Page 18 of Oops I Fell For The Electrician Next Door

She looks from Cabin Seven to Cabin Eight. For one moment, uncertainty moves through her eyes. I stop walking.

"We can wait," I say.

"I don't want to wait." Her fingers slide into my hair. "I was trying to decide whether taking the electrician next door into my bed qualifies as exceptionally poor judgment."

"What's the verdict?"

Her smile is slow and beautiful. "Ask me in the morning."

Kelsey points toward Cabin Eight. I carry her home.

Chapter Seven

Kelsey

Marc carries me through the door of my cabin, shutting the door with his foot. The lock turns under my fingers because I reach for it without thinking. My house smells like last night’s roasted chicken and the lemon oil I use on the pine table. Under that is lake water, turned earth, and him.

He sets me down but does not step back. Dirt streaks his forearms. My T-shirt is stuck to my spine. We look like we belong in the trench, not in my kitchen.

“Boots,” I say.

We leave them by the door. I wash my hands at the sink. He does the same, standing close enough that his hip brushes mine. When I reach for the half-finished bottle from last night, he takes two glasses from the shelf without asking where they live. He has been in this room once. He already knows.

I pour. The wine is darker than it was at dinner, a little tired, still good. I hand him a glass and keep mine between us like a small, honest barrier I do not actually want.

“To not falling in the lake this time,” I say.

“Give the night a minute.” His mouth tips. “I’m not making promises.”

We drink, silent for a moment. But my mind is busy. It’s full of the dock, his mouth on my neck, the way he stood up with me wrapped around him and asked which cabin. I set my glass down first.

“Why aren’t you already taken?”

The question comes out plainer than I meant. Marc goes still in that particular way he has, the one that means he is deciding whether to give me the polished version or the true one.

“Because I leave,” he says. “Every job has an end date. I got good at being the man who is excellent for a short while, then gone. Most people want someone who unpacks the boxes.” He turns the glass by the stem. “I have an apartment that proves I don’t. Why aren’t you?”

“The cabins got here first.” I trace the rim of my glass. “I have been proposed to by a man who thought Eight Pines would make a charming hobby once I hired a manager. I have been dated by men who liked the idea of a woman who owns something until they realized I was not going to sell it or shrink it to fit their weekends. After a while I stopped introducing anyone to the property. It was easier than watching them measure the rooms for a life I was never going to live.”

“They were fools.”

“Some of them were kind. They just wanted a different woman than the one who stays up calculating water-heater replacement schedules.”

Marc sets his glass beside mine. He does not crowd me yet. He looks at me the same way he looked at the damaged lug, like the truth is useful and he will not pretend otherwise.

“I don’t want a different woman.”

“You have five weeks and four days left after tonight.”

“I can count.” His voice drops. “I still don’t want a different one.”

The last of the practical list I have been reciting since Monday evaporates. I step into him. He meets me halfway, both hands framing my face, and kisses me like the conversation was only the fuse.

This kiss has no audience and no flickering lights. He tastes like wine and dust. I fist my hands in his shirt and feel the heat of his skin through the cotton. When I make a sound against his mouth, his control frays in a way I can feel.

“Tell me what you want,” he says against my lips.

“You. In my bed. Not carefully.”