Chiara handed over the pain reliever after retrieving it from her bag, which sat on the passenger's side of their work truck. The company name, "Cavuto's Yards," was painted on the sides, with pretty vines twining through the letters.

"Thank you," Andrew who owned the place managed as he accepted the proffered tablets. He looked around uncertainly, holding them in his hand.

"Uh, you wouldn't happen to have any water, would you?" he asked.

Chiara stared at him, eyes wide. "No, I'm sorry, I only have my own," she finally said. They were certainly not on a bottled-water-sharing basis yet.

"Looks as though you have access to a water source in your, um, house," Chiara added, looking at his drenched head and generally drowned looking form.

"Right," Drew answered, narrowing his eyes. He didn't want to have to take the time to go back through the house to the kitchen, if the truth were told.

His head hurt too much.

"Right," he said again. "Thanks." And he turned away, heading grimly around to the French doors at the back of the house. He tried to walk with confidence (and balance), knowing she was watching him go.

As soon as he got around the corner, however, he reached out to brace himself on the cool side of the house. He resisted the urge to rest his head on it, in case the mean girl with the pills was coming. Seriously, you'd think she'd be nicer to him. He was her boss, after all.

Plus, he was Drew Pennington.

Not that this last should matter. As he always tried to prove, through action and words, people should be nice to each other just because. He hated the sycophantic, arse-kissing people he came into contact with so much. It was kind of refreshing to interact with someone who didn't just drop to her (or his) knees and offer to suck him off, like he would be doing them a favor or something to let them.

These thoughts were going through his head as he opened the French doors.

Or tried to.

The ruddy doors were locked, because he, the stupid new owner, had insisted on brand-new, state of the art locks for every door immediately upon purchasing the country estate.

Fuck and bugger.

He knew from the lightness of his trousers that the keys weren't in his pocket. Plus, he could see them sitting on the beautiful granite countertop, just inside the doors.

So close and yet so far. From his keys, from his wallet, from his (dead) phone, from the bloody water he needed to swallow the pills--

Drew felt so bad he kind of wanted to just sit down and cry, except that would've made his headache worse.

Reluctantly, he turned back to the overalls-girl, who was back at work in the rose bed.

"Errrrmm--" he began.

The girl turned around, holding a wickedly sharp looking pair of clippers.

"Yeah?"

"I seem to have locked myself out," he began, hoping he didn't look as idiotic as he felt.

The girl continued to just look at him as she crouched, clippers in hand. She snapped her clippers closed a couple of times as she considered.

"I don't have the keys to the place, and neither does my dad," she finally said. "You're going to have to call your estate agent or something, I guess."

"Well, I would, but my phone is inside as well. In my bedroom." Drew gestured toward where he believed his comfortable bedroom suite was located on the second floor.

"I could get the ladder and you could climb in through the window, or get up on that terrace somehow," the girl offered, rising and brushing her hands on her legs.

"Getting in wouldn't help me," Drew explained. "My phone is dead."

The girl rolled her eyes and smiled, a nice one that reached her eyes. "You're shitting me, right?" she said. "Your billfold?"

Drew nodded and gestured toward the house.

"Holy moly, you're deep in the shit," she said, and Drew could tell she was trying really hard not to laugh.

"Well, first thing I guess is I let you waterfall a drink from my bottle," she concluded, pulling a water bottle out of the roomy front pocket of her overalls.

"What's 'waterfall?'" he asked.

"You know, you let it pour into your mouth without actually touching your lips to the bottle," she answered as if it were obvious.

Drew noticed that she had nice legs, toned and with a bit of color. This was really different from the waif-thin girls he was used to.

This girl looked like she could ride a bike pretty fast if she wanted to.

The girl, perhaps noticing him looking at her legs, thrust the bottle at him.

"Please don't touch the bottle, it's all I have, and I'm going to want what's left," she admonished as he took the bottle.

Drew put the tablets, which were a little grimy from being in his fist so long, in his mouth. Then he lifted the bottle and managed to pour most of it into his waiting mouth.

Ahh, blessed relief.

The crystal stream of water hitting his mouth and throat tasted so good that he took a few more swallows, just because. As he lowered the bottle, he noticed to his horror that it was nearly gone.

The girl was looking at him, eyes wide in disbelief. "You nearly drank it all, you wanker! I told you it was all I had!" She snatched the bottle from him, blue eyes flashing fire.

Drew had had it.

He was hungover, hungry, thirsty, and locked out of his house. He wanted a little sympathy, dammit.

He shook his head, which had gotten wet again, splattering overalls-girl liberally with his wet hair. This maneuver didn't help his headache any, but it was worth it to see the look of shock on her smug face.

"What the fuck? Stop, stop, you bellend! You're splashing me with your hair!"

Drew put his hands on his hips and smiled, a huge, wicked one that lit up his whole face.

The girl was looking at him, her look of anger changing to one of shocked surprise.

"You know, you're the absolute spit of Drew Penn—" she stopped as she remembered what he'd said his name was.

"Holy fuck, are you? Andrew Pennington?"

"Last time I checked," he responded. He was a little sad that she'd figured it out, as it had been a long time since he'd been so refreshingly treated.

"Wow," the girl went on, twitching her braid impatiently over her shoulder. She also tipped her silly hat back so she could really see him.

"You're really different in real life," she said.

Drew, who was getting ready to accept a compliment, started to thank her before he realized what she'd said.

What?

At his look, she went on. "Yeah, I thought you'd be taller. And, uh, smoother."

"Smoother? What the fuck does that mean?" Drew could feel his hackles rising. People didn't talk to him this way, especially not after they knew who he was.

"You know, in photographs you're usually clean-shaven, and your clothes are less--rumply," was what she came up with. "You're all stubbly, and your shirt and trousers look like they've been jammed in a cupboard for a long time, and your hair--"

"Right, right, hammered shit, I remember, you can stop," Drew interrupted, raising his hand. "Just let me use your phone to call someone, and you'll be well quit of me, yeah?"

She handed over her phone wordlessly, and Drew looked at it, racking his brain for a phone number.

Any number.

Shit.

He looked over at the girl and bit his lip. "I don't usually have to remember numbers, I just click on the name, you know?"

She continued to stare at him, eyebrow raised.

Drew stared at her. She was beginning to seriously annoy him.

He finally looked up the number for his car service, and called them. They'd be there in two hours.

Great.

He looked at overalls girl, who'd gone back to her gardening. The sound of the power mower was more distant. He must be mowing the outer perimeter of the property now.

He tapped her on her shoulder and she turned around, with the flowered hat turning even wider on her head.

He handed back her phone and turned to go wait in front of the house. At least his headache was abating. He began walking around the building.

"You're welcome," she called, shaking her head.

He turned to look back at her, perspiring as she worked. It created a slight bit of moisture on her upper lip. He saw for the first time that her eyelashes were very long, maybe even longer than his, making her blue eyes lovely.

He stopped walking.

"Thank you," he answered. "And what's your name? You know mine, it's only fair."

"Chiara."

"Key--what?"

"Kee-ah-ra," she enunciated carefully, rolling the R. "It's Italian, it means 'clarity.'"

"I see. Chiara," he repeated. "And your last name?"

"Cavuto, like it says on the truck."

"Oh. I'm Drew. Drew Pennington."

"Right, you own the place," she answered, and he could hear the mimicry in her voice, the slight mockery of his voice and cadence. She looked at him, eyebrow raised, as if daring him to say something.
He would have, but his head hurt too much, so he settled for giving her a good, hard glare before turning to go wait in front of the house for his ride.
He tried not to think about how nice her legs were.