"You're in good hands with Deborah Gafford's wild romantic comedy." -USA TODAY Bestselling Author Delores Fossen CROWNED HEART AWARD RONÉ AWARD FINALIST PRIZE WRITER FINALIST Susan Pierson needed a man who was good with his hands. And she needed him now. The constant drip of the kitchen faucet was driving her up the wall and totally ruining her concentration for her story for Sizzling Desire Magazine. Drip. Drip. Don't listen to it. Just type. Drip. Drip. Right. Susan gazed at the computer perched on the small table. Modem, phone and electric cords tangled like a mound of overcooked spaghetti. The city fire marshal would have a heyday if he could see it. But maybe he'd belong to that precinct with the gorgeous Firemen of Station Forty-three calendar. She'd have to throw herself on him, er, on his mercy, swear to straighten up the hazard and invite him back... to double check. After all, she was a safety first kind of gal. Most of the time. Well, once in a while anyway. Gurgle, drip, drip. "Jeeze Louise! I'll never get this done." She shot an angry glance in the direction of the impudent water faucet. "Don't even do it again." Drip. Aaagh! Who needs plumbing? Maybe she should just turn the water off completely. Right. And the flower boxes outside would make a great privy. Bang. Bang. "Now what?" Drip. Bang. Drip. Bang. Bang. "What in the world is going on out there?" Frowning, she stepped onto her patio and peered over a short rock wall. God. What a hunk. He could be a poster child for steroids and suntan oil. The damp ends of the man's dark brown hair curled against his neck while his bare shoulders and back glistened with sweat from his exertions. His well-muscled arms strained as he hammered pieces of metal together. And his tush. Lord, when he bent over to retrieve another piece of framework, his worn jeans only emphasized every angle of his tight round buttocks and long legs. Mercy. What would that tush look like in a pair of shorts? Maybe the soft clingy kind. Or better yet, no sh- "Since you're there, how about handing me that crescent wrench." Susan jerked her gaze upward. She saw his square jaw, full lips and coffee brown eyes. And the knowing grin on his face. Heat washed over her hotter than the midday sun. Quickly staring at the tools spread out along the top of the stone wall, she wondered what she wished for most: for the patio floor to open up and swallow her or that somehow she could figure out what in blazes a crescent wrench looked like. She'd just have to guess. Who knows, maybe she'd get lucky. Really lucky. Yeah, and maybe she'd figure out which one was a crescent wrench, too. Lightly running her fingers over the metal implements, she felt their hard surfaces and absorbed heat. Some were long and thin, others short with a big head. Just like men. Eenie, meenie, miney, moe. Catch that stud and love him slow. "Knock it off," she silently warned her over-active imagination. His voice drew her attention. "I beg your pardon?" No. Surely she hadn't muttered it out loud! She felt her face heat hotter still. "I'm sorry. I was thinking about your manly array." Oh, God. "I mean uh, your tools, but I don't know which one you want." The drop-dead gorgeous man strolled over with a smile. "I'm Alan. Alan Tate. Welcome to the complex." Susan gazed up at his friendly smile. Whatever she did, she would not look at his chest. Would not. Well, maybe just for a second. Ooh. Wrong move. Too bad she wasn't in advertising. She'd sell his image to weight loss clinics all over the country. They could make millions by putting his picture up as an incentive for female clients like the post office did with wanted posters. She could imagine the caption. Do you know this man? Would you like to? She smoothed her top down over her jeans. Maybe she could have her mouth glued together for a while. Say, till she was a size ten. But by then, she'd be on Medicare.