not for bleeding on him. I didn’t. But for this. I’ll fix it.”
“What do you mean you’ll fix it?” Derek rubbed his forehead. “It’s completely wrecked.” He sighed. “Is the rest of you hurt? Besides the hand?”
“Uh … I’m fine.” Dylan suppressed another groan as he moved. “Fine-ish. Mostly fine. Fine enough. And the ceiling’s really only wrecked in that one spot actually. Wow, that was unlucky.” He tilted his head.
“I have to call my insurance. You need to call your uncle’s insurance.” Derek rubbed his chin, smearing the dust that Dylan had evidently gotten all over him when he fainted—
Ugh, he’d actually fainted, hadn’t he? He had never been great with blood. The dizzying ache in Dylan’s head and ringing in his ears didn’t help.
“I guess we need to call the HOA, maybe? Since it’s between the units … wait, no … we can’t. Shit.” Derek’s mouth tightened and his troubled gaze went to the dog.
Why would the dog be what he was … oh …
Dylan’s brain was bad at a lot of things. Dates—both the kind on a calendar and the sort with men. Timing. Figuring out how to use an avocado before it went from rock hard to brown mush.
And given the most recent events, it was clear his brain sucked at remembering to shut off the faucet after filling his makeshift sous vide tank when a work call interrupted him. But … there were other things that Dylan’s brain could intuit very quickly. Like certain body language cues and patterns. He also had a very good memory for certain types of information, and he’d spent an entire day going over his uncle’s HOA rules about repairs and renovations and ended up hyperfixating and reading the HOA’s entire document.
Some combination of the twist of Derek’s mouth and that pointed, apprehensive glance at the bear-dog made Dylan understand.
“You aren’t supposed to have that dog here. They have strict breed restrictions, don’t they?” Dylan said, not quite realizing how that would sound given the current predicament. He’d been trying to state a fact, but Felicity had told him he wasn’t always good at getting tone right. “I meant—”
If possible, Derek’s body went more rigid. Every taut muscle on display now resembled chiseled granite. His demeanor that had been a mixture of frustration and concern shifted. Dylan had never seen a mother grizzly bear in the wild when he lived on the West Coast, but now he understood that experience. The dark, attractive eyes that had betrayed surprising, heartfelt concern about Dylan being injured now flashed. “Given that you just wrecked my bedroom and fell through my ceiling, I’m not sure you’re the person who is supposed to be telling me what I should or should not have in my apartment. Speaking of things that shouldn’t be here … if you’re not seriously hurt, I would appreciate you getting the hell out of here and leaving us alone.” Derek folded his arms over his chest and took a protective stance beside the dog. “He’s just visiting.”
Did he think Dylan wanted to kidnap a creature that probably weighed as much as an undersized manatee? Derek flipped on a lamp on the table next to him, and reached down—not far given the height of the behemoth beside him—to rest his hand on the animal’s head. Like Derek was guarding him or something.
Dylan shrugged and refocused his attention on the ceiling, seeing a detail he hadn’t before. He made to push his glasses up on his nose, but they weren’t there. After cursing internally, he searched the rubble and found half of the frames. He set the intact lens over his right eye. “That shouldn’t look like that.”
“Okay, since two hours after going to bed a human crashed through my ceiling and almost killed me and my dog, I’m gonna have to just say duh.”
“No, I mean…” Dylan got up on the bed, regretting the decision immediately as something sharp bit into his foot. “I need a flashlight … or can I have your phone?”
“I’m not giving you my—”
“Just for a second.”
“Fine.” Derek lobbed the phone at him.
Dylan’s non-bloody hand caught it and swiped on the flashlight function. It took him a second to juggle the glasses lens, the phone, and the bloody tissues, but he saw it. “Shoot.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It wasn’t just—” Dylan sighed, relief mixing with dread. The flood probably hadn’t helped … Who was he kidding, the kitchen flood was almost certainly the catalyst for the exact timing of the disaster, but the damage he was seeing in the weightbearing beam wasn’t from this flood. Nope. This was long-term rot, maybe from a small leak over time that ruined the subfloor. So it wasn’t completely his fault. Not that those facts would matter if his family found out about this. His family really couldn’t find out about causing the flood. “So … uh … Do you own this unit?” Dylan offered the phone back.
“Yeah.” Derek’s black eyebrows knit together. “Why?”
“I need a better look, but see there”—Dylan pointed to the rotted joist—“I think there’s an underlying water problem and a resulting structural problem that’s been here a while between the two units. I’m guessing it’s a failed plumbing joint, but I need more light and a better angle.” He scanned along the intact ceiling and wall and saw a very subtle amount of bubbling.
Derek’s eyes darkened as he muttered an oath. The dog snuffled against Derek’s leg and leaned on his strong thighs. The weight of that big head in a crisis seemed like it could be comforting, if you knew the animal wasn’t going to eat you.
“You still flooded the kitchen, right? I’ve heard dripping all night. It made it impossible to go to sleep. Now this problem just appears? Seems a bit coincidental for it to make your screwup not what caused this mess.” Derek winced like he didn’t mean to imply Dylan was a liar. Or maybe he didn’t mean the accusation to sound as harsh as it did.
It didn’t make it better.
Dylan was used to screwing up. Here was just one more person who thought Dylan was an idiot. And possibly a liar.
“You’re right that the water issue tonight didn’t help, but that … that’s been rotting for a long time.” Dylan rubbed his temples, weighing the mental and actual cost of his uncle and family finding out that he absolutely had done something incredibly stupid here. “Look. My dad’s a general contractor. I grew up working for him every single summer and after school. I’ve renovated an entire house that was in much worse shape than this. I know this shit.” God, Dylan’s head hurt. He rubbed at a spot in the center of his forehead.
Derek’s eyes followed his movements with an air of admittedly justifiable skepticism.
“That floor was a ticking time bomb, and I’m guessing the plumbing problem is between the two apartments.” Dylan squared his aching shoulders. “The intake for my uncle’s apartment is on the other side and I’ve already had his plumbing checked … so I think it might be…”
Copyright © 2024 by Andie Burke
