Watford Woman
"When her boiler breaks in January, Imani calls the only plumber available. The thick Jamaican woman doesn't expect him to be young, fit, and very willing to warm her up."
The boiler died at 11 PM on the coldest night of January. Imani sat in her Watford terraced house, wrapped in three blankets, watching her breath fog in the air.
"Earliest I can do is tomorrow afternoon," every plumber said.
Except one.
"I can be there in thirty minutes," said a young-sounding voice. "Emergency rate, though."
"I'll pay anything. Just please come."
Twenty-eight minutes later, a white van pulled up, and out stepped Jordan—mid-twenties, fit, with the kind of smile that could warm you without a boiler.
"Let's see what we're working with," he said.
Imani hovered while he worked, partly to stay warm, partly to watch him move. Jordan was efficient and confident, explaining the problem as he went.
"Your heat exchanger's shot. I can do a temporary fix tonight, but you'll need a replacement within the week."
"Do whatever you can. I'm freezing."
He glanced up at her—really looked. She was in her forties, thick and curved, wrapped in a blanket that did nothing to hide her figure. His eyes lingered a moment too long.
"I'll get you warm," he said. "Promise."
An hour later, the boiler coughed back to life. Heat began creeping through the radiators.
"You're a lifesaver," Imani said. "What do I owe you?"
"Standard emergency call-out. I'll invoice you."
"At least let me make you tea. You came out at midnight in January."
"That would be nice."
They sat in her warming kitchen, tea between them. The conversation flowed easily—his new business, her job at the council, the peculiarities of Watford life.
"You must get a lot of grateful customers," she said.
"Not usually this grateful." His eyes met hers. "Or this beautiful."
"Flattery won't reduce your invoice," she said, but she was smiling.
"Worth a try." He set down his cup. "Can I be forward with you?"
"Go ahead."
"I've been thinking about you since I walked in. Not just the heating—you. The way you look at me. The way you've been watching me work."
"I was supervising."
"Is that what they call it?" He stood, moving closer. "It's late. I should go. Unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Unless you want me to help warm you up properly."
She should have sent him away. He was young enough to be her... well, not quite. But still.
"The bedroom's still cold," she heard herself say. "Radiator's slow."
"I should check on that."
He followed her upstairs. The bedroom was cold, but that changed quickly.
His hands were calloused from work, warm and certain on her body. He unwrapped her from her blankets, from her clothes, revealing all of her.
"Beautiful," he breathed. "Absolutely beautiful."
"You don't have to say that—"
"I know. I mean it."
He made love to her like he did his work—thoroughly, attentively, making sure everything was heated properly. Her thick body responded to every touch, every kiss, every thrust.
"Yes—there—don't stop—"
She came with a cry, gripping his shoulders. He followed soon after, groaning her name.
Afterward, tangled in her warming bed, she laughed.
"Best emergency call-out ever."
"Same time next week? I could check on that new heat exchanger."
"It doesn't need checking for a month."
"I know." He kissed her shoulder. "But I might need checking on sooner."
Jordan became her regular plumber. And her regular... everything else.
"Isn't he a bit young for you?" her sister asked.
"He's twenty-seven. I'm forty-three. It's not that bad."
"And he doesn't mind?"
Imani thought about the way Jordan looked at her, touched her, made her feel like the most desirable woman in Watford.
"He doesn't seem to mind at all."
Some connections needed professional installation. Others just clicked into place naturally. Imani had found something better than a working boiler—she'd found someone who kept her warm in every way that mattered.